Cenacle Journal Archives (Volume 4)

The Feathers of Your Mercy
Come to the One You Don't Love!
The Grace of Ordinary Encounters
Dwelling in the Realm of Faith
Ordinary Holiness
Instinct for God
Longing for God
The Love Which Moves the Stars
Mortality and Beauty
Living with the Consequences of Violence
My Wonderful Nightgown
Attack
Going Down with the Ship
When the Earth Begins to Tremble
On Praying the Divine Office
Drenched
Receiving Power
Bending over Her Baby
Tending Toward God
Rejoice, O Earth! Rejoice, O Universe!

Love Unknown
Prayer in a Time of Dryness
Your Pain Is Not Wasted
Welcome
Bees
Suspended in Mystery
Swinging
Prayer of a Child of Earth
Epiphany
Vulnerable God
The Lord is Near
Comfort
Swords into Plowshares
Precious
Radiant Shadow
God's Work of Art
From Glory into Glory
Gracious Sufficiency
In the Beginning

Brush me, O God,
with the feathers of your mercy,
for I am dusty with pettiness.

Day by day in fear
my heart collapses on itself.
My hours are gray with forgetfulness.
See — the coals of my love have already settled into ash.

Breathe me into new life,
that I may expand
in the amplitude of your love.
And, You who are all in all,
be all to me.
Amen.

Create in me a clean heart, O God,
and put a new and right spirit within me.
Do not cast me away from your presence,
and do not take your holy spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of your salvation,
and sustain in me a willing spirit.
(Psalm 51:10-12)

On my mother's side of the family, my great-aunt Missie was the matriarch. (Many southern families have one: frequently unmarried, often living in the home in which she grew up.) Missie was a force to be reckoned with, both in the family and in the county, but in spite of her famous temper she was constitutionally kind and generous.

When I was a small child, she would greet me in one of two ways. Sometimes she would hold out her arms and exclaim, "Come to the one you love best!" Other times she would hold out her arms and say, "Come to the one you don’t love!"

I never figured out what prompted one or the other of these invitations, but the welcome was the same either way. She always opened her arms to me whether I loved her best or not at all.

And so it is with God and me. Now that I am an adult, God knows that my love is not constant. However, no matter the intensity or purity of my love, the call is, "Come!" And whether I am coming to the One I love best, or to the One whose love I am relegating to third or fourth or even last place in my heart, the divine arms are always open.

"Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."
(Matthew 11:28-30)

On the way back from Jacksonville, I stopped for gas in Waldo, where it is about 20 cents a gallon cheaper than in Gainesville. I was having a hard time getting the pump to start. The woman in the cashier’s booth (older than I, although I may be deluding myself) saw my difficulty, came out, and encouraged me, "You’re doing just what you should. It’s an old pump and sometimes it takes a long time to prime." "It’s just ornery?" "Yes, ma’am," she said, and went back to her booth. After paying, I noticed that a man in a red van I had barely noticed until that moment had been waiting for my place at the pump. He had waited patiently through the whole process — my filling the tank, going to the booth to pay, and returning in a leisurely fashion to the car — with no sign of impatience. A tall young man with his hair in corn rows had been just behind me in line to pay. As I moved toward the highway, his car arrived at the exit before mine, but instead of driving on out, he waved me on ahead of him.

What riches! Within ten minutes on an ordinary day, I was favored with three simple encounters of kindness — the grace of God’s presence in the gentleness of other people, making life a little easier.

Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.
(Hebrews 12:1-3)

O God,
make me mindful of your love
throughout the day.
May I bring your grace and peace to the strangers I meet.
(And may I bring your kindness
also to the people I know,
for sometimes that is harder!)

I have a new chair for my room, a comfortable rocker to replace the folding chair which was there before. The result is that I am spending more time gazing from my second-floor window on the live oaks, the golden rain trees, the roof next door, and the duck pond catty-corner from us.

Today the temperature has been in the 30s and low 40s all day — cold for North Florida — with a dismal gray sky. Occasionally, though, the clouds break open, and each time this happens, I am startled. I have to remind myself that I am looking at the same scene. The neighbor’s roof is dappled with sunlight, the white geese on the pond are radiant, and all the colors in the neighborhood are enhanced.

Sitting in my new chair in front of the window on this chilly day, I am reading an essay by Elizabeth Fox-Genovese ("A Conversion Story," The Best Christian Writing 2001, ed. John Wilson, HarperCollins), in which she refers to André Amar, who once taught her philosophy, and who had spoken of religion as "a realm unto itself, irreducible to any other." I have been reflecting on what it is like to live and move in the realm of religion, or the realm of faith.

It seems to me that in the land of faith, while everything is the same as elsewhere, it is also different, like our neighborhood when the sun comes out: the same trees and houses and geese, but with the colors enhanced, so that we can see more clearly into the reality of things. Ordinary objects and events take on a deeper significance, leading us beyond the surface of themselves and calling us to transcend ourselves.

(I should probably interject here that doubt can accompany us in the realm of faith — the two are not mutually exclusive.)

The three Wise Men of Matthew’s gospel moved in this realm. Both the star and the baby meant something very different to the hearts of the Magi than they did to Herod. These travelers were able to look at a night sky and see a promise, to look at a child and see a king. Dwelling in the realm of faith allows us, too, to behold — an infant, yes — but also a cross — and to recognize Love.

Sometimes when I am just dragging through my day, feeling weighed down by the realities of everyday life, I wish I could be lifted out of my nitty-gritty existence — be "caught up to the third heaven" as St. Paul says in 2 Corinthians 12:2. I suspect, though, that one reason human beings are so rarely permitted to transcend the actualities of earthly existence is because our daily life itself is so valuable to God.

The importance of human life is revealed in the Incarnation, where the divine becomes human — doesn’t just visit us, like royalty sweeping in, dressed in ermine and silk, and then sweeping out again, but becomes one of us and one with us.

