The Morning Collect

  I continue to make my way through Robert Benson's book In Constant Prayer. This morning I have been reading about a prayer form known as a collect. When I first read this book years ago, I was not interested in a prayer practice that included keeping part or all of the daily Divine Office. However, I seem to be needing more routine and ritual now. Maybe it is my age. Maybe it is because the beginning of the Lenten journey is close. Maybe it is the slow realization that most, if not all of my strategies developed for finding shortcuts rather than for deepening discipline (I believe this is what Jesus would call the narrow gate), have not resulted in a particularly sustaining harvest. Probably all of the above and more. 

Regardless, this prayer stirs my heart and I am grateful that my heart can still be stirred. This morning I am reminded that I never address God as "Almighty". Why? I really cannot say. It is probably time to figure out why.  I recently had a dream where a gentle male figure kept telling me that there is one more thing he needed me to do. In the dream I argued with him partly because I was getting ready to board a plane. However, he quietly repeated himself several times. I finally softened, and I sat down to listen. I am awaiting further instructions, and so I "stretch out my hands"*, and learn to pray.     

  

"Deliver us, Almighty God, from the service of self alone: 

That we may do the work You have given us to do, 

in truth and beauty, and for the common good; 

for the sake of the One Who comes among us 

as one who serves, 

the One Who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, 

one God, now and forever. Amen."    

 

Image: San Leandro, February, 2023

 

*Psalm 143:6

On Dry Ground

 Those of you who receive my weekly SpiritCare meditations have already seen the bulk of this post, so please excuse the duplication. However, Psalm 143 is staying with me, and I feel the need to share this a little more widely. I am cleaning out my bookcases (a slower process has never existed), and I came across Robert Benson's fine book, In Constant Prayer. In it he mentions a writing practice of rewriting what you wrote the day before to help launch you into a new day of writing. In a way, that is what I am doing here. In the February 15 entry of The Rule of St. Benedict, Sister Joan mentions that on Saturdays Psalm 43 is to be read. I think Psalm 43 will be one of the daily lynchpins for my Lenten journey. Three times a day I will pray and offer up these small and rather wrinkled hands of mine to the Holy One. Three times a day I will lift my hands to God. That is what I am doing now. 

I do not yet have a photograph for Psalm 143. Perhaps one will be revealed in the new few weeks. Yet, I do like the one attached. It reminds me that my prayers are already being answered.

"I stretch out my hands to you; 

my whole being is like dry dirt, 

thirsting for you." 

Psalm 143:6, Common English Bible   

    

Meditation: 

On Wednesday, February 22, Christians around the world will begin the Great Lenten Journey. Some will start by attending an Ash Wednesday service, where they may hear the words, "You are from dust and to dust you will return." Others may hear, "Repent, and believe the Gospels." I remember one year going to an afternoon service yearning to hear the words that would remind me of my physical mortality. I was tired and seeking respite. Instead, I was given a packet of seeds and was told something about butterflies. I was not yet ready to hear of an upcoming sprouting of wings. I needed to hear the words about the ground of my being.

I have been sitting with this Psalm of David this morning. As is often the case with David, he was feeling under siege, and was afraid. He, too, was probably tired. He tells God that he is feeling weak, and for David that probably was a frightening idea. David then pours out his heart and tells God that he is stretching out both hands. Here he is confessing that he has no weapon, no shield. His only hope lies in this tremendous thirst to know God. He must trust that God is listening, and will reach back in return.  

I believe there is a strong connection between our hands and our hearts. When I envision David reaching out with both hands to God, I see him as being fully engaged with the heartfelt cry of his heart. If you are wondering what to do for a prayer practice, I suggest that you begin the morning with holding out both hands to God, and repeating David's words, or speaking your own. Silence is perfectly acceptable as well. We can also pray our prayer quietly before we undertake a task, or we are about to eat or drink. Let us practice dedicating all our actions to God. I also suggest finishing our prayer by putting our hands together, bowing slightly, and praying "Thy will be done." 

 

 I would love to hear how your practice is going. Blessings on your journey. 

  

Prayer:  

"Tell me of your faithful love come morning time,

because I trust you. 

Show me the way I should go, 

because I offer my life up to you."  

