Drinking Deep; Learning Peace

In the following devotion, Laurence Freeman reminds us that we all have at least one mantra in our mental "tapes." However, if we have not consciously made our mantra a prayer, we are probably just recycling old fears and cravings.  This recycling (or roller coaster as Freeman calls it) contributes and increases anxiety and an ongoing sense of inadequacy.  Here lies the very unstable foundation of poor choices.  This is not prayer.   I very much appreciate this reminder that "all prayer that is is not an indulgence of the roller coaster of fortune is the prayer of the heart."   Our heart (and, no, I am not talking about the pump) is God's realm: a sacred well spring where we can return, time and time again.  This is where we find love.        

May you be able to drink deeply of sacred stillness today.  Let us remember that our mantras, our prayers, can bring peace:  to ourselves, our families, our world.  Where else can peace start but with us?  Without this balance  the roller coaster, and crucifixion, will have no end.  Let us continue, in and to, the Middle Way.  It is almost Palm Sunday.  Together, let us follow Jesus into Jerusalem.  Do not worry.  The journey does not stop there.    

   

   

But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; the peace loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere. Peacemakers who sow in peace raise a harvest of righteousness. 

 (James 3:17-18 NIV). 

Use this area to offer a short preview of your email's content. View this email in your browser Saturday of Lent Week 5 By Laurence Freeman OSB John Cassian, the 5th century master of the spiritual life, advises us to say the mantra, continuously revolving it in the heart, ‘in prosperity and adversity’. The global economy illustrates the often dramatic ups and down of life. Boom periods where expectations and greed run amok lead to bust. Then times of austerity follow and, as always, inflict most hardship on the most vulnerable members of society. Personal careers and fortunes can also ride high and then be smattered over the newspapers in a moment.  Our moods and physical health have their cycles, too, of prosperity and adversity. It is hard not to grab at the prosperous times and fool ourselves into thinking that we have made it for good and that all will always be well. Fantasy – escapism - is the great enemy of moderation. The downturns in life or fortune can also mire us in despair and isolation. Yet we fear moderation because it seems tepid and boring; and we want to feel life as something thrilling and adventurous. If we don’t have the courage to live it this way ourselves, we do it vicariously through films and stories. Actually the middle way is a knife-edge, a high-wire balancing act. It takes many stumbles and falls from great heights to learn how to walk it well. Moderation is the way and in the deepest sense the goal.  The centre of reality exerts the force that holds us in balance as we walk across the ravine of life. When we relapse into thinking that it is achieved by our own willpower or cleverness, it won’t be long before we have another fall. Personal, interior balance and sharpness of mind is what Cassian is talking about in his asceticism of the mantra. That is where the universal centre is connected with: in our own personal centre. All prayer that is not an indulgence of the rollercoaster of fortune is the prayer of the heart. The more personally balanced, deeply-centred people in the world there are, the greater the level of justice in all institutions. The more the gulf between rich and poor narrows, the closer we all come to reality. Soon we will be contemplating the Cross with particular intensity. What does it say to us of balance, rootedness and compassion? What does John Main mean when he says that every time we meditate we enter into the dying and rising of Jesus?

The Gift

Some of you may remember that my January started with finding a devotional in a box marked "Free."  It is entitled A Year of Days with the Book of Common Prayer by Bishop Edmond Lee Browning.  While I do not necessarily read it every day (there certainly is no shortage of devotionals during Lent), I am grateful for this gift, and I often return to it.

    

The March 17 entry has stayed with me.  I often find myself in conversations that center on balance.  The balance needed in relationships, whether the relationship is with our own bodies, with those we worship and serve with, with those we love.  The balance needed whether we are under or over employed. The balance needed to live creatively, lovingly, and yes, happily.     

 

Because I have had so many of these conversations, I am going to include the entry here.  It is longer than my usual postings, but if you, like I, often find yourself hungering and thirsting for balance, this may help.  If not, perhaps pass it on, or simply say a short prayer for the world and then press delete.        

 

If we do not take the time for ourselves and our families, here is what will happen:  We will stop wanting to. If we do not take the time to feel the things we are feeling, we will stop feeling them. It will be more convenient not to. We will be more efficient. And inside, we will be almost dead. We will become addicted to the busyness of our lives, unable to feel at home unless we are running at top speed. And our families will make their lives without us, find their comforts elsewhere. And we will be in our offices, at our meetings, and we won't know what happened. 