There is a holiness about our life and its details. There is holiness in our birth and holiness in such mundane activities as sitting here before the computer monitor or bathing or eating breakfast or washing dishes. The divine is present when we are with our families and friends and doing our work and enjoying our recreation, and God will be with us still in that sacred moment when we take our last breath.

Indeed, the glory of the Lord has come upon us.
Arise, shine; for your light has come,
and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.
For darkness shall cover the earth,
and thick darkness the peoples;
but the Lord will arise upon you,
and his glory will appear over you.
(Isaiah 60:1-2)

There was a story in the newspaper some time ago about a town where monarch butterflies spend the winter. Every year they migrate to one particular lot where there are certain trees that they like. But the problem was that the woman who owned the property was planning to sell it to developers who would cut down the trees and build I don’t remember what, thereby depriving the butterflies of their special place and probably condemning them to death. The citizens were being asked to vote money for the town to buy the property and save it for the butterflies. (I seem to recall that the measure passed.)

What is so mysterious is that the monarch butterflies fly each year to a place they have never seen. There seems to be implanted in them the need and the desire for this location and these particular trees, as well as the instinct for arriving there. In fact, the previous ones to winter in those trees are long dead — it is several generations of their grandchildren who make the next trip.

We also have a desire implanted in us — the desire for God. Ordinarily what we long for is something we don’t already have, and it can seem this way with God, too: that we long for God because God is not there.But strangely enough, longing for God is a sign of the divine presence. God is there in our longing. We wouldn't be longing at all, if God weren’t already present, touching us and implanting in our hearts the desire for the divine. The longing itself draws us toward the one who is truly already with us.

Therefore we can pray, "Come, Lord Jesus!" in confidence and peace, because Emmanuel, "God-with-us," is present to us and in us as we call to him.

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
more than those who watch for the morning,
more than those who watch for the morning.

O Israel, hope in the Lord!
For with the Lord there is steadfast love,
and with him is great power to redeem.
(Psalm 130:5-7)

There are many things I yearn for. Right now I would like another 128 mg. of RAM for my computer — not to mention a faster processor and high-speed internet access. We all have numerous desires, many of which are far more worthy than these. We want a rewarding job, financial security, good health, a happy family life — all understandable and proper desires.But deep down, there is something we want even more than all these. In our heart of hearts, whether we know it or not, what we long for most of all is God.

In fact, since our natural and deepest longing is for God, a lot of our lesser longings are actually misplaced. We may think it’s a new computer we want, when actually it is God we are longing for. After all, as St. Augustine says in his Confessions, "You have made us for yourself, and our heart is restless until it comes to rest in you."

What is more, our own longing is always in the context of God’s longing for us. God loves us before we can even begin to love God and implants in us our desire for God. So the two desires, God’s and ours, are in harmony. During Advent we are reminded of this intersection of two longings: God’s for us, and ours for God. Graciously these two longings meet in the One who is Emmanuel, "God with us."

"...our natural wish is to have God, and God’s good wish is to have us."
(Julian of Norwich)

"I am the root and the descendant of David,
the bright morning star."
The Spirit and the bride say, "Come."
And let everyone who hears say, "Come."
And let everyone who is thirsty come.
Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.
The one who testifies to these things says, "Surely I am coming soon."
Amen.
Come, Lord Jesus!
(Revelation 22:16b-17, 20)

I was delighted to discover, in the December issue of the Atlantic Monthly, W. S. Merwin's lovely translation of the last Canto of Dante's Paradiso. Canto XXXIII presents the final vision of the poet, and concludes with the famous line about "the love which moves the sun and the other stars" (l'amor che move il sole e l'altre stelle).

To return, however, to the opening verses of the Canto: these are St. Bernard's prayer to the Blessed Virgin, a beautiful and adoring paean. There is one verse, though, which jars me. In spite of the sublimity of the poetry, I believe Dante is mistaken when he has Bernard say to Mary:

[Y]ou are the one who so ennobled
human nature that the maker of it
condescended to be made of it.

It was not because Mary was so good that God became human, but because you and I were (and are) in such need — because so often we debase rather than ennoble our human nature. Jesus comes to us out of that "love which moves the sun and the other stars," a love so encompassing that it freely enfolds us in our sinfulness and our brokenness.

At the end of the Paradiso the poet experiences his own desire and will "turned already, / like a wheel that is moved evenly, / by the love which moves the sun and the other stars."

In our truest self, each one of us is also moved by this love. Let us pray that through Jesus, God-with-us, our whole being might be in harmony with the divine love.

O loving God,
may I wait in peace for you,
and waiting
enter the place in my heart
where like the sun and the stars
I am moved only by your love,
and there find you,
already with me
waiting for me.

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning.
(Psalm 130:5-6)

I thought that I had accepted the realities of life. I was startled, therefore, in church a few Sundays ago, to find myself engulfed with anger because of the human condition. To be precise, I was sad because of the illness of a loved one, and angry because we all suffer and age and die. I was asking the question that has been asked for millennia (and which has often been asked since September 11): why didn't the all-powerful God arrange things differently?

Then I looked around me at the assembled faithful, who, if they were not in pain at the moment, would at some time in their lives have to suffer deeply. Each one was at that moment happy or sad, healthy or sick, at ease or in pain; they were all sinful; they were every one of them headed toward death — and they were all amazingly beautiful. In fact, an essential part of their beauty seemed to me to be their mortality — or rather our mortality — and our participation in the death of Jesus.

I suppose this loveliness shouldn't have surprised me, because we share our mortality with the Son of God. I am reminded of a quote from The Chess Garden, a remarkable novel by Brooks Hansen:

May we have eyes to see the beauty of the crucified Christ, and the loveliness of our participation in the mystery of his death and resurrection.

And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us: and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.
(Psalm 90:17 KJV)

In my youth, living alone in an apartment in Atlanta, I decided I needed a gun for protection. An older relative who had gone off to World War II at the age of 18 cautioned me — not, as I might have expected, about gun safety or the possibility that some nefarious person might shoot me with my own gun, but about the seriousness of killing another person.

