Prayer, Fasting and Mercy

I meant to post this reading which has been a great help me much earlier in Lent.  Now Holy Week is upon us, but prayer, fasting and mercy never go out of season.

From a sermon by Saint Peter Chrysologus, bishop

Prayer knocks, fasting obtains, mercy receives

There are three things, my brethren, by which faith stands firm, devotion remains constant, and virtue endures. They are prayer, fasting and mercy. Prayer knocks at the door, fasting obtains, mercy receives. Prayer, mercy and fasting: these three are one, and they give life to each other.

  Fasting is the soul of prayer, mercy is the lifeblood of fasting. Let no one try to separate them; they cannot be separated. If you have only one of them or not all together, you have nothing. So if you pray, fast; if you fast, show mercy; if you want your petition to be heard, hear the petition of others. If you do not close your ear to others you open God’s ear to yourself.

  When you fast, see the fasting of others. If you want God to know that you are hungry, know that another is hungry. If you hope for mercy, show mercy. If you look for kindness, show kindness. If you want to receive, give. If you ask for yourself what you deny to others, your asking is a mockery.

Early Spring

As cliche as it sounds, I never noticed spring until the March I fell in love with Thomas.  We had been dating for awhile, and I greatly admired him.  But for reasons I won't delve into here, my heart was guarded.  Then a bunch of us college kids took a trip to Big Bend for spring break. I was fasting at the time, eating just one meal a day.   I wasn't sleeping well in the crowded tent on the hard ground with insufficient cover.  Even so, I seemed to have boundless energy.  I could hike all day, stay up late, tend the campfire and play games.  I was in love and all the world seem to echo with my joy!  The birds were singing; the flowers blooming; the sky was crisp and blue.   How had I missed spring for 19 years?

 Like much of the country, we had an unusually long winter here in Central Texas.  A couple of weeks ago I was driving the kids to school on yet another cold, dark morning when it happened.  I saw a tree in bloom, the  first one of the season.  My heart sped up and an involuntary smile  came to my lips. The world seemed brighter and I felt mysteriously happier than I had  10 seconds before. Of course I had known spring was inevitable - but imagination does not compare to reality, at least not in the case of spring.  Blooms anticipated cannot hold a candle to blooms smelt.

I find it curious that the penitential season of Lent falls in early spring - a season which I find the most joyful of all. Perhaps it would not seem so strange to the native people of Central Texas.  I once read a book about Cabeza de Vaca's trek through Texas into Mexico. It appears that he spent a season with Indians who called February and March the "starving season."  By early spring they had eaten whatever had been killed in fall hunts.   They didn't cultivate crops, and the prickly pear would not bloom until late spring or early summer.  Spring was a lean time.

Leanness is not always bad.  Hunger  can sharpen desire and clear the mind. This is the blessing of Lenten fasting. Disciples sated with Christmas feasting wrestle with their flesh, remember the poor and stir up their desire for God.  We are  like the trees called to waken while frost remains on the ground.  Or like our native ancestors digging for bugs and lizards until the prickly pear blooms. Summer is coming; the Resurrection is certain. But it is not here yet, and we grow lean in the wait. 

Desire makes me feel alive.  Desire is one face of love.

My daughter is growing lean this spring.  I spoke with her yesterday and she exulted in the fact.  Peggy is in Kolkata toting buckets of wet laundry up and down stairs, walking miles each day, massaging and feeding the dying.  She may be lean, but she is blossoming and that gives me more joy than any field of wildflowers or fragrant grove of plum trees.

My eldest son and his wife are entering a season of leanness as well.  Soon they will be off to another land,  far away from family or close friends, clinging to the call of God and the promise of a harvest to come.

My children are in the early spring of their lives. The most fruitful season of their life is still in the future, and much can happen between now and then.  But I see the sap flowing. I see their desire, and my rejoices as it did the March I first fell in love.

Doors

I knew I would return to the subject of Mary someday, but I thought I was finished for awhile. Time to move on to Lent it seemed.  Then my friend Brett showed me this painting he had just completed.  It was his first portrayal of Mary, inspired by a photo of doors covered in Arabic graffiti upon which a woman whom he took to be Mary peered down onto some back street, taking in the sorrow, the struggle, and beauty of this world.

The painting reminded me of a National Geographic story I read many years ago.  The story was about the minority Christian communities of Lebanon and Syria - communities threatened with annihilation today.  Being a National Geographic article, there were several photos in the piece including a few showing shrines to Mary.  The pictures showed scarved women carrying ailing children,  or crying alone in front of these images of the Virgin.  What caught my attention was the caption.  The photographer claimed the women praying at these shrines were Muslim.

I knew that Mary was revered in Islam.  In fact, there are more references to Mary in the Quran than in the New Testament.  Muslims believe in the virgin birth of Jesus. They believe Mary was favored by God above all other women, and they look to her as an example of feminine virtue.  But of course,  Muslims are not permitted to build shrines in her honor. They share Protestant concerns of idolatry.

Even so, in times of great need, Muslim women have been known to cross religious lines and call upon Mary's intercession. I wonder why. Though I cannot know for sure, I have a guess. I suspect that Mary seems more accessible than Allah.  She is certainly  more human.  And she knows the grief of motherhood. Surely she would sympathize with plea of a desperate mother or a barren wife.

I find it fascinating that Brett's painting places Mary's face on a door, because in the case of these Muslim women at Marian shrines, that is exactly who she is - a door from this world of suffering to the heart of the Everlasting Omnipotent God.

 I must admit that speaking of Mary this way makes me nervous.   In my theology this image of a door to the Father is best reserved for Jesus, the Son of Man.  It is the mystery of the Incarnation - God taking on Human flesh to become like us, to know us and to be known. Jesus used the language Himself. "I am the door; if anyone enters through Me , he will be saved." (John 10:9)

And yet, Jesus says that we are in Him, and He is in the Father.  If that is the case, then I suppose we might be doors as well, albeit in a secondary, reflective way. We do have a door to the Father, so let us intercede for this messy, broken, beautiful world.

Fighting Fear

Penance gets a bad rap, in my opinion. Many Protestants have the impression that penance is an attempt to pay for one's sins and earn one's way back into God's favor.  At least that was my perspective for many years.  I misunderstood.  Penance is more like physical therapy for the soul - working spiritual muscles that have atrophied through sin or neglect.  It is true that those weak places may burn a bit in the exercise - but the exercise is never meant to shame or punish a person.  The goal is always rehabilitation, strength and joy.

Now I will offer another opinion.  The penance commonly assigned to us Catholics after confession (say 3 Our Fathers and 3 Hail Marys) usually does little to exercise those spiritual weak spots.  This is not to find fault with our priests.  They are terribly overworked, and I can imagine that it would be difficult, near impossible, to discern the state of every soul and prescribe the perfect remedy for each. Confession is powerful medicine in itself.  Stating one's sins aloud goes a long way in freeing one from their power.  Then there is the balm of absolution.  The supernatural work that God does in reconciliation extends far beyond our reach; and yet,  He invites us to stretch out our hand to meet Him.  A wise spiritual director (Protestant or Catholic), an insightful priest, or the quiet nudge of the Holy Spirit can direct us to practices which will transform our thinking and our behavior.