 

You must assert your need to gather strength from the right places, or you may try to gather it from the wrong ones. So many of the things are related to this: alcoholism, substance abuse, sexual abuse. These tragedies have touched some of our best and brightest. Take care of yourself appropriately, or you may find a way to care for yourself inappropriately.   

 

God did not call you into family life and working life in order that you might become angry and sick and dead inside. God called you to abundant life. Not every day is a wonderful day. But every day belongs to you, a gift to you from a gracious God. Reclaim your days. Find and savor their sweetness, even if you must do so through tears. Don't let a single one pass in a blur of responsibility and work. A day is too precious a thing to waste. You never get it back.       

   

Blessings to each of you as we prepare to enter Holy Week.  Let's follow Jesus' example and travel humbly for the journey is not always easy.  The good news is that any defeat we must face will never have the last word.  That word has always belonged to God, in fact is God, and God is love.  It is a living word, meant to be heard through whispers, songs, and shouts.  It can never be entombed and silenced for long.     

  

Blessed be.   

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against things like this.  Galatians 5:22-23.      

   

Back in Touch

I have been through a "spell" as my Texas ancestors would call this time, when I really have not written much.  Some of that comes from trying to stay balanced in two two ministries.  Yet, there have been other factors as well, including perhaps a need to learn to simply live in, and where I am today.  However, I have missed the stirrings, and I have missed all of your notes and comments.  Even your silences prove to be a deeper experience for me when I am writing.  It has been wonderful to be back in your gentle touch.     

 

This poem, entitled "Breathing Under Water,"  was written by Carol Bieleck, R.S.C.J.,  and has come to be via Richard Rohr in his book by the same name.  It is proving to be a persistent sign post that will not let me blithely continue on.  Therefore, I pass it on to you so we can go forth together.  I will try to keep the same formatting that is in the book.  I pray that even if I fail in that endeavor, may this mysterious poem remind you of the eternity that is within you, and bring you grace in any stress that may be holding you today.        

  

     

   

I built my house by the sea, 

Not on the sands, mind you; 

not on the shifting sand. 

And I built it of rock, 

A strong house 

by a strong sea. 

And we got well acquainted, the sea and I, 

Good neighbors. 

Not that we spoke much. 

We met in silences. 

Respectful, keeping our distance, 

but looking our thoughts across the fence of sand.

Always, the fence of sand our barrier,

always, the sand between.

  

And then one day, 

- and I still don't know how it happened - 

the sea came. 

Without warning. 

 

Without welcome, even.  

 

Not sudden and swift, but a shifting across the sand 

like wine, 

less like the flow of water than the flow of blood. 

Slow, but coming. 

Slow, but flowing like an open wound. 

And I thought of flight and I thought of drowning 

and I thought of death.  

And while I thought the sea crept higher, till it reached my door.

And I knew then, there was neither flight, nor death, 

nor drowning.  

That when the sea comes calling you stop being  

neighbors 

Well acquainted, friendly-at-a-distance, neighbors 

And you give your house for a coral castle, 

And you learn to breathe under water.  

For Want of a Cookie

I have been thinking about cookies for the past few days.  Well, more than that, as you will see, but it has been cookies (well, more than that, you will also see) that have been guiding me.  Last Thursday, between stopping for a quick lunch and getting together with a friend for prayer, I found myself with a sweet tooth.  It got to the point where I tried giving myself a "good talking to" to convince myself that a piece of fruit or even some water would do just fine.  As I continued this lecture, my walk slowed, and I found myself in front of a bakery.  As I was already running late, I decided to at least show up late with cookies.  Florentines.  So thin and delicious.  Yes, we did enjoy them. 

 

When I got home, I was thinking I might bake a souffle with some of the leftover roasted butternut squash in our refrigerator.  However, I found myself distracted by the Penzey's spice catalogue that had just arrived.  As I thumbed through it, I ran across an article about a couple named Sharon and Larry Adams.  One of the side-bars contained this quote: "Cooking together, eating together, it lifts the whole community."  Standing in my kitchen, I learned of the efforts of these two to create the Walnut Way Community Center, housed in a former dilapidated  boarding house in Milwaukee.  Sharon's family owned but had not resided in the home for many years.  She returned to it, moved in, met Larry, and they set about rebuilding community.  Yes, much of the community is centered around the sharing of food. 