At the time, I was annoyed with him for casting doubt on my maturity and good sense, but today as I reflect on the war, this conversation comes back to me.

So I ask: Does the same hold true in a communal sense? Are the deaths that happen in war a burden which all of us and each of us will have to live with the rest of our lives?

A mass killer, a serial killer — and the terrorists are both of these — must be stopped. But no matter how just the cause, any violent act tends to defile the person who performs it. This is one reason among many why violence must be the last resort in any situation. Not only does it hurt the one on the receiving end, but it is almost inevitable that when we strike out with violence, we are ourselves diminished.

The U.S. bishops have said, "For resort to war to be justified, all peaceful alternatives must have been exhausted" (The Challenge of Peace: God’s Promise and Our Response, 1983). I don’t know for sure whether or not the bombing and ground invasion of Afghanistan are indeed the only viable alternatives, whether there is no other way to stop the murderers (though few others seem to have been tried). However, I do know that my heart is not at ease. When I ponder the probability of starvation and disease among the Afghan population this winter, I feel myself and our nation diminished. I believe it is true that we and the world will have to live with the consequences of this war for the rest of our lives, and I want our leaders to be very certain that it is the only means to peace with justice.

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God." (Matthew 5:9)

"But I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. . . . If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them." (Luke 6:27-28, 32)

It (the gown) was purchased about 15 years ago — a prim, sisterly kind of night attire, 100% cotton, full-length, with short sleeves and a high neck. It is still, in a new millennium, cotton, full-length, with short sleeves and a high neck — but it is no longer prim and sisterly. Over the years it has worn out gradually, every bit of it wearing out together, none faster than another, so that the fabric has grown thinner and thinner. Although there is not a rip or tear or frayed thread anywhere, it is now almost transparent. I fancy that one morning as I get out of bed, my wonderful nightgown, still without a rip or a tear, will simply crumble into dust at my feet, leaving me scarcely more exposed than I am now when it is intact.

We are made in the image and likeness of God. Like the wonderful nightgown, our lives should grow more and more transparent, revealing to the world the image of God in us. Unfortunately, many things in our hearts and our lives prevent God’s image from being visible through us. We read in the first letter of John:

Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed. What we do know is this: when he [or it] is revealed, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. (1 John 3:2)

What keeps us from this kind of seeing right now? What keeps us from being like Jesus, when we are already made in the image and likeness of God?

O God, may my life be transparent so as to show forth your glory. May nothing hinder the manifestation of your image in me — neither fear, nor selfishness, nor ego, nor greed, nor hatred, nor violence, nor vengeance, nor unhealthy attachment to things not of you. May I gaze at Jesus and grow in likeness to your Son, that your light and love and peace may shine through me.

Last Saturday I was robbed — "strong-arm robbery," the police called it. A young man ran up to me, gave me a shove, and grabbed my purse. After getting over the shock, I was angry. I wished that I had had the presence of mind to knee him where it would have hurt the most. My non-violent Christian stance toward life evaporated without a trace — temporarily anyhow.

Considering my reaction to this relatively minor affront, I shouldn’t have been surprised at some of the comments posted on our local newspaper’s web site* following the inconceivable horror of the terrorist attack on September 11. Here is one:

Of course, feeling that violence is justified, feeling that a wrong is being righted is what brought us this sorrow in the first place. The terrorists surely felt they were justified in murdering thousands of our citizens. They were probably convinced that God would be pleased with what they were doing. Do we then continue the violence against innocent and guilty alike, because we are sure that in this case violence is justified? Do we perhaps take on a terrorist mentality and say that no one in a country which harbors terrorists can be called innocent, not even children? Where does the killing stop?

We must find the perpetrators and supporters of the attack on America and bring them to an appropriate justice. But if we are naming the terrible act of violence on our people evil — and it was a great evil — it will not be made right by committing further wrongs. We must not let the terrorists have the ultimate victory, which would be to turn us into the very people whose actions we abhor.

“See, the home of God is among mortals.
He will dwell with them as their God;
they will be his peoples,and God himself will be with them;
he will wipe every tear from their eyes.Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.”
(Revelation 21:3-4)

There is a heartwrenching article in Time magazine [David Van Biema, "When God Hides His Face," Time, July 16, 2001] about the Guthrie family, whose second child, Hope, was born severely brain damaged because of a genetic disorder called Zellweger Syndrome. She lived only seven months. After her birth, David Guthrie got a vasectomy, but against all odds, his wife Nancy became pregnant again, and this child too, a boy, was found to have Zellweger Syndrome. The baby was to have been born in July, and as I have heard nothing since the Time article, I don’t know whether or not he is still living.

The article deals not only with traditional human views of suffering and the question of God’s relation to human suffering, but also with the faith of the Guthrie family and the other members of their church. One of these supportive friends, Wayne Buchanan, is quoted as saying that "we will go down with the ship, believing in our hearts that God is in control."

This quote has come back to me during the illness of one of our sisters. Although we know that God does not desire pain for us, still we have to believe that God is ultimately in control. The Resurrection of Jesus shows us this. Our own experience of letting God bring good out of painful events shows us this. The beauty and mystery glimpsed from time to time amid distress also show us this. No matter what happens, we are never out of the hand of our loving God.

The eternal God is your dwelling place,
and underneath are the everlasting arms.
(Deuteronomy 33:27, RSV)

Saturday I took advantage of a solitary drive to Jacksonville to surround myself with the music of the Morman Tabernacle Choir. On the cassette was a rendition of "Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah," with a verse that I had never heard before (and which according to my internet search seems to be found only in the Latter Day Saints hymnal). It begins:

I have never been in an earthquake and can’t even imagine the sense of helplessness there must be when not even the formerly solid earth can be relied upon. What I have experienced, though, is what I believe most of us go through at one time or another in our lives: moments when the very underpinnings of our way of being in the world are shaken.For me the earth has seemed to tremble:

Always and without fail, the unshakable rock in our fear and grief is God. God's mercy is our unwavering comfort. And the source of our security, when all around us and inside us trembles, is God’s grace present and working to bring us through to a new and more enduring peace.