Psalm 143:8        

     

Practice

"Prayer...is obviously not a routine activity. It is a journey into life, the struggles and its glories." 

I am returning to the daily practice of reading a portion of St. Joan Chittister's The Rule of St. Benedict, Insights for the Ages. I plan on continuing this practice at least through Lent. I confess I have already peaked ahead to the February 16 reading, and I was so struck by these two sentences that I think they will guide me through Lent, and beyond. 

Certainly, we each have our own ways of praying. Yet, these prayer journeys are not just personal. They are also collective. The more aware we become of the universality of prayer, the more we can be nourished in the common ground of all creation. Let us listen and consciously join in. Perhaps then, we can sing with the flowers. 

   

So, what did I take away from the  reading of February 14?  Well, for one thing, a sense of being rerooted in the commitment of coming together every Sunday to worship, whether we worship in a church, temple, in a field, or on Zoom: 

"Sunday Lauds in the monastic liturgy is a soul-splitting commitment to go on. The point is that every life needs points along the way that enable us to rise about the petty daily problems, the overwhelming tragedies of our lives and begin again, whatever our circumstances, full of confidence, not because we know ourselves to be faithful, but because God is." 

  

God is. Amen.   

  

Love and Blessings on your journey, 

Rev. Sue Ann 

      

image: San Leandro, February, 2023 

Learning to See

 I received this poem from the SALT Project a couple of days ago, and have been pondering it ever since.  There is so much trauma in the world today, and far too much of it is experienced by children.  I am convinced we must deepen our knowledge of the lasting effects of unaddressed trauma. Yet, I think Mary Oliver's understanding that all humans will experience both light and darkness in our lives is a valuable reminder to look deeper into our darkness. There is light to be had there. Trying to avoid the darkness is mostly impossible. We cannot outrun it. So we learn to take root right where we are. There, we find God, and we begin to see.   

   

Someone I loved once gave me 

a box full of darkness. 

 

It took me years to understand 

that this, too, was a gift.   

 

Mary Oliver  

  

photograph was taken in San Leandro several years ago.  

Finding Rhythm

 "Hurry is incompatible with the way of Jesus." 

John Mark Comer 

I first learned of John Mark Comer on Sunday through the New York Times newsletter written by Tish Harrison Warner, an Anglican priest. This quote is from his book, The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry: How to Stay Emotionally Healthy and Spiritually Alive in the Chaos of the Modern World. 

I have been pondering this one line for about 24 hours. Learning to confidently move through the interplay of movement and stillness, work and rest, joy and sorrow, urgency and non-urgency is one of the main challenges of our times. The pressure to be efficient at any cost can rob us of the vitality that allows us to fully live and appreciate. Without appreciation, there can be no sense of the sacred, and no sense of the soul's integrity. That does sound like a recipe for a disconnected and less than fruitful life. It is certainly proving to be a recipe for the desecration of our communities and our planet.  

 "Remain...A branch can't produce fruit by itself, but must remain in the vine."   

John 15:4    

     

image: San Leandro, December 2022

Of Moon and Ministry

 I am not one who takes pictures of the moon. There is just no way I can properly photograph the moon with my little eye phone. Yet, last week I felt I really needed to take a photograph to help me remember my gratitude for December's full moon. Every morning I was able to watch it descend in the dark western sky, a view I can see from our kitchen and dining room windows.

This was the week when I realized that I needed to learn to take a walk without Jack. Those of you who have or have had a canine walking companion understand how much company they can be. Jack was a quiet dog, and was generally pretty patient when I stopped to take a photograph. I, in turn, tried to be patient when he wanted to stop and investigate something his nose found of interest. Yes, I miss his gentle presence very much.

We all have our strategies for coping with the aftermath of loss. One woman I know said she found she had to give up walking for a bit. Another said that she had to drive to another neighborhood for her walks. A friend of mine actually adopted a four month old puppy within days of her dog's unexpected passing. None of those options (especially the puppy) seemed right for me, so I opted to walk in the neighborhood, but I chose to not walk down the street that I live on. I felt I was not ready to explain why I was walking without Jack.