This is what happened to me in November. I found myself enveloped in fear.  It was a fear disrupting my sleep.  A fear creeping into my imagination.  This fear was antithetical to love.  It had to go. I went to confession and was assigned the penance of writing two letters of blessing, letters choosing faith for my children rather than fear.  Perhaps the letters were helpful to my children.  I do not know.  But I am certain that the Holy Spirit met me in the process.  Here is what I learned.

1) My fears are specific, not general.  I may fall into a mindset, or lack of faith, where circumstances lead quickly to fear.  I may live in a state of fear so persistently that I slip into general anxiety. However, each fear begins as a specific imagination, just as each sin of lust or envy has a particular object.

2) Naming the fear enables me to take the thought to God. When I articulate my fear, I can examine it more objectively.  I can see what it indicates about my belief in God, or my beliefs about other people.  I can listen to what God has to say when I state the fear clearly. I believe that examining the fear is the first step toward taking the thought captive,

3) I found that some of my fears stemmed from passivity on my part. There were some real dangers I  hesitated to point out to people I loved because I thought I would be dismissed as worrying too much, or I dreaded the potential awkwardness of the discussion.

4) On the other hand, some fears were rooted in doubt or lack of faith - fear that God would not be as faithful to my children as He has been to me.  Or that God would try to find my stress limit, or faith limit, by putting me to a test like Abraham. Confessing that fear was freeing. I do not believe God will be less faithful to my loved ones than He has been to me. I do not believe He wll test me/us beyond what we are able to bear.  I do believe there is nothing that can separate us from His love, though I know that He does not spare His children from suffering. 

I am happy to report that I am sleeping well again.  And perhaps I am a little wiser. 

10,000 Roses

Today I close my mini-series on Mary by resolving a story I began earlier - the story of how I came to peace with Catholic devotion to Mary. When I last took up this topic, Sr. Guadalupe was standing in my living room with her hands on my shoulders.  "Amy, she said.  You are changing very rapidly now.  Trust the Holy Spirit to lead you."  Her words were both a comfort and a disappointment.  A comfort because I could feel the wisdom in her counsel. The Holy Spirit is the spirit of wisdom and truth.  The Holy Spirit would never lead me against my conscience, so I had some breathing room.  At the same time, I was disappointed because I am a person who likes resolution, and I received none.

As the calendar rolled on, our parish began to prepare for the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe.  To my shame, I learned that I was entirely ignorant of a story dear to the hearts of my Mexican brothers and sisters.  I had never heard of the Indian peasant, Juan Diego, or how Mary appeared to him several times with signs of roses and the imprint of her image on his cloak.  I did not know that Juan Diego's witness, along with the miraculous image, led to mass conversions of Aztecs. In an age when Spanish conquerors thought little of the intellectual or spiritual capacity of Native Americans, Mary by-passed the Catholic hierarchy and spoke directly to Juan Diego.  Mary could not be mistaken for a conquistador.   She expressed God's love in a form the natives could receive.  No wonder they loved her.

And yet, I was nervous. Protestants are wary of apparitions , especially those of Mary.  What if the story were not true?  What if there were some syncretism in the devotion?  Would my Lord disapprove of my participation in a practice which felt so foreign to me?  Would my Mexican brothers and sisters find my presence strange or out of place?  That sounds like a silly question, I know, but  Our Lady of Guadalupe is so strongly associated with Mexico that I wondered.

On the morning of Dec 12, 2000, I rose at 4:30 am, as eager for the celebration as any parishioner.  I was not participating to express my love so much as to test my stomach.  If there were any Marian devotion which would be a bridge too far for this morphing evangelical, this was sure to be it. Today, one way or another, I would resolve the question in my mind - could I be a Catholic in good conscience? I was full of fear and anticipation, but completely unprepared for what I witnessed in church that morning.

When I walked through the doors of Cristo Rey at 5:30 am (30 min. before mass), the pews were already packed.  But it was not the people who grabbed my attention; it was the roses.  Thousands upon thousands of them.  More roses than I had ever seen.  They were beautiful beyond words. Overwhelming. I stood motionless, agape, astounded at such an outpouring of love.

And then my heart melted.  Was such a display of affection too much for the mother of the Savior of the world?  Certainly not.  Would the King of Glory be less lavish in His gifts to His mother?  Surely the whole world could not contain enough roses for Jesus to give Mary.  The glory I was beholding in one little church in Austin, Texas could not hold a candle to the real treasure, the true glory and honor Mary receives in Heaven.  So why should I be sparing in my affection?

I am not sure exactly what changed in my heart that day, but I know peered a little deeper  into the riches of Christ.  I grasped for the first time the truth which a Catholic friend had tried to share with me before - it is impossible to love anyone too much. We can never love an individual as much as God loves him or her.  The more we truly love our neighbor, the more we will love God.   As faithful Catholics always say, contemplating Mary  leads us to Jesus; Jesus points to the Father; and the Father pours out the Spirit without measure.

Standing at the back of  my church, surrounded by 10,000 roses, I recalled Paul's words to the Corinthians. "Eye has not seen, nor ear has heard, nor has it entered into the heart of man all that God has prepared for those who love Him."  And then I heard a whisper which felt like the Holy Spirit. As the implication of the words washed over me, I was moved to chills and tears. "Amy, do you not love Me too?"

The Score Written in Heaven

For Jack & Peggy

This past week has been eventful for the Cogdells.  On Friday Thomas and I spoke at St. Austin's celebration for  The Week of Christian Unity.  The school children who comprised the bulk of our audience were engaged and warm with their smiles and applause.  I love kids!  On Saturday we will be teaching at the Hope Chapel leadership retreat.  So I've been doing a good bit of writing, but no blogging.

The most significant event of the past week was a camping accident.  Our daughter's boyfriend was lighting the evening fire when he spilled some lighter fluid on his pants.  He was airlifted to Brackenridge and later to a burn center in San Antonio.  We are thankful to report that Jack is recovering well from his skin grafts. Peggy has been at his side most of the time.  Though they seem to be in good spirits, they are apparently lacking in light reading material.  This morning I received a text from my daughter requesting a new blog post.  How could I refuse?

Below is a short piece I wrote a couple of years ago, with a musical theme for Jack.

The Score Written in Heaven

The first Wittenberg 2017 gathering was held in a small German community called Ottmaring.  We met at a retreat center staffed by the Fokolare - a group dedicated to promoting Christian unity and ecumenism since WWII. In our opening meeting, a beautiful, elderly father of the community shared a quote from their foundress, Chiara Lubich. I have pondered her words in my heart ever since.

“The music score is written in heaven.”

When Gottlob spoke those words, they resounded with layer upon layer of meaning to me.  Certainly they applied to the role that our meeting might play in God's larger movement of reconciliation.  But they are true of every aspect of our lives - from the big visions to the mundane daily chores.

When I was in high school, I played cello in the orchestra.  Cellos are a bass instrument, usually playing a supporting, harmonizing role.  Often the cello's part includes long stretches of monotonous rhythm keeping.  Sometimes they don't play at all.  They rest and enjoy the sounds of other instruments.  Sometimes cellos carry the melody for a few bars.  That was always exciting and rewarding for me.  Rarely, I was called upon for a solo, and that was terrifying.  What if I messed up?  All eyes were on me, and I carried the weight of the whole composition in that moment.