God is our refuge and strength,
a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change,
though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea;
though its waters roar and foam,
though the mountains tremble with its tumult.

In the Cenacle, we usually pray Morning Prayer and Evening Prayer of the Divine Office, that ancient prayer of the Church made up primarily of psalms, along with canticles, readings, and intercessions for the whole world. The Divine Office in its entirety is meant to sanctify the whole day — morning, noon, afternoon, evening, and night — which is why it is also known as the Liturgy of the Hours. I’d like to share with you a reflection on our community prayer by Sister Elizabeth Hillmann:

Sometimes when we are praying the Office together here in Gainesville, I feel that I am singing with a vast host of people from all the ages since these psalms were written.

I am amazed at their trust in God. They were able to open their hearts and speak to God about all the feelings they were experiencing — their joys and sorrow, their questions, their pride, their hatreds, their depressions, their despairs, their self-righteousness, their exultations, their love and longing for God. It seems to me that they knew that God knew the secrets of their hearts, and so they did not pretend to only pious feelings and thoughts.

These are not the prayers of "rugged individualists." These are common prayers, prayers of solidarity with the human condition, prayers in which together we acknowledge the Presence of the Mysterious One in all aspects of personal and communal life. These are the prayers that Jesus sang and said — not just alone, but in common in the synagogue, in the temple, and at home. What a gift to be praying with Jesus!

And sometimes when we are praying, I feel a nothingness like dry bones. A time for trust! "The Spirit helps us in our weakness, for we do not know how to prayer as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words." (Romans 8:26)

I was reminded of this again last Sunday. Just as I was parking the car after dropping off one of our sisters at the front of the church, it started to rain — not just a gentle shower, but a tropical downpour. I waited in the car for a while, hoping the rain would let up; but since it gave no indication of doing so, I reached for the umbrella in the back seat and bravely opened the door. Far from lessening, the rain and wind both increased as soon as I stepped out. My umbrella did little more than catch the wind, so that by the time I arrived at the church entrance, I was drenched to the skin.

Now I must tell you that Sunday mass at St. Augustine’s is wonderful. Often I find myself moved to tears by the beauty of the liturgy and the faith of the people assembled there. This Sunday, though, I was wet, I was cold, and my clothes were sticking to me. Nothing could reach me. The readings, the homily, the music, the presence of the faithful — all were subordinated to the affliction of wet clothes. Encouraged by a phrase in the homily, I tried imagining myself immersed in the waters of baptism, but I still could not transcend my physical discomfort.

It is at times like this that I need to be reminded that it is not our own feeling that determines God’s presence or even the quality of prayer. Feeling inspired or uplifted during worship is indeed a gift. However, whether we are exalted or simply wet and miserable, we are always drenched in God’s love.

For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven,
and do not return there until they have watered the earth,
making it bring forth and sprout,
giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater,
so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;
it shall not return to me empty,
but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,
and succeed in the thing for which I sent it. (Isaiah 55:10-11)

To judge from a broad internet seach of the term, power is something human beings are very fond of. Besides our preoccupation with the various power sources needed to fuel our vehicles and computers, we seem to be fascinated with powerful people.

I found web pages listing the most powerful people in sports, the most powerful people in politics, the most powerful people in networking, the most powerful people in corporate America, and on and on and on. (Incidentally, Michael Dell of Dell Computers, makes two of these lists. At 36 years old, he is named first on Forbes Magazine’s list of "Top CEOs: Corporate America's Most Powerful People," and is also considered one of the most powerful in networking.)Is this what Jesus promises his followers?

First, the power given by the Holy Spirit is power with and in God, shared with the people of God, and inseparable from love. This is not a power which gives us control over others or which makes us privileged in the eyes of society. There is no list of the 100 people most empowered by the Holy Spirit.

Second, the Spirit, paradoxically, gives us the power to be weak. It is the power to give ourselves totally to God, as Jesus did — to be emptied of what we think of as our own strength in order to receive the power of God. In the long run, this is the only power that endures and the only power that brings any kind of lasting joy.

". . . but he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.' So, I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak, then I am strong." (1 Corinthians 12:9-10)

I have been learning to use my old outdated version of Paint Shop Pro (a reflection on my earlier efforts is found in the archives: "God's Work of Art"), and with the help of some useful web sites have figured out some of its tricks. One thing I have had fun with is creating a basic image, copying it over and over, and then elaborating on it. I can change the color, add a shadow, rotate it, give it a different background or a 3-D effect, and so on.

As I amuse myself with all these variations on a theme, I am pondering how different this is from the way God creates. God doesn’t just take a basic idea — say, a basic human being, or a basic flower, or a basic cow — and change details here and there to create individuals.

James Weldon Johnson’s poem "The Creation" imagines the creation of the first human being in a much warmer, more personal way:

And there the great God Almighty
Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky,
Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night,
Who rounded the earth in the middle of his hand;
This great God,
Like a mammy bending over her baby,
Kneeled down in the dust
Toiling over a lump of clay
Till he shaped it in is his own image;
Then into it he blew the breath of life. . .

When God creates each of us, isn't it less like an amateur user of Paint Shop Pro, than like "a mammy bending over her baby"? Each one of us is brought to being with total love and with desire for the person that is to be; each one is made unique and in God’s own image; and into each of us God breathes the divine breath or Spirit.

For it was you who formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
that I know very well.

When I approached Main Street the other day to make a right turn, I noticed a bicyclist at the corner, waiting to cross. He was less than respectable looking, bone thin, with a short scruffy beard and an arm covered with tattoos. I was fully expecting him to cross the street before I turned — after all, he got there before I did. Instead, he waved me on ahead of him.