      

Included in the article was a recipe from from Sharon for Sweet Potato Chocolate Chip Cookies.  As I perused it, I thought, "Well, I don't have a baked sweet potato, but I do have roasted squash.  I don't have walnuts, but I do have pecans.  I don't have chocolate chips but I do have some baking chocolate.  I began  chopping the chocolate and the pecans which is just about the most satisfying endeavor I can imagine.  I sniffed my lemon extract and decided that while it was quite out of date, it smelled just fine.  I made cookies.  Three trays full. 

   

Some of those cookies Tyler and I ate warm from the oven.  However, most of you know that Tyler and I have no business eating three trays of cookies.  I took some to a meeting.  I shared a bag with an elderly neighbor. The last of the batch went with us to visit with friends who had invited us over to eat chili and watch the playoffs.  One of hosts  commented as he reached for his fourth cookie, "Well, you can't eat just three."   

  

So, I have been thinking about cookies.  What if instead of spending money on those Florentines, I would have stopped at a 7-11 and bought a snack pack of Oreos and ate them in my car on the way to prayer?   My life would not have been wrecked, but it would have been lacking the joy of discovering and sharing.  The past few days have been a wonderful reminder that much good can be found in using and sharing what we have - and who we are.       

               

Sharon and Larry Adams, I thank you.  

  

Friends, rather than a psalm, I leave you with a recipe.  Enjoy them, but mostly give them away.  Hmm...maybe this is a psalm after all.    

  

Sweet Potato Chocolate Chip Cookies  

 

3/4 cup mashed, cooked sweet potato (I used butternut squash)

1 cup butter, softened  (two sticks)

2 eggs

3/4 cup sugar

3/4 packed brown sugar 

1 tsp vanilla extract 

1/2 tsp lemon extract

2 cups all purpose flour

1 tsp baking soda 

1 tsp baking powder 

dash of salt 

1/4 tsp cinnamon 

1 cup semisweet chocolate chips 

1 cup walnuts, optional  

 

Preheat oven to 300 degrees.  In a large bowl, cream together the cooked sweet potato, butter, eggs, sugars and the extracts.  In a separate bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon.  Gradually add the dry ingredients to the sweet potato mixture and beat until blended. Fold in the chocolate chips and the nuts.  Drop by the teaspoonful onto ungreased (I used parchment paper) baking sheets and bake at 300 degrees for about 25 minutes, until firm in the middle (if you bake until there is some color on the top, the chocolate will be a little more gooey.  Some folks really like that).   

  

Yield:  4 dozen cookies    

Miles To Go

A few months ago, on one of my numerous trips across the San Mateo bridge, I spotted a Cal-Trans truck a few cars ahead of me.  On the back of the truck was a sign that read, "Thank you for driving."  How odd, I thought.  The few drivers who receive thanks are generally designated drivers and those who carpool.  The rest of us are pretty much considered a hindrance.   However, as I moved closer to the truck I realized that my earlier view had been partially blocked.  The last line read, "Safely."  Thank you for driving safely.  I responded with a quiet, "You are welcome."  

 

 In the past seven years, as I finished the last two years of seminary, and then embarked upon this great adventure known as ministry, I have driven just over 100,000 miles.  I guess you could say that my car is one of those cars that is  only driven to church on Sunday.  It is just that pretty much every day is Sunday for me, and my churches are rather spread out.   Last night as Tyler and I sat on the couch and talked, I laughed as I mentioned my milestone.  "100,000 miles finds me right back here."  That is the nature of many such journeys.  They bring us home.      

 

Ministry is not fast work.  At least not for me.  I have needed to make every one of those miles. As I moved through the skilled nursing community yesterday, I rejoiced that not only was Elizabeth up, she actually accepted the invitation to come worship with us.  "By jingle bells, I believe I will!"  And off she rolled.  Then she paused and asked, "By the way, where am I going?"  We both laughed and went into the activity room together.  Four years ago she would not even talk to me.  Now we greet one another with hugs. It has taken Roger five years to really begin to open up and share his sorrows and fears.  There are several men in this community that I just beginning to get to know.  If their physical appearances are any indication, their lives have not been easy.  Yet, most take communion with a humility that is profound.  They know the hunger and thirst all too well.   

 

On my run on New Year's Eve, I passed by a box marked "Free!".  A book lying on top of the discarded clothing caught my eye, and I picked it up.  My find was a devotional entitled, "A Year of Days with the Book of Common Prayer."  The entry for January 2 has stayed with me, and I shared it with the community yesterday.  Roger, who is really struggling not to believe that God has cursed him with poor health, found it encouraging.  I would like to share part of it with you as well.  May you, too, find encouragement for your own journey.  I pray that your journey is both deep and wide, and that you always find communion along the way.  May all know that not matter how far we go, we always travel in God, and to God.  Yes, it is a mystery - strange, unbelievable, incredibly beautiful, and worth the trip.        