I contemplated this metaphor often that week in Germany.  I realized that most of my life is like a rhythm line in a symphony.  I cook, clean, teach the children, put them to bed and do it all again the next day.  My daily rhythm plays a small part in supporting the whole.  If I were to assume my part was unimportant and neglect my daily duties, the whole composition would lose a voice.  One lost voice might not be noticeable to the audience, but it would dishonor the Composer. And what would happen if many moms and housewives "dropped out" because their part felt monotonous and insignificant?  The whole symphony would lose its foundation.

On the other hand, what if I never practiced the more intricate melody lines?  What if I didn't take the time to work them out in my own secret place?  Then, when it came time to sing my song, I would be unprepared

I am afraid of the solos, when all eyes are on me.  I am tempted to try to give them to other people, or to play them softly to minimize any sour notes I might hit.  But that does not serve the symphony.  I should work to be prepared and sing my song with joy.  Then when it is over, I should sit down and rejoice in the other voices around me.

Some people never like to hand the melody over.  Some always play too loudly.  Others too softly.  Some must wait and wait and wait for their moment on the stage, but the waiting makes their part all the more dramatic. The tympani don't play often, but their thunder can shake a building.

The mystery of this metaphor is that we can never see the full composition.  God alone sees the full score.  But we can trust the master Musician.  We can determine to play our small parts with joy, and to practice in the secret place for the time of our solos.  We can support and harmonize with our brothers and sisters when it is their turn to carry the melody. And we can thank our God who gives each person a voice in His symphony.

From the Council to the Cradle

My last post about Mary was heavy with history and theology.  This week I would like to offer a different perspective from an eye-witness of sorts. Colton Burpo is a young Protestant brother from Nebraska, about the same age as my son Justus.  When Colton was two months shy of his fourth birthday, he suffered a life threatening rupture of his appendix.   Apparently, during his stay in the hospital, Colton visited heaven.  For several months after his return home, Colton would say odd things about the people he met in heaven - dead family members he had never known, biblical characters unfamiliar to a 3-year-old ("Did you know Jesus has a cousin?" he asked his dad. "He's really nice.")

The story of Colton's illness and ensuing revelation is recorded in the book Heaven is for Real.  I can't recommend the movie, but our family loved the book.  One passage which particularly moved me came from the epilogue.  Colton's father writes,  (I'm quoting from memory here)

Our Catholic friends often ask if Colton saw Mary, the mother of Jesus, in heaven.  The answer is yes.  He saw her kneeling before the throne of the Father and in other places. "She still loves him (Jesus) like a mom," Colton says.

Out of the mouths of babes, doctrine in its purest, simplest form.

Theotokos

The first time someone called me a heretic I was more shocked than offended.  The gentleman who employed the word used it very civilly, matter-of-factly, as if everyone in the group (an email discussion group I was part of 15 years ago) were comfortable with the term.  For my part, I thought polite Christians had stopped using that word around the same time we had decided to stop killing each other over doctrinal differences.  In my mind, heretics were people the Catholic Church burned at the stake a long time ago.  Though I was the only Protestant member of this little Catholic discussion group, I was pretty sure none of them wanted to see me burn at the stake. So I humbly asked, "Why did you call me a heretic?"

The answer I received was again straight-forward and civil - heretics were simply people who believed doctrine contrary to Catholic teaching.  From this perspective, all Protestants were heretics in varying ways and degrees.   I thought this perspective was a little presumptuous, but I understood.  I let the word roll off my back confident that I was in good company with many other devout Christian heretics.  (I will note here that not all Catholics use the word so broadly.  Even in this particular circle, my friends assured me that I was not guilty of the sin of division since I came by my heresies honestly, so to speak.  Furthermore, they said, most Catholics were unwittingly guilty of a heretical belief or two.  It is hard to avoid them all. ) But I digress.  This talk of heresy is preamble to the story I want to tell.  

The woman who invited me to this discussion group was a close friend of mine. We had known each other in high school and gone to college together.  She was scary smart, a genius, and I would have been terribly intimidated discussing theology with her except that she was also gracious and wise.  I knew that she loved me.  The longer I participated in the discussion group, the more aware I became of my ignorance of Catholic theology and church history.  I grew hungry, ravenous to know more, so this friend took me under her wing and directed my education.  

When we came to the topic of Mary, she began with a word I had never heard - Theotokos.  It is a Greek title for Mary which means "God-bearer" or "the one who gives birth to God."  In the Catholic world Theotokos is commonly translated "Mother of God."

Those words hit me like a slap in the face, shocking me  with the scandal of the Incarnation.  I understood immediately this title was really a statement about Jesus rather than Mary.  In no way was it meant to imply that Mary was the mother of God eternal, the Creator of the Universe.  Rather it was a bold statement about the hypostatic union - the unity of divinity and humanity in the person of Jesus. 

After Jesus ascended to the Father, it took His followers centuries to come to agreement about His nature.  What did it mean to be the Son of God? the Christ?   Many early followers of Jesus considered it blasphemous to think of Jesus as God Incarnate.  They were good  Jews and philosophers who insisted that there is only one God.  They believed in Jesus as Messiah, Savior, but not as God. Of course there were many others who did affirm the divinity of Jesus and His oneness with the Father.  A few second century writers (Ignatius of Antioch, Justin Martyr) spoke of "Father, Son and Holy Spirit."  However, the doctrine of the Trinity was not really hammered out until the Council of Nicaea in 325.

About one hundred years after the Nicene Council, another ecumenical council was held in Ephesus.  It was this council which affirmed the title Theotokos.  There was a member of the council, Nestorius, who opposed this title.  He believed that Mary should be referred to as Christotokos rather than Theotokos, meaning that she gave birth only to Jesus' human nature, not his divinity.  But the council disagreed, arguing that the two natures of  Christ were so intimately, organically united as to be impossible to separate. Cyril of Alexandria wrote,  "Confessing the Word to be united with the flesh according to the hypostasis, we worship one Son and Lord, Jesus Christ. We do not divide him into parts and separate man and God as though they were united with each other [only] through a unity of dignity and authority... "

As I began to meditate on these things, I had a growing sense of dread and a tingle of excitement.  If the Catholic Church were right about the hypostatic union (and oh how I hoped it were!) then I had unconsciously held a heretical belief about Jesus. While I always believed that Jesus was God,  I didn't really believe he had a mother, at least not like other humans. You see, I had often heard heard Mary referred to as a "vessel" for God.  Now it is a beautiful thing to be a vessel, but I had misinterpreted the term.  In my mind, this meant that the Second Person of the Trinity used Mary's womb as an incubator.  I imagined Jesus dropping down fully formed, but very tiny, programmed, if you will, to grow like a normal human. I couldn't really believe that Mary had conceived a child (even though that is what scripture says.)  I had never thought that Jesus might look like Mary because he bore her DNA.  I saw Mary more as a surrogate, submitting to God who wanted  to present Himself in the form of a man to speak to us, to teach us.  It was a kind gesture on God's part, a true act of humility and love for mankind, but fundamentally no different from Greek stories of Zeus appearing as a swan.