That’s all he did — just let me go first. No big deal. But I felt as if his action were a sign of the goodness of God. More, it seemed at that moment that the kindness of God was visibly present in him.

"All creatures are by nature endeavoring to be like God," says Meister Eckhart. "The heavens would not revolve unless they followed on the track of God or of His likeness. If God were not in all things, nature would stop dead, not working and not wanting; for nature fundamentally is seeking, although obscurely, and tending toward God."

We human creatures are also, often very obscurely indeed, seeking and tending toward God. Our efforts may be misguided, as we mistake lesser things for God; or we may try to refuse the search or turn from Love. However, we are made for God and made to be like God, which is the only way we will be happy. Performing or receiving a simple act of kindness can provide a glimpse of that truth and bring us closer to the conclusion of St. John of the Cross, who said, "In the evening of our life, we shall be judged by love."

"And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit."
(2 Corinthians 3:18)

Rejoice, O earth, in shining splendor,
radiant in the brightness of your King!
Christ has conquered! Glory fills you!
Darkness vanishes for ever!
(Easter Proclamation, Roman Rite)

There is a literary practice called the "pathetic fallacy," which attributes human feelings to non-human creation. Often the pathetic fallacy is used to show the natural surroundings in harmony with what is going on inside someone — for example, when the scariest scene in the ghost story takes place at night during a thunder storm, or when a poem about grief employs the image of skies weeping with rain.It is called a fallacy because, obviously, nature is not human, and rocks, trees, planets, and animals do not have human emotions.

I like to think, though, that when Jesus was raised from the dead, there was some way in which the whole universe participated in the joy of heaven, even if no one was consciously aware of what was happening.

And I can’t help but believe that deep down each one of us, along with all of creation in some mysterious way, knows — really knows, even if we don't know that we know —

Only love is stronger than death. But human love by itself is not strong enough. Only God’s love is strong enough to conquer death and to ease the fear which threatens at times to overwhelm us. Only in this love — which is the deepest truth of our being — can we be at peace within ourselves and with the rest of creation. It is when humanity is not in touch with what we already know deep down, when we are not at one with this love, that the hungry are not fed, the naked are not clothed, wars and oppression abound, the earth is polluted, and global warming is left to proceed unchecked.

So I pray: God of love and life, may my heart rejoice with the joy of the Risen Christ. May my life be filled with the radiance of your love, so that from wherever I am, your blessing may spread out to others and to the whole of creation.

My song is love unknown,
My Savior's love for me,
Love to the loveless shown
That they might lovely be.
O who am I
That for my sake
My Lord shall take
Frail flesh and die?

He came from his blest throne,
Salvation to bestow,
But all made strange, and none
The longed-for Christ would know.
But O my friend,
My friend indeed,
Who at my need
His life did spend.

Here might I stay and sing,
No story so divine:
Never was love, dear King,
Never was grief like thine.
This is my friend,
In whose sweet praise
I all my days
Could gladly spend.

Dear God,
Please accept the prayers I say these days,
without feeling, with distracted mind —
someone else’s prayers
as I have none of my own.
Please accept these gestures I make:
a sign of the cross from habit
and from a remnant of hope,
a restless shifting in my chair.
Please accept the hours I spend in church
because I ought to be there,
singing "Holy, holy" with your sacred people
who somehow lift their hearts to you.
Please accept the work I do
because it needs to be done,
an act of kindness here, a token of mercy there,
the occasional sacrifice in your name
from one who doesn’t dare to name you.
Please accept these motions I go through,
for they are what I have to offer,
for the sake of your Son Jesus Christ.
Amen.

Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. (Romans 8:26-27)

I have on occasion heard explanatory comments about people who were sick: "She holds her anger inside." "He has a poor attitude." "She doesn’t exercise correctly (or read the right books, or meditate diligently, or . . .)." Of course any number of things may contribute to poor health. But I suspect that the implication is that if these people had done everything right, they wouldn’t be sick. And that we can’t say.

Along the same line, in the Gospel of John, the disciples of Jesus point out a man born blind and ask, "Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?" (John 9). Jesus gives a reply that surprises them: "Neither he nor his parents sinned: but that the works of God might be made manifest in him." Then Jesus heals the blind man.

I suppose that people have been asking the reason for suffering ever since human beings have been able to reflect on the human condition. Jesus himself never does answer the question of where suffering comes from — but he does give a meaning to it, not only by his answer to the disciples, but also and especially by his own death and resurrection. Although we know God doesn’t desire pain for us, God does use our pain for good in our own lives and for the bringing to fulfillment of the reign of God on earth.

Now I don’t understand this any more than the disciples of Jesus did. But what it says to me is that pain is not wasted. Mine is not wasted and yours is not wasted, any more than the pain of Jesus was wasted. The suffering of Jesus became redemptive for the whole world, and through our union with Jesus, ours becomes redemptive also. We are not called to seek out pain in our lives, of course. Jesus did not seek pain in his own life. We are called to alleviate pain — to bring an end to suffering where that is possible. We are to heal the sick, feed the hungry, comfort those who mourn, eliminate oppression. And where it is not possible to end suffering, either in our lives or in the lives of others, we can still trust that God is working in it to bring about good.

"We know that in everything God works for good with those who love him, who are called according to his purpose." (Romans 8:28)

On the car radio the other day I heard a song with a haunting melody but whose words I couldn’t understand. Finally I caught a snatch of the lyrics: "No hope of welcome." There have been occasions, I imagine, for all of us, when we have been made to feel unwelcome, or perhaps even when we have been unwelcoming to others. But would there be anything sadder than no hope of welcome?

Now I am not what you would call athletic. This never bothered me, except on those days in elementary school when the class had to divide into teams for kick-soccer. The two captains took turns picking children for their teams. Small and poorly coordinated, I was always one of the last chosen, along with a little girl who had birth defects which left her rather handicapped. She and I would wait and watch as the others heard their names called and moved to one side or the other. Finally each of the unlucky teams was forced to receive one of us, hoping we wouldn’t cost them the game.