Yet, life seldom conforms to our plans. I was almost home when I heard a woman's voice coming from behind me. I turned and recognized the woman coming towards me. I usually see her sitting by her window with her Bible in her lap. We have often waved to one another, and we once talked on the phone about a community issue. She and her husband have lived in the church that they have led for many years. She asked me if I was all right. I told her about Jack, and she nodded her head and said, "That is what I thought. I have never seen you without your dog," and she expressed her condolences.

Through this exchange, we now know each other's first names and we know a little more about one another. I learned that they have retired from most of their ministry, but they are still delivering food to some of the elders in their community. She asked if I needed some vegetables. I thanked her and while I truthfully answered that I had plenty, I wondered if I was beginning to look decrepit. And, maybe more importantly, if I were in need, would I have the courage to simply answer yes?

Despite my inner monologue, it was a cordial meeting that helped me realize that I can now talk about Jack so I can stop avoiding neighbors. It also reminded me that grief can connect us to others. We all know grief, and as painful as it is, it is part of our common language. It is not so much that we heal from grief, but rather grief can heal us if, even briefly, we follow its lead and allow others into our lives.

Sister Moon has now journeyed on, and I have not seen Sister Rita since then. Yet, I am grateful for their appearances that reminded me that the earth and moon are still dancing in their orbits, and I am still walking in mine. Others are with me, so I need not worry about being alone.

Training in equanimity is learning to open the door to all, welcoming all beings, inviting life to come visit. Of course, as certain guests arrive, we’ll feel fear and aversion. We allow ourselves to open the door just a crack if that’s all that we can presently do, and we allow ourselves to shut the door when necessary. Cultivating equanimity is a work in progress. We aspire to spend our lives training in the loving-kindness and courage that it takes to receive whatever appears—sickness, health, poverty, wealth, sorrow, and joy. We welcome and get to know them all.

Pema Chodron

as quoted in today's First Sip

image: December's Guidance, 2022 San Leandro

A Day for Healing

 Earlier this week, Tyler mentioned that he would probably have a short work day on Friday in San Francisco. I asked if I could go with him. I was struggling some, and I have fond memories of Jack and I spending a workday in the city with him during the pandemic. So yesterday, I got up and dressed, grabbed my good long forest green coat (one of my best thrift store finds ever), shut the door, and left.

It did feel odd to leave the house without making certain Jack was settled in. It felt odd to have a day when there was no reason to be home at any particular time. There is always the risk that concern, while at times can be laudable, is too often habitual. Sometimes we humans just have to accept feeling odd and get out and meet people.

I had met Yuji before and I was grateful to see him again. He is a very lively Japanese musician and artist who is enthusiastic about everything from Tyler's music to Japanese football, to a dog named Rosie who comes to visit when her human companion needs something from Yugi's incredibly well stocked corner market. As Tyler concluded his transactions, I went outside to take in the sun. It was a beautiful clear day in the city, and the beautiful pink blossoms I spotted in a container alongside the building were so encouraging. Later, I met a proprietor who has created a lovely container garden that stretches for close to half a block alongside his building. I marveled at his rose geranium and its large fragrant leaves. He surprised me by giving me a cutting of it as well as a cutting of a fuschia (okay, I confess I am intimidated by that).

After lunch, we stopped by a dumpling shop where I have shopped before. The women who work there are extremely efficient, so the lines in and out of the cash only shop move quickly, except perhaps when I am there. The only amenities in their small space are their good food, and the warmth extended to those in the neighborhood who appear to stop by regularly. Besides their coveted dumplings, they offer some entree items, and a couple of older customers gave me the sense these women help keep them, and probably others, sustained on a regular basis.

Yesterday reminded me that businesses can play a large part in helping a community thrive. Their presence can be healing for those who are appearing for an hour or so, or for those who are growing old right before their eyes. I was also reminded that Tyler can drive through the city with remarkable alacrity, and he is far more optimistic about being able to fit his car into a small space than I will ever be. I also learned that a hamburger served on grilled bread with homemade sauerkraut and whole grain mustard can be worth sacrificing a diet for. Maybe that is part of what healing is about: tending to the daily, while making room for the new.

May I remember.

image: December 2022, 26th and Guerrero Market, San Francisco