 I am not sure where these thoughts came from.  This particular heresy is not common among Protestants. But the more I contemplated the Incarnation, the more clearly I saw the theological consequences of my beliefs.

If Jesus were just taking on flesh to speak to us humans for awhile, to become relate-able and culturally relevant, then it followed He would discard His humanity at the earliest convenience.  Ascension is when I assumed it happened, though He began acting strange after the Resurrection.  :)  However, if the divine nature of Jesus is truly inseparable from His humanity, then the Incarnation endures forever.  Jesus is still a man!  He is forever tied to us. The glory of His resurrected body is what I may hope for in mine.   He will always  have a mother, and brothers and sisters.  

Now that is some very good news!

Mary

 I always enjoy the week after Christmas.  The rush of preparation is over, school is still out, friends come to visit.  There is some margin time for reading, for sleeping late, for contemplation.

In the beautiful cycle of the church calendar, I find myself meditating again on the mystery of the Incarnation - a mystery which pivots daringly  upon the "yes" of one particular Jewish woman who lived two thousand years ago.  It makes me dizzy, giddy, such intimacy between God and a woman.  To be overshadowed by the Most High, to conceive the Son of God within one's body, to mother the Savior of the World - in the words of David "such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too high to attain."  Yet the more I think upon this mystery, the more I love God . and the more I am convinced of His love for us humans.

It saddens me, as it saddens many on earth and in heaven, that any mention of Mary in mixed company  can set Protestants and Catholics on edge.  Certainly there are real theological differences between the two camps which are not easily reconciled.  I will make no attempt at such a feat in this blog. But in my experience, we also suffer from a lot of misunderstanding which can be helped by sitting together,  learning each other’s language, and sharing our stories.

When I first began exploring Catholicism 15 years ago, Mary did indeed make me nervous.  Not because I held any negative feelings toward her.  What young Protestant girl doesn’t want to play Mary in the Christmas pageant?  What Christian heart  isn’t moved by the nativity story? But Catholic devotion to Mary felt strange, foreign and potentially dangerous.  In my religious upbringing, any devotion to a human, especially shared prayers or other displays within public worship, was considered dangerously close to idolatry.  I did not want to cross that boundary.  I knew Mary would not want me to cross such a boundary.

Still I felt convinced, Thomas felt convinced, that God was drawing me into the Catholic Church for His own reasons which I could not fully comprehend. Therefore I would have to come to some peace regarding Catholic practice. That first year of study, I read a lot and  asked  lots of questions, but still felt no peace.  Several months into my preparation for confirmation, I invited one of the nuns serving at my parish over for tea.  Sr. Guadalupe was one of the most godly women I had ever known; I figured if anyone could resolve my inner conflict it would be her.   I was nervous, and my response to nerves is intensity. I launched straight into all of my theological concerns and fears. I cannot remember how long I rambled on before Sr. Guadalupe stood up, placed her hands on my shoulders, and said gently, "Amy, you are changing very rapidly  now.  Trust the Holy Spirit to show you  the way."  Then she left.

It has been more than 14 years since that tea with Sister Guadalupe.  Though I still live with some tension, some questions, I can now say  wholeheartedly,as my Catholic friends used to tell me, that the more I grow in love for Jesus, the more I appreciate Mary.  And the more I contemplate Mary, the more I love Jesus.  That is the nature of life in God - whoever loves the Father will love the Son, and whoever loves the Son will love the Son's friends, and the Son's mother.

For the next couple of months I plan to reflect on lessons I have learned from Mary, and  the ways my brothers and sisters, both Protestant and Catholic, have taught me to love her.

The Spirituality of Candle Dipping

Saturday was a big day, our first retreat at Christ the Reconciler.  It was a family event featuring several hand-crafts - crocheting, book binding, jewelry making and ornament painting. But the most popular activity of the day was candle dipping.

Before last week I had never dipped a candle.  I learned the method on the internet and practiced a few days ahead of the retreat. What a treat that practice session was!  There is something delightfully contemplative, relaxing, peaceful about the process.  Wick in the wax, wick in the water.  Wax on, cool off.  Breathe in, breathe out that warm, oil scented air. No noise. No rush.  No predetermined size or color or shape.  A slow, gentle dance of gravity and thermodynamics.

Apparently others found  candle dipping as therapeutic and fascinating as I did.  The table was crowded all day long, producing a steady stream of candles which I hung in our pantry. Some were long, elegant tapers.  Others were thick and bumpy with bases fat enough to stand on their own.  As the day went on, the candles became increasingly whimsical - sculpted candles, intertwining spirals, split-wick candles which looked like little aliens.  I was happy and satisfied with a good day's work,  but my spiritual lesson was yet to come.

During our closing session Thomas asked if anyone had experienced any revelations about the rhythm of work and prayer.  A couple of friends offered  observations about candle making which I hope to remember always.  One brother mentioned that he sometimes struggled to find meaning in repetitive tasks, but as he watched the candle grow fatter, he realized that there is a cumulative effect to those tasks which may not be visible on any given day.  A sister likened candle dipping to feeding a child.  You don't see a child grow at the dinner table. Fixing meal after meal is not glamorous or exciting, nor even memorable. Yet children must be fed several times a day for proper growth.  Faithfulness in little chores produces increasing  efficacy, just as each layer of wax adds potential energy to the candle.

These observations set me to thinking about prayer.  What is true for work, I believe, is also true for prayer. Persistent "dipping" in the presence of God  adds layers to our souls, even if we observe nothing in the moment. Most of my prayer times are  entirely unremarkable.  Sometimes I cannot tell you what scriptures I read 30 minutes after prayer.  At times I do feel the Holy Spirit moving in my thoughts or in my feelings.  Some days I gain some insight into scripture or into my own heart.  However, that is the exception rather than the rule.   There are times when my morning prayer is so distracted or sleepy or dry that I wonder if it even counts.  But thinking of the candle, I feel confident that every time I set myself to pray, the Holy Spirit is present, coating my soul with another layer of truth, or faith or hope.

It is a gentle dance of man's will and God's design.  The warm oil of the Holy Spirit alternating with the cooling water of work which makes solid each touch of the spirit.  Prayer and work; prayer and work; building up layers of potential energy which enable us to burn brightly until the Bridegroom appears.

Ora et Labora

For my dear friend Caroline who embodies this principle so well. And for my niece Grace who also lives in this blessed rhythm. Happy Birthday, Grace!

"Ora et Labora" is the title of our first family retreat which will be held here  at Christ the Reconciler on Dec. 13.  The title comes from the Benedictine motto "Pray and Work" which has been the foundation of Western monasticism for the past 1500 years.  I have found the motto is good for housewives as well.

When Thomas and I first caught the vision for a house of prayer many years ago, we imagined most of our prayer happening in a devoted prayer room with musicians and lots of time for study and contemplation.  We still love that kind of prayer.  Our house has a prayer room; we have a big library filled with classic theological works; we offer retreats so people can have a place for solitude and contemplation.   Times of extended meditation are important for the soul.  But they are not the norm.