On the other hand, in my own neighborhood, the ball games in the street were warmly inclusive. Everyone was welcome, including the athletically challenged like myself. In the first place, it didn’t matter who won or who lost. And in the second place, I had my own special gift. When the ball rolled into the storm sewer, my father would pry open the manhole cover with his crowbar; and then my small size made it easy for me to be lowered into the sandy depths to retrieve it. This was my favorite moment of the game.

God always welcomes us, and the welcome is never grudging. Whether or not we are gifted in prayer, knowledgeable in theology, or morally strong, God loves us totally. In fact, there is nothing we can do that is so terrible that God would turn us away. We will never find ourselves standing around, waiting despondently for our name to be called — because God has already called us by name, and will continue to call us closer and deeper. Each of us is a favored member of the family, with our own special place in the divine plan.We have been welcomed into life, we are welcome in the world, and we will always be welcomed into the loving arms of our God.

“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)

There are bees in our chapel. We have no idea how they are getting in or how to keep them out. They don’t seem to like being there any more than we like having them with us. Some mornings the floor is littered with the little corpses of bees who have worn themselves out trying to escape; and the next day a whole new crop is buzzing at the window. Finally, in the desperate spirit of if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, I decided to look up the symbolism of bees.

I learned that over the centuries bees have been used as images of industriousness and of purity. I found that for the Latin poet Ovid, bees symbolized metamorphosis. But what really stayed with me was a passage from a poem by Antonio Machado:

Last night, as I lay sleeping,
I dreamed — blessèd illusion! —
that I had a beehive inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

(Anoche cuando dormía
soñé, ¡bendita ilusión!,
que una colmena tenía
dentro de mi corazón;
y las doradas abejas
iban fabricando en él,
con las amarguras viejas,
blanca cera y dulce miel.)

Isn’t that what God does in us? The Spirit of Jesus, in the darkness of our hearts and the messiness of our lives, transforms our failures into sweet honey.

In the process of unpacking boxes after our move, I have been running into things I had forgotten I had. One is a rather blurry photograph of a sculpture by Enrico Manfrini in the Vatican Museum. I do remember the sculpture clearly, and I remember being so taken by it that I returned to the museum to gaze at it again.

"While I was on my way and approaching Damascus, about noon a great light from heaven suddenly shone about me. I fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to me, ‘Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?’ I answered, ‘Who are you, Lord?’ Then he said to me, ‘I am Jesus of Nazareth whom you are persecuting.’" (Acts 22:6-8)

Persecuting Jesus? How can you persecute someone who is dead? Saul has only been trying to wipe out a dangerous and heretical sect. And why would this Jesus come to a person who has no use for him?

So here is Saul, wrapped in Light, dazzled, blinded by this Mystery which is too much for him.

Within a fraction of a second he will land in the dirt — but not yet. For this life-changing instant he seems suspended in the Mystery. Once so sure of himself and of what to believe, now his world is upside down, and it will never go back to what it was. He doesn’t know which way is up, which way is the solid ground, where to put his feet.

But this Mystery — this Christ, this Love — has not only knocked Saul off his feet. As of now and forever, this is all he will ever want in life or in death.

Yet whatever gains I had,
these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ.
More than that, I regard everything as loss
because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. (Philippians 3:7-8a)

I had forgotten what it was like to swing. No, I don’t mean dancing or partying all night — I mean soaring, feet up and head back in a child’s playground.

Late one afternoon as I walked past J. J. Finley (my old elementary school), I couldn’t resist the swings in the almost empty playground; so I went in, feeling a bit foolish, and started to swing. I was half convinced that any minute a real adult would come up to me and say that I was much too old to be swinging.

It didn’t take me long to get into the spirit. After a few timid swings, I gave a vigorous kick, leaned way back, and faced the sky. Everything above me was rocking back and forth — the trees, the sky, the clouds. It was exhilarating, but a bit unsettling. I had to remind myself that I was the one swinging, not the sky.

Our community is in the process of moving into our new home. In the midst of the tumult, it is occasionally hard to remember that we are the ones in motion and not God. God is not swinging back and forth, one moment here, another there. God is always right here for us. But I have have to stop moving for a moment to become aware of the divine constancy.

Every generous act of giving,
with every perfect gift, is from above,
coming down from the Father of lights,
with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.
(James 1:17)

Loving God,
grant that my faith may be as solid as the earth,
my heart as limpid as still water,
my mind as honest and straightforward as the sun’s light.

May my spirit be as docile to your Spirit
as the air to your creating Breath,
and may my presence on earth
never obstruct the vision of your Beauty.

May my own heart’s welcome flower in your embrace;
may my forgiving be nourished in your mercy,
and may my cautious love be enfolded and emboldened
in the sacrifice of your Son our Lord Jesus Christ.

A number of years ago I had the pleasure of spending time with a 3-year-old Spaniard. His mother worked for the family I was living with in Paris. Although Juanito spoke no English and little French, and my Spanish was minimal, we enjoyed each other’s company.

A favorite activity was looking at mail-order catalogs. Even an ordinary catalog was filled with marvels. I can still hear Juanito’s voice, filled with wonder, exclaiming: "¡Mira, Rosa, Mira!" (Look, Rose, look!) And I was led to see for a moment with his child’s eyes.

The Wise Men must have had something of a child’s eyes to be able to see the remarkable in the commonplace. After all, babies are born every day, and this particular birth was not outwardly extraordinary. The family was not prominent; the surroundings were poor. To exclaim, "¡Mira!" and fall down in wonder before such an unexceptional scene: this required eyes open to what was not readily visible. Yet it was at this ordinary scene of a family with a newborn that they knelt, then presented their royal gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

Today the Risen Christ is always with us. The goodness of God is all around us and within us. Not only does every newborn share in the glory of Christ, but also the struggling teenager and the elderly person approaching death. Each star, each sunrise, the people we meet, our meals, our computers — before all of these do we not hear the voice of the Spirit whispering, "¡Mira! Look!" and calling us to gaze in wonder?