  

When Jesus healed people, we are not told that he healed them and that thenceforth they never got sick again or never had any problems in their lives or never died...They were not restored to a magical life outside the realities of mortal existence. They were returned to their lives, their frustrating, exhausting lives, to lives studded with joys and sorrows - like our lives are. The hand of God that touched them did not yank them our of this reality and into another. They went on to live and die in the world of history in which we live and in which we will die.  The presence of sorrows and ambiguities in human life is not a sign of the absence of God. Life is hard. Life is terribly uncertain. But we know we are not alone. That our lives don't hang, unprotected, tossed to and fro by the anonymous winds of indifferent space. God contains our lives.     

   

Blessed be.      

  

Singing the Difficult Songs

I am finding much solace in the beautiful old hymn, Lo, How a Rose E 'er Blooming. If you had asked me about this hymn prior to this week, you would have heard me say, "No, I don't care for it.  It is kind of hard to sing."  That response, of course, is akin to hearing a lovely chamber piece and shrugging it off with a response of, "Well, it is a little slow." 

 

As our news continues to be be crowded with questions, statements, and various posturings (some quite pompous) concerning the tragedy in Newtown, I cannot help but think it is too early for all of that.  What we are crowding out is the profound experience of mourning.  We are not letting the seemingly deep emptiness be.  We are trying desperately to take the easy way out because otherwise we hurt. We hear the the psalmists and prophets warning us that a life in God is not always easy.  Those ancient echos scare us.   We want the easy.  We want God to pick up the pace.              

 

The time for analysis and making changes will always arrive.  However, that is not what we are really yearning for.  We are waiting for a new rose of life.  It is already within us: fragile, and stunningly beautiful.   Let us courageously wait for this tender bloom in hope, and receive it in love.   May all who mourn know that we are waiting with them; they are not alone. We may be frightened, but we will not run.        

  

Emmanuel.  God is with us.  Alleluias will return.  However, for now, we light Advent candles to ward off the chill, and we wait.  

    

 

Lo, how a Rose e'er blooming

from tender stem hath sprung!

Of Jesse's lineage coming, 

as those of old have sung.

It came, a floweret bright, 

amid the cold of winter 

when half spent was the night. 

    

  

The People Sang

In one home dedicated to the care of Alzheimer's patients, the pianist who joins me is blind,  Therefore, we typically do not use our monthly song sheets, but rather I depend on a small Rock of Ages hymnal.  If I spot a hymn that I can sing,  will ask the pianist if he knows it, and often he does.   Together we find hymns that he knows the music to and that I have the words to.  We also have several old favorites that we know we can always fall back on, including some of his solos.  Yet, as meaningful as "Amazing Grace" is, as I was driving over that morning, I was thinking that I really needed a break from it.

As I perused the small hymnal, conveniently compiled in alphabetical order, I looked to see if "Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee," was there. As I was about to ask the pianist if he knew it, I spotted "Joy to the World."  I suggested we sing it, and we had a lively rendition.  Several more residents joined us. The room where we gather is small, and by the time we had reached the end of the hymn, the room was quite full.   

I could not resist picking another Christmas carol.  Then one more.  I asked the residents if this was silly - this singing Christmas carols in October. Several responded with a resounding, "No! Let's keep going!"   

Just before communion, we sang "Oh, Come All Ye Faithful."  As I moved about the room offering the wafer and the cup, the pianist repeated the carol by playing a very simple, quiet melody line.  I heard one voice singing. Then another. Eventually there were several voices quietly singing.  It was such a beautiful moment because neither the pianist nor I were singing.  From that deep wellspring of memory and devotion, the people sang.  I was so touched I could barely keep going.  Yet, I did, and every person in the room, those who had come well dressed and those still in bathrobes, took communion.         

We finished up with "Go Tell It on the Mountain,"  amid much hand clapping and laughter.   Carol said, "We should sing these everyday!" She has a very fine ear and loves to sing.  She will often throw her head back and sing with an abandonment that I envy.  Sister Juliette, whose tremors sometimes seem ready to overtake her small body completely, quietly exclaimed, "Glorious. Christ is with us."  We had moved from our separate identities as pianist, residents with Alzheimer's, and a pastor, into a community that was experiencing the great mystery that Christ continues to come, and Christmas happens any day where there is love.  

  

Emmanuel.