Work is the norm for adult humans - and that is both happy and sad.  Happy because the desire to build and invent springs from God's nature in us.  We feel the joy of ourCreator when we look at the works of hands and say truthfully,  "It is good."  Work is happy because we are creatures endowed with wonderful physical senses. Smelling freshly tilled soil or freshly laundered sheets, pushing fingers into sticky dough, spreading bright paint over a canvas or a wall - these things are mysteriously good for our souls.  They remind us of the goodness of our Creator.   Even so, the sad truth is that we labor under a curse - the earth produces weeds,  food spoils,  children get sick, bills mount.  Very often we feel only the toil and grind of work.  We can easily become slaves of ambition, of debt, of stress.  The heavy yoke of work can cast us down, which is why it is so important to lift one's eyes to heaven regularly, rhythmically.

Though I still long for times of retreat and contemplation, I have to say that some of the sweetest times of prayer I have known have come in my kitchen.  One of my favorites happened about 12 years ago while I was unloading my dishwasher.  I was thinking about how much I loved the part of mass where everyone holds hands and prays the Lord's prayer together, when suddenly I felt the presence of Jesus right there in the kitchen with me. I didn't see Him with my eyes, and I didn't feel the scary glory I have sometimes felt in His presence - this time Jesus was speaking very humbly in His humanity.  As I stood there with wet hands holding a plate or two, Jesus asked me, "Amy, would you like to pray that prayer with me?"

"With you?" I asked (thinking I usually pray to You.)  

"Yes.  Pray with me.  God is my Father, and He is yours.  We can pray together."

So I set my plate down and held my hands up with my invisible Savior and prayed the prayer with Him.  Many Sundays since then I have imagined Jesus standing in the pews along with the rest of us, lifting up this prayer to Our Father in Heaven.

There was another morning, early one Christmas Eve, when I was up before dawn mopping our kitchen floor.  I was literally barefoot and pregnant at the time, listening to a teaching tape on the Song of Songs.  All of a sudden the love of God swept over me with chills and tears.  In a new way that morning I grasped the beauty of being a woman, being the object of my Creator's love, the mystery of bearing life in my body, like Mary.  I wept and  I mopped.  I prayed and I worked.  I rejoiced in being a creature, and in having a soul which could respond to such love, if only poorly.

Marianna

Next week Christ the Reconciler will receive a messenger from Israel.  Marianna is our friend and co-laborer in the ministry of reconciliation.  She is a Jewish believer in Yeshua, born in Russia. now living in Israel where she leads a vibrant ministry to orphans and widows. Indeed, the needy among God's people have found refuge in her arms.

We first met Marianna at Fr. Peter's house in Hainburg. Her reputation preceded her. From Fr. Peter I already knew that Marianna was a powerful woman of prayer, in tune with the Holy Spirit, one of the prophetic voices he listened to closely.  When I met her in person, I was even more awed.  She was beautiful, articulate, funny, bold.  Later I learned that Marianna had been trained in theater in St. Petersburg.  What a leading lady she might have been!

But that was not the path our Lord had in mind for this sister.  Marianna's story is fascinating, winding through many different spiritual landscapes.  She has a great love for the Russian Orthodox Church.  She has been deeply influenced by Western Evangelicals, and by Catholics. And of course, she is a Jew. Marianna's experience and affection for these seemingly disparate expressions of faith grace her a with unique wisdom and authority.

Among Marianna's manifold gifts is the gift of teaching. Last year Marianna spoke to us on the topic of "God's Heart for the Poor."  This time she will be teaching on "Israel the Widow"  I believe this teaching is an important foundation for our community in its calling to reconciliation, so I encourage everyone to come.

We will have a Shabbat meal followed by prayer and teaching on Friday. November 14. The following Monday we will open our table to anyone who wants to come for dinner and discussion with Marianna.  Hope to see you here!

The Great Cloud of Witnesses

In memory of Trey Sellstrom who joined the blessed throng of witnesses one year ago.

Today is All Saints Day.  For the first 27 years of my life, the only connection I felt with the day came from its etymological connection to Halloween.  Frankly, I was creeped out by Catholic devotion to saints. Talking to dead people seemed unnecessary at best, dangerous at worst.  Not that I made any attempt to educate myself regarding Catholic teaching, mind you.  I just didn't want to think about those beyond the veil.........so the saints came to me.

I was still very Protestant at the time, with no thought of ever becoming Catholic, when my friend Caroline loaned me a teaching tape about Joan of Arc - a teaching by a Protestant woman.  At the time I knew very little about Joan, but as I listened to that tape over and over my heart was set aflame.  I cannot recall exactly what moved me so deeply. In any case,  I began to think about St. Joan all the time.  I wanted to hear the Holy Spirit with the clarity she heard.  I longed for her courage.  I had so many questions to ask her!

I expected my Joan fascination to pass quickly, but it didn't.  To my horror, I unwittingly found myself asking her what she thought about this or that.  I repented immediately as that felt fearfully close to consorting with the dead.  But I couldn't stop the love I felt for her - a love as visceral as that I held for my flesh and blood friends.  It was disturbing.

I was confused, and honestly a bit afraid.  One day while on a walk with my little daughter I heaved aloud, "I've never felt this way about a dead person!"

And then the clouds in my soul seemed to part. "Amy," I said to myself (or was it the Holy Spirit?), "if what you believe about death and resurrection is true, then Joan is more alive than you are.  She is united with Christ in glory. She is eternal.  You are the one living in the shadow-lands."  A great peace settled over me.

After that incident, Joan's "presence" in my life receded significantly.  But I was changed.  I realized that though I was well acquainted with biblical saints and their encounters with God, I knew little about the holy men and women who had followed them.  I wanted, I needed to learn more.  For me it was rather easy to regard biblical heroes as exceptions - men and women especially chosen for a specific purpose which was long past. Despite a great yearning  for intimacy with God, it was easy to blunt my expectations. .What if God had continued to make Himself know in miraculous, mystical  ways throughout the ages to men and women who sought Him wholeheartedly? What if such intimacy with God were still possible?

Not long after the Joan incident, I found myself in a tiny branch library in far east Austin. Remember, this was decades ago.  That branch was located in a  mobile home with tightly packed aisles, no room for seating, no privacy.  Though I wasn't there to research the saints, I found my eyes drawn to a book on Saint Francis which I picked up and began to peruse. I had heard stories about Francis preaching to animals, but I had never heard the story of how, late in life, he received the wounds of Christ on his hands, his feet and side. I had never even imagined that a mortal being could be clothed in such honor!  What love Jesus must have for Francis to dress him in the signs of His glory.  I broke down weeping in the aisle of  that tiny library and I didn't care who heard. In fact I wanted to tell the whole world about this man Francis who loved Jesus so purely.

Over the past two decades I have grown in my love for that Great Cloud of Witnesses - for Ignatius of Antioch, and Ignatius of Loyola, for Teresa of Avila and Therese of Lisieux, for Catherine and Francis and Francis de Sales.  And of course there are many Protestant voices in that mighty choir - C.S. Lewis, Watchman Nee. the Wesleys, the ten Boom family. And thousands upon thousands whose stories we have never heard. If they are united fully with Christ, in unity with the Blessed Trinity, I have no doubt the saints intercede most fervently for us, alongside their Lord who constantly makes intercession our behalf.