Wonderful God,
grant me the eyes to look with wonder on your world
and to see myself and all creation
with the heart of Christ.

This Christmas I am remembering, strangely enough, a nature show I once saw about kangaroos. It seems that the baby kangaroo is born about a month after conception, while it is only the size of a jellybean (and from what I saw resembles somewhat a jellybean.) In fact it is still very much like an embryo. Without any help from its mother, this tiny blind creature must leave the womb and find its way to her pouch, where it will continue its development.

There are other animals (sea turtles, for example, who instinctively head for the ocean) which are completely on their own as soon as they are born.

Imagine the human newborn in such straits. He or she would never make it either to the water or to the pouch. As infants, we human beings are totally helpless and totally dependent on the help and good will of caregivers for all our needs.

The Incarnation means that God, loving us, became one of us, starting human life as a helpless and vulnerable baby, dependent on human care for survival.

Human vulnerability, of course, doesn’t end with childhood — although many of us wish it would — because to love means to be vulnerable. Whereas we often set up walls and defenses that would put the Pentagon to shame, this child Jesus will grow to an adult and will love, will grieve, will suffer, will rejoice. Finally he will reach a moment when he is once again as totally helpless as the swaddled baby: when his hands and his feet are nailed to the cross.With this total and final self-giving, both the glory of God and the glory of humanity are revealed.

Last week I gave a day of prayer at Marywood Retreat House, located right on the St. Johns’ River. During the quiet time set aside for personal prayer, I walked to the river and went out a short way onto the pier. Life had been very busy, and this was the first moment in a couple of days when I had really stopped moving.

At first I looked all around me — at a blimp in the distance, at the two other people on the pier, at the cypress trees — but soon I found myself leaning on the railing and just watching the water. There were fall leaves floating just below me. (Here in north Florida, the trees were at their most colorful early in December.) I couldn’t tell which direction the current was moving, because at first the leaves seemed immobile. As I watched, though — as I became still myself — I began to see that new leaves would gradually emerge from under the pier. The water was flowing after all.

When I left the river to rejoin the group, there was a new quietness in me, as well as gratitude for just being alive to see this day.

"Rejoice . . . The Lord is near," Sunday’s reading from Philippians tells us. The commercial atmosphere of the season seems to promote haste and uneasiness. Jesus is near, but how will I notice his coming if I am constantly rushing around? Will the noise of my anxiety drown out the quietness of his presence?

When tempers flare, I hear another word from the reading: "Let your gentleness be known to everyone." And then, "Do not worry about anything." After all, and in the midst of all, Christ is near. And time is flowing — slowly, it seems to me, and sometimes imperceptibly, but surely. Time is flowing toward Christ.

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:4-7)

A number of years ago I took a course on the Hebrew prophets. When we reached the fortieth chapter of Isaiah, our professor suddenly, without warning, burst forth into Handel’s Messiah:

The sudden shift from academic exegesis to musical cry was nothing if not startling, but it was beautiful. Not many people could have pulled it off successfully.

During Advent I remember the singing professor as I ponder the passage from Isaiah which begins the chapters called the "Book of Consolation."

Comfort, O comfort my people,
says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
and cry to her
that her warfare is ended,
that her iniquity is pardoned . . .
(Isaiah 40:1-2a)

These lines refer to the end of the Babylonian exile. God’s people need assurance that the exile is nearly over, and that God is faithful and merciful. Even though they were written with a particular historical situation in mind, these words speak also to each of us. Is there any one of us who doesn’t need comfort? Is there any one of us who doesn’t need to hear a word of forgiveness? This is a God who cares about us, who says, "Speak tenderly," or "Speak to the heart." God wants to comfort us. God says to us over and over, "I’m not an adversary — I’m on your side. You don’t need to be in exile any longer. Come home to me. Let me comfort you.

"But to whom is God speaking? Who is supposed to be the agent of God’s comforting? Heavenly beings? The prophet? Yes, but also ourselves. We are called to give comfort, as well as to receive it — to be the one speaking to the heart of God’s people, proclaiming the forgiveness of sins and the end of exile through Emmanuel, God-with-us.

When I read of continuing violence in the Middle East or in the streets of our cities, or of the latest political scandal — or even of the interminable partisan wrangling over our presidential election — I am reminded of something Abraham Heschel wrote in The Prophets:

Evil and violence are not God's purpose for creation. Not only does God want something better for us, but something better is on the way. Listen to the prophet Isaiah:

They shall beat their swords into plowshares
and their spears into pruning hooks;
One nation shall not raise the sword against another,
nor shall they train for war again. (Isaiah 2:4)

The wolf shall live with the lamb,
the leopard shall lie down with the kid,
the calf and the lion and the fatling together,
and a little child shall lead them.
. . . . . . . . . .
They will not hurt or destroy
on all my holy mountain;
for the earth will be full
of the knowledge of the Lord
as the waters cover the sea.
(Isaiah 11:6,9)

Is this just a fairy tale? A daydream? No, we are reminded during these first weeks of Advent that the old order will come to an end — indeed is already on its way out. But we are not to wait passively for peace to reign. We are called to live in justice and mercy, and to wait with hope for the fulfillment of all things in Christ. In fact, by living in peace, justice, hope, and love, we are anticipating even now the age to come — and with Christ we bring comfort to a fearful world.

This call made me wonder: how often does God call us "precious," only to have us respond, "You must have the wrong number"? What would it be like if we answered, "Here I am, Lord," instead of, "Surely you mean someone else"?