To my friends who are uncomfortable asking the saints for intercession, I say that is fine.  Don't do it. Paul tells us that anything we do without faith is sin (Romans 14:23).  But I believe we would all do well to learn more about the glorious witnesses who cheer us on.

Bernard of Clairvaux calls us to celebrate this day with joy. "When we commemorate the saints we are inflamed with another yearning: that Christ our life may also appear to us as he appeared to them and that we may one day share in his glory...  Come, brothers, let us at length spur ourselves on."

Only One Thing

So, the other day I was in the laundry room, feeling my adrenaline level rising.  I hadn't done enough lessons with the children.  My house wasn't clean enough. I hadn't payed the bills, or returned all my calls. I hadn't done this and I hadn't done that..... when the Holy Spirit broke into my interior conversation, asking gently "Amy, who are you comparing yourself with?"

To my shame, I must admit that is a question God has asked me a few times before. I have learned this is never a rhetorical question with Him;  it is a painfully concrete question demanding a painfully truthful answer. (Someday soon I will write more about my dialogues with God on the topic of selfish ambition. Oi!)  But this day, as I honestly reflected on the question, I concluded that I was measuring myself against an amalgam of ideals I had collected over time -standards for cleanliness (probably learned from my grandmother), standards for home schooling (inspired by a gifted friend), standards for hospitality, punctuality, spirituality, and so on.  In my mind, if I could live up to those standards I would avoid the fearful, shameful possibility that someone would find fault with me, that I would disappoint someone.  Horror of horrors!

"Now, Amy," He continued. "What have I asked you to do?"

I love the way God speaks to me, the way I assume He speaks to every soul.  One tiny question explodes with meaning and revelation. Things I have known theoretically suddenly become living and active.  In that little question I heard my Lord speak to me just as he spoke long ago to my sister Martha who  "was worried and distracted by many things."

Immediately I remembered the lesson my friend Kay taught me about this passage years ago, that "only one thing is required."  Sometimes that one thing is sitting at the Lord's feet.  But other times it is cooking dinner, or changing a diaper, or making a phone call.  The key is that at any given moment the Lord is asking only ONE thing, not more than I can handle. Only ONE thing is required, and if I keep my eyes on my Lord, as Mary did, I will know what that one thing is and avoid becoming distracted by many things.

Of course, there really are more things to do in any given day than I can manage, and that is where grace comes in.

The next question the Lord asked me was this.  "Look around you, Amy.  Did you earn this house by working hard?"  No, I certainly did not.  In truth, I am not a very good housekeeper.  I find it pretty humorous that God has chosen to entrust me with such a huge, beautiful home. 

He asked me a few more questions, too personal for a blog, but the response was the same.  "No Lord, I have not earned such favor. I am overwhelmed by your grace - grace in the work you give me strength to do, and grace in the work I cannot do, when others carry me."

As for the assurance that no one will find fault with me - that  too is something I can never earn.  In my better moments, I know I should not even desire such a thing.  Seeking the praise of men is a deadly snare. Mary did not escape the criticism of her sister.  Jesus was scorned by the Pharisees.  But they were not distracted, and they were not overwhelmed.

Happy Feast Day, St. Teresa

Today is the feast day of one the most influential teachers in my life.  I am looking forward to the day when we can "catch up" and talk as friends. How audacious is that? Someday I will write about that great cloud of witnesses; today I will post a shortened article I wrote for George and Hanna Miley's book, Ancient Wells.

Thank you, Teresa!

Teresa of Avila

1515 – 1582

Teresa of Avila was born to a family of Spanish nobility just two years before Martin Luther penned his Ninety-Five Theses. This placed her life in the heart of the Counter-Reformation, the Catholic response to the  grievances of Protestant Reformers. In 1545 the Council of Trent convened to address doctrinal questions and the institutional problems of corrupt bishops and poorly educated priests.  Meanwhile, the Holy Spirit was moving on another front, raising up mighty leaders – preachers, teachers, missionaries and mystics – to call the Catholic Church back to her first love.  Teresa was among these shining lights, and she remains one of greatest spiritual teachers in Christian history.

Stories from the lives of saints captivated young Teresa. When she was only seven years old, she and her brother Rodrigo ran away to preach the gospel to the Moors.  Her uncle found the two children outside the city wall and returned them to their parents.

Teresa left home again as a young woman to join a Carmelite convent.  Almost immediately, she fell ill. Her sickness progressed to the point of partial paralysis, forcing her to spend several years recovering outside the cloister.  During this time she read extensively and began to practice the silent “prayer of recollection.”  She was blessed with a few mystical experiences, but her desire for approval and recognition held her back.  Several of her friends and spiritual advisors believed her visions came from the devil and counseled her to renounce them. Their rejection caused Teresa anguish and doubt, but she persisted in prayer.

When she was thirty-nine years old, Teresa had an encounter with Christ which changed the course of her life. She saw a flame-tipped spear in a vision, and physically felt it pierce her heart repeatedly, lighting an internal fire which never waned.

After this experience Teresa began her apostolic ministry of reform.  She founded several convents committed to the original, rigorous rule of the Carmelite order.  Teresa also wrote. Her last book, Interior Castle, is a masterful study of the soul’s journey toward union with God. It has inspired both Catholics and Protestants for more than four centuries.  Dallas Willard writes,  “I first studied Teresa of Avila’s Interior Castle twenty or so years ago, after many years of efforts to understand, live, and communicate what the spiritual life portrayed in the Bible was meant to be.  .... this book and this author immediately announced themselves as a unique presence of God in my life.  The book provided instruction on a living relationship with God that I had found nowhere else.” ( FN - The Great Omission, by Dallas Willard, page 206)

Teresa’s writing reveals her exceptional intimacy with God.  However, her intimacy never falls into familiarity. Rather, she speaks with a reverence and holy fear lacking in most modern Christian literature. The following excerpt from the introduction to the Interior Castle captures the unique balance of confidence and awe characteristic of Teresa’s life.

“While I was beseeching Our Lord today that He would speak through me, a thought occurred to me which I will now set down, in order to have some foundation on which to build. I began to think of the soul as if it  were a castle  made of a single diamond or of a very clear crystal, in which there are many rooms, just as in Heaven there are many mansions. Now, if we think carefully over this, sisters, the soul of the righteous man is nothing but a paradise, in which, as God tells us, He takes His delight. For what do you think a room will be like which is the delight of a King so mighty, so wise, so pure, and so full of good? I can find nothing with which to compare the great beauty of a soul and its great capacity….

“For though (the soul) is His creature, and there is therefore as much difference between it and God as between creature and Creator, the very fact that His Majesty says it is made in His image means that we can hardly form any conception of the soul’s great dignity and beauty.

“It is no small pity, and should cause us no little shame, that, through our own fault, we do not understand ourselves or know who we are. Would it not be a sign of great ignorance, my daughters, if a person were asked who he was, and could not say, and had no idea who his father or his mother was, or from what country he came? Though that is great stupidity, our own is incomparably greater if we make no attempt to discover what we are….

“O souls redeemed by the blood of Jesus Christ! Learn to understand yourselves and take pity on yourselves! Surely, if you understand your own natures, it is impossible that you will not strive to remove the pitch which blackens the crystal.”

Keeping the Commandments, Treading on Snakes

A couple of weeks ago I served as a spiritual director for a three day retreat.  Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the boys were killing snakes.

It is a great honor to serve as a spiritual director. The story of each soul is a sacred trust - each woman a child of God, each carrying beautiful, unique gifts, and each bearing the scars of a fallen world.  Every time I serve as a spiritual director, I am healed more deeply as I understand the heart of my Father more clearly.   Whenever a sister finds the courage to share with me the shame of some secret  sin or the deep pain of rejection, I feel my heart quicken with the tenderness of God.  Though I know the truth that there is no shame for anyone in Christ, like my sisters, I have often been tempted to hide in fear or shame.  But when I serve as a spiritual director, the truth of God's mercy expressed in the cross becomes living and active in my soul, like a sharp sword, setting people free.

Swords are made for battle.  That is the other truth which this retreat drove home.  Like it or not, we are engaged in a fight for our lives and the lives of our brothers and sisters.  Sin is real, and its wages are death. Not because God is a wrathful God.  No!  Rather, it is the very nature of sin which causes death - just as it is the nature of Ebola to kill its victims.  We have an enemy who loves to entice us to taste the fruit which is pleasing to the eye but poison to the soul.  He is a serpent who whispers, "You shall not surely die.  You will be like God."

When I was a young child, the Ten Commandments scared me.  I saw illustrations of Moses standing on a mountaintop looking like a madman, the messenger of an angry God shooting lightning bolts to terrify His people.  To this day, I do not doubt that the scene was awesome, but now I hear the commandments very differently.

 I hear a loving Father sternly warning his children to stay way from danger. I hear a merciful God saying.....

 You shall have no other gods before me (because I am your Maker and your Husband.  I am the Way and Truth and the Life.)

You shall not commit adultery (because I am a faithful lover.  Unfaithfulness hurts your souls; it destroys families; it undermines the trust of your children.)

You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor (because you were meant to live in the truth.  Lying leads to fear, to hiding, to violence.)

You shall not covet (because all My riches are yours.  You and your neighbor are one Body, dependent on one another.)

I believe this was God's intent from the beginning, but before Jesus walked among us and died for us, it was hard for us to hear the because clause.   I sometimes wonder about that.  Could God have explained a little more, expounded a bit on His reasoning?  Could He have spoken more softly perhaps?  

Then I remember that sin is a life and death matter.  When my toddler is reaching out to touch a poisonous snake, I don't take time to look into her eyes and explain the nature of venom.  I yell "Stop!" loud and clear, and if she cries in fear, I don't  sweat it.  Of course when the danger passes I scoop her in my arms and hug her tight because love is my motive and my goal.

The thirty women at this retreat each had several snake bites - some the result of their own sin, some the result of other people's sin.  Thanks to the cross, they were able to look on Jesus and live.  But how much stronger would the Body of Christ be if we listened to the warnings of our Father and avoided the snakes more diligently?

When the retreat was over, I went back to my cabin, shut the door and cried tears of relief, of love, of gratitude, of exhaustion. Then I walked into the bathroom and saw a scorpion.  My first instinct was to let it be.  It was no threat to me as long as I didn't touch it.  My roommate had already packed and left.  But once again, I felt my spirit quicken.  I couldn't leave that scorpion to breed.  There would be people in the cabin after me, and I couldn't put them at risk through my passivity.  So I pushed through my revulsion and stomped on the creature.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the boys were killing a rattlesnake.

Seeing Red

I painted my new room red - a fact with which I am not yet fully reconciled.

The window wall of my bedroom is coated with Kelly Moore's "Sweet Lychee, " a deep crimson color.  The other three walls are a sensible, neutral "Navajo White." For the past 20 years I have awakened each morning to a light sky blue - peaceful, calming, mild. In our former house the living room was painted straw yellow - cheerful, easy-going, straightforward. These are adjectives which make me comfortable.  I like peace.  I like simplicity.  I like innocence.

Red is anything but innocent.  It is sensual, regal, aggressive, religious.  Red is the color of blood.

Last Sunday I painted the front doors of our retreat house red and I remembered the Israelites smearing the blood of a lamb over the lintel and the doorposts of their homes.  I prayed that all who entered our house would find safety in the blood of Jesus. I also thought a lot about the blood being shed in the Middle East  - Christians, Muslims, Yazidi losing their lives at the hands of violent, deluded men.  There is nothing peaceful, mild or easy-going about the lives of those brothers and sisters.  

The red on my walls makes a gorgeous frame for the yellow wild flowers which bloom on our land.  And the crimson provides a dramatic background for my icons, giving the room a formal, church-like feel. Regality and formality don't come naturally to me. I was born in the backwaters of West Texas, and in my heart I will always feel like a country bumpkin. Though  I love the mystery and the beauty of religious art, it feels exotic and foreign.  After 14 years as a Catholic, I still get a little nervous around gold embroidered vestments and red mitres.  But this is a new season.

My private home is also a public house of prayer, and many will come here seeking the refuge which is found only in the cross.  Fr. Rene emphasized this fact last night when he and several other pastors came to bless Christ the Reconciler.  To our surprise Fr. Rene chose a liturgy for the blessing of a religious house, like one would use for a convent.  I saved that liturgy and will cherish it for many years to come. There is nothing I desire more than living fully consecrated to God, in my own station of life. What an honor, what a joy to be charged with a ministry of hospitality and prayer, similar to other consecrated houses across the globe.  And what a sober responsibility. Living our call well will require much sacrifice from this introvert.

In the four short weeks we have lived in this space, I have been unusually aware of the great debt I owe to Jesus, of God's mercy toward me, a sinner. Prayers of contrition and thankfulness flow freely. So do cries of mercy for my brothers and sisters suffering across the globe - in sickness and violence and loss. Global events have called us all to prayer.  I know it is not the color of my walls which has stirred my heart, but the red before my eyes is a constant reminder of the blood which cries out for justice, and the blood which heals.

I miss the tranquility of my blue bedroom.  I miss the cheerfulness of light yellow.  But red is the right color for this season.

Time Traveling in Trento

Today I am writing a very personal post.  It is an attempt to remember a beautiful moment of grace on our trip to Trento this past May.  I am not sure these words will make sense to anyone else, though I am sure the truth and beauty of what I glimpsed applies to everyone. In any case, this morning I am writing for myself as an act of thanksgiving and meditation.

The first full day of our Wittenberg 2017 gathering was full of talks - lessons on indulgences, the sad history of debt incurred by bishops in buying their posts, the the tragic coldness of heart, the anti-Semitism and even violence which gripped the Church in the decades, or centuries, before the Reformation.  As I listened to the presentations, I understood fully that this story was my story, these people were my people. The Church had gone astray just as Israel had wandered from her first love, and I was entirely capable of doing the same.  In personal, less visible ways, I had done the same.  And yet, God had never let go of me/of us.

The next morning, we opened with worship.  After a few songs, much to my surprise and delight, our young Israeli worship leader launched into "Sing Hallelujah to the Lord."  My first thought was, "Isn't she too young to know that song?  Because I first heard it in the '70's when I was a young child....."