Do not be afraid, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name, you are mine.
. . . you are precious in my sight,
and honored, and I love you . . .
(Isaiah 43:1,4)

St. Augustine’s Church has a cross near the side door on which are painted the words from the prophet Micah:

What does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, and to love with mercy,
and to walk humbly with your God? (6:8)

The other day, I noticed the shadow of this cross on the wall. There was some trick of light — probably from a combination of the artificial lighting and the sunlight coming through the stained-glass window — which made the shadow glow, as if it were infused with a purple or violet aura. I’ve never seen one quite like it. While shadows usually indicate that something is blocking the light, this one, on the contrary, seemed to be luminous.

O God, may the shadow I cast as I walk through this day
be infused with your radiance.
May I never impede your light,
but let my very being glow with your own love.
May I live so that when others meet me,
they will perceive your justice and kindness,
and the humility of one who,
like Jesus, walks with God.

When we bought software to help keep our finances straight, we received as a bonus an old edition of Paint Shop Pro. I looked around the Internet to find some help using it, and found a site called Digitoils . It’s published by an artist who offers a wonderful tutorial that teaches you how to create a landscape with Paint Shop Pro.

What struck me as I worked on it was the imagination it takes to envision the completed work from the rather homely first steps. Just by looking at the early versions, there would be no way of telling what was to come. Of course, each step reveals more of the whole, and by the end of the tutorial, I must say I was rather proud of myself.

Here in Gainesville, where we are in the beginnings of our new community and ministry, we too have rather humble and homely beginnings. We can’t tell what our presence here will look like next month or next year or a few years from now. In fact, although the first days or months of almost anything new do indeed contain the seeds of what is to be, what is coming to birth is often, at first, more ungainly than graceful.

Each of us is God’s work of art. We don’t yet know what we will be like in our final form. Our future in Christ is beyond our imagining. As the first letter of John says, we are already God’s children, but "what we will be has not yet been revealed." God, though, already has the whole picture in view — already sees us transformed into the image of Christ.

O God, may I not stand in your way as you bring your own Beauty more into reality in my life.

"See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and that is what we are. . . . Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed. What we do know is this: when it is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is."

The church was packed this morning, because the university students have returned for the fall session. Surprisingly, I was reminded of the Endtime, mysteriously present in germ even now, when we will see the fulfillment of Jesus’ prayer, "That all may be one" (John 17).

In fact, the communion procession was almost overwhelming in its beauty. There were people of all ages and races. There were families, some in "Sunday" outfits, others in what they would relax in later today. There were many students in jeans and shorts, and one young man with neon pink hair on half his head. The child in her white first communion dress, the black couple in striking African clothes, the woman in the wheelchair, the choir, the musicians — all were filing up in a kind of glory.

When Moses came down from the mountain, we are told that he "did not know that the skin of his face shone because he had been talking with God" (Exodus 34:29) These students and families, the children and old people, those who rejoice and those who mourn, the healthy and the sick — do they know how beautiful they all are? Do they know that the light of Christ is shining in them and around them?

"And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another." (2 Cor: 3:18)

The Cenacle is making its small beginnings in Gainesville. Two of us arrived a couple of weeks ago, and two others will come the end of August.

For now we are engaged in the ministry of pots and pans, of mop and broom, instead of the ministry of retreats and spiritual direction. Our days revolve more around the holy hours of preparing meals and contacting plumbers, than around the liturgical Hours of the Divine Office. Sometimes we forget what day of the week it is.

Much that we are used to is lacking. Besides the practical matters of lamps, chairs, office equipment, and the adequate space that we take for granted in our larger Cenacles, there is also the lack for now of a regular and comforting rhythm of life — and occasionally even of the confidence that we are equal to the task, or worthy of the gift of this new venture. But these days, so strangely out-of-time for us, carry with them their own blessing:

"For all things are yours, whether Paul or Apollos or Cephas or the world or life or death or the present or the future—all belong to you, and you belong to Christ, and Christ belongs to God." (1 Corinthians 3: 21)

So opens Chaim Potok’s novel, In the Beginning. As I am embarking on a beginning, I can personally attest to the truth of these words. Along with three other Cenacle Sisters, I am moving to Gainesville, Florida, to help form a new Cenacle community. Right now as I sit at my computer, I am surrounded by boxes, bags of trash, and lists of tasks to accomplish. The keyboard barely peeks out from stacks of papers still to be sorted through.

So in the midst of the excitement and the chaos, I have been thinking about beginnings.

Besides all the practical difficulties entailed in starting something from scratch, I believe there are three primary reasons for the difficulty of beginnings:

First, beginnings always imply endings — just as endings also imply beginnings. If something is being born, then something else is dying: a way of relating to someone else, a former way of thinking, an old manner of living — something so minor that we may hardly notice it, or something that shakes the very foundation of our being. Beginnings, therefore, often involve grief.

Second, beginnings call for a move into the unknown. Even when we think we have figured out all the variables and foreseen all the difficulties, we never know precisely what the future will bring. Whether it is a marriage, a new job, a new location, a new way of being in the world without a loved one; whether it is an adventure we’ve always longed for or a dreaded change forced upon us by tragedy — beginning something new is like launching out into uncharted space.

Third, beginnings are messy, like any birth. Mess may mean physical clutter, or emotional upheaval, or the inevitable things that don’t go as planned. But in all this we are never entirely on our own. Many times already the four of us who are on our way to Gainesville have experienced the grace of God at work in our small beginning there, especially through the people we have encountered in the process. Like every other part of life, our endings and our beginnings are enfolded in God, who loves us, guides us, and picks us up when we fall. We don’t know just what the future will bring, but, like the star births pictured in a NASA photograph, our beginnings have their own beauty. And throughout the process, we are in the hand of the One who is the Alpha and the Omega: the Beginning and the End.

The Lord is your keeper;
the Lord is your shade at your right hand.
The sun shall not strike you by day,
nor the moon by night.
The Lord will keep you from all evil;
he will keep your life.
The Lord will keep
your going out and your coming in
from this time on and forevermore.
(Psalm 121: 5-8)

Caught Up in God (Cenacle Journal Archives arranged according to categories. Also videos and podcasts)