And then, in a mysterious way I cannot explain, I was back at my Assemblies of God church in 1975. It was as if God had whisked me to another time and place, with Him, to behold the eight-year-old Amy. For a few brief moments, I had an inkling of what it might be like to exist outside of time because what I was seeing was as present to God as the meeting in Trento - not a memory as I typically experience it.  We (God and I) were at an evening revival service at Trinity Church in Lubbock Texas.  The Holy Spirit was moving in such a way that the church was packed every night of the week. The eight-year-old Amy was too young to understand that this was remarkable -  it seemed perfectly normal and right that people should go to church every night as soon as dinner was over.  I saw my young self sitting on the floor near the wall because we arrived too late to sit in the pews. The congregation was caught up in worship with beautiful, complex harmonies dancing over and around the melody, "Sing Alleluia to the Lord."  I saw waves of grace washing over me; I saw the Holy Spirit brooding over me; and I saw that as an eight-year old, I was unaware of the grace God was pouring into my soul.  But my ignorance did not deter Him. He loved me (He loves me; He will love me) without reason.

Amazed and undone, aware that my body was still in a worship meeting in Trento, I tried hard to stifle the sobbing which seemed the only possible response.  I managed to keep rather quiet, but I could not stem the flow of tears. Suddenly, we (God and I) were swept to another setting.

This time I was in my early 30's sitting in a pew at Cristo Rey Catholic Church as my dark-skinned, dark-eyed fellow parishioners  sang "Cant Aleluia al Senor."  Once again, I was overcome with grace - the grace that led me to that time and place, the grace that flowed into my life from the parish, the grace of God at work in all the people in that scene.  The tears flowed harder and faster because of the love I felt for my people, who were not my people by birth,  and my parish, which was new to me as a recent Cathoiic. It was a love kindled by the Holy Spirit.  Though I did know and love some wonderful individuals in that parish,  my love for the place went beyond reason.

Eventually the song ended and I settled back into my 45 year old self attending a reconciliation gathering in Trento, Italy.  But the crying was not over.  At  noon prayer my friend Phillip led us in another song, an ancient cry of God's people - "Lord, have mercy, Christ have mercy.  Lord, have mercy."  Once again I began weeping as I heard our Lord whisper, "Amy.  you are swimming in a sea of mercy!  Look where you are standing.  Remember your sins and the sins of the Church and see where I have carried you all.  The work is not finished, but my kindness has led my Church to repentance.  If my mercy had ever relented, you would not be here."

 What could I do but cry?

A Word from St. Augustine

It has been awhile since I have posted anything.   The move continues. We still have several boxes to unpack.  School started yesterday.  Our living room furniture arrives on Monday.  Not much time for writing.

But I couldn't resist sharing this piece from Brother Augustine.  So beautiful.  It takes me to a place far away from the boxes in my hall.  

From  The Confessions of Saint Augustine, bishop

Urged to reflect upon myself, I entered under your guidance the innermost places of my being; but only because you had become my helper was I able to do so. I entered, then, and with the vision of my spirit, such as it was, I saw the incommutable light far above my spiritual ken and transcending my mind: not this common light which every carnal eye can see, nor any light of the same order; but greater, as though this common light were shining much more powerfully, far more brightly, and so extensively as to fill the universe. The light I saw was not the common light at all, but something different, utterly different, from all those things. Nor was it higher than my mind in the sense that oil floats on water or the sky is above the earth; it was exalted because this very light made me, and I was below it because by it I was made. Anyone who knows truth knows this light.

  O eternal Truth, true Love, and beloved Eternity, you are my God, and for you I sigh day and night. As I first began to know you, you lifted me up and showed me that, while that which I might see exists indeed, I was not yet capable of seeing it. Your rays beamed intensely on me, beating back my feeble gaze, and I trembled with love and dread. I knew myself to be far away from you in a region of unlikeness, and I seemed to hear your voice from on high: “I am the food of the mature: grow, then, and you shall eat me. You will not change me into yourself like bodily food; but you will be changed into me”.

  Accordingly I looked for a way to gain the strength I needed to enjoy you, but I did not find it until I embraced the mediator between God and man, the man Christ Jesus, who is also God, supreme over all things and blessed for ever. He called out, proclaiming I am the Way and Truth and the Life, nor had I known him as the food which, though I was not yet strong enough to eat it, he had mingled with our flesh, for the Word became flesh so that your Wisdom, through whom you created all things, might become for us the milk adapted to our infancy.

Late have I loved you, Beauty so ancient and so new, late have I loved you!

Lo, you were within,

  but I outside, seeking there for you,

  and upon the shapely things you have made

  I rushed headlong – I, misshapen.

You were with me, but I was not with you.

They held me back far from you,

  those things which would have no being,

  were they not in you.

You called, shouted, broke through my deafness;

  you flared, blazed, banished my blindness;

  you lavished your fragrance, I gasped; and now I pant for you;

  I tasted you, and now I hunger and thirst;

  you touched me, and I burned for your peace.

Moving Day

Yesterday marked the beginning of a new stage in our pilgrimage.  We left our small Austin apartment and moved into the home of our friends, the Janknegts.  We were met with hugs and cakes, banners and cozy beds in a chapel.  It was a beautiful and happy occasion, though we are not home yet. Once again we find ourselves dependent on the hospitality of God's children - a good reminder that we will always be pilgrims on this earth.

Moving day set me to thinking about other spiritual matters, particularly the final judgment. On moving day, everything comes to light and must be accounted for.  That soup which spilled over the pot and seeped under the burners didn't just go away. Baseboards neglected for the past 12 months cry out for justice.  Bare walls reveal the marks of boisterous boys.  Every burned out light bulb, every missing doorstop, every bent blind will be counted and charged to your bill.

Standing in the middle of our mostly empty apartment on Thursday morning, looking at the mountain which must be moved by 6:00 pm, a terrible dread fell over me and my husband.  It was an impossible task.  Simply clearing our remaining stuff would be daunting; cleaning was almost unthinkable. We were doomed to pay the penalty of our sloven sins. 

And then, grace intervened in the form of God's saints .  Lynn and her son showed up with a fancy vacuum.  Bill drove his granddaughter all the way across town to pull nails and fill holes.  We had babysitting help.  And Thomas' mom drove into town with our nieces. By the end of the day, the carpet was standing at attention, the windows were sparkling, and all the refrigerator's spots had been washed away. Even the cat found an unexpected safe haven with a neighbor.  It was amazing - truly an undeserved gift.

Feeling a huge debt of love for all the people who helped us on Thursday, and those who came for the back-breaking labor the day before, I was reminded of the parable of the unjust steward, the strangest of Jesus' parables in my mind. I never could understand why Jesus would choose such a lousy guy as a spiritual example - until moving day, when I realized I had a lot in common with that lousy steward.  I was facing a judgment I could not avoid.  I would be in debt.  My only saving grace was the help of friends. Thank God for wonderful, merciful friends!

I have a renewed energy to help my neighbors in need - to cook a meal, make a bed, change a diaper, or wield a broom for someone in need. And to pray for my neighbor. We all need help on moving day.