Old-time truths

While we were out to dinner with friends last night, the conversation naturally fell to the current state of the world, our country, our city, our street -- all of them troubled by political battles between rich and poor.

What can we do? How can we help? And how can we keep from becoming discouraged as we watch events apparently careening out of control?

There are two passages in my current reading -- Beginning to Pray, by Orthodox bishop Anthony Bloom -- that speak to this challenge:

"In a world of competition, in a world of predatory animals, in a world of cruelty and heartlessness, the only hope one can have is an act of mercy, an act of compassion, a completely unexpected act which is rooted neither in duty nor in natural relationships, which will suspend the action of the cruel, violent, heartless world in which we live."

"I never ask myself what the result of any action will be -- that is God's concern.  The only question I keep asking myself in life is: what should I do at this particular moment?  What should I say?  All you can do is to be at every single moment as true as you can with all the power in your being -- and then leave it to God to use you, even despite yourself."

It seems to me that, as people of faith, we are invited to be -- in whatever way seems to come to us in the moment -- lights in the darkness, to be the yellow tulips that brighten these dark stairs, to stand as beacons of faith in whatever way feels appropriate in the moment, even when the picture we're seeing at the time seems plagued, even overwhelmed, with darkness.

... which makes me think of this hymn they used to sing in my grandmother's Baptist church.  I thought it was terribly hokey at the time; it had a way of raising my feminist hackles -- sort of "don't you worry about the troubles of the world little girly, you just keep the front steps clean, the kids quiet, and food on the table" -- but it does (perhaps because I'm older now and not out saving the world) seem to speak some important -- or perhaps just reassuring -- truth:

Do not wait until some deed of greatness you may do,
Do not wait to shed your light afar,
To the many duties ever near you now be true,
Brighten the corner where you are.

Refrain: Brighten the corner where you are!
Brighten the corner where you are!
Someone far from harbor you may guide across the bar;
Brighten the corner where you are!

Just above are clouded skies that you may help to clear,
Let not narrow self your way debar;
Though into one heart alone may fall your song of cheer,
Brighten the corner where you are.

Refrain

Here for all your talent you may surely find a need,
Here reflect the bright and Morning Star;
Even from your humble hand the Bread of Life may feed,
Brighten the corner where you are.

Refrain

God at the Breaking Point

"God helps us when there is no one else to help.  God is there at the point of greatest tension, at the breaking point, at the center of the storm.  In a way despair is at the center of things -- if only we are prepared to go through it. 

We must be prepared for a period when God is not there for us:  The day when God is absent, when He is silent -- that is the beginning of prayer.  Not when we have a lot to say, but when we say to God, 'I can't live without You, why are You so cruel, so silent?'  This knowledge that we must find or die -- that makes us break through to the place where we are in the Presence.  If we listen to what our hearts know of love and longing and are never afraid of despair, we find that victory is always there the other side of it."

-- Metropolitan Anthony Bloom, Beginning to Pray

Where is love; where love is

"So often when we say 'I love you' we say it with a huge 'I' and a small 'you.'  We use love as a conjunction instead of it being a verb implying action.  It's no good just gazing out into open space hoping to see the Lord; instead we have to look closely at our neighbor, someone whom God has willed into existence, someone whom God has died for.

Everyone we meet has a right to exist, because he has value in himself, and we are not used to this.  The acceptance of otherness is a danger to us, it threatens us.  To recognize the other's right to be himself might mean recognizing his right to kill me.  But if we set a limit to his right to exist, it's no right at all... If we turn to God and come face to face with Him, we must be prepared to pay the cost.  If we are not prepared to pay the cost, we must walk through life being a beggar, hoping someone else will pay.  But if we turn to God we discover that life is deep, vast, and immensely worth living."

--Metropolitan Anthony Bloom, in Beginning to Pray

Rumi: Out in Empty Sky

"Any beauty the world has,
any desire,
will easily be yours.

As you live deeper in the heart,
the mirror gets clearer
and cleaner...

Interpretations come,
hundreds,
from all the religious symbols
and parables
and prayers.

You know
what they mean
when the presence lives through you."

Glimpses of God

When I was a child, living in a small suburb outside Cincinnati, my parents used to take me with them to choir practice every Wednesday night. (I was an only child, so they found it easy to drag me along on their social life; cheaper than hiring a sitter). 

What made it worth my while to go along was that we'd always stop at the library on the way, and I would exchange the five books I'd taken out the week before for five new books, thus giving myself something to read while they rehearsed.

And what REALLY added a little zing to the trip was the chance that I might encounter one of the two brothers I had a crush on at the library -- because whenever that happened, my heart would give this delightful little leap of surprise.  Which felt good.  In fact, I grew addicted to that little leap, and in my late 20's for a while I could get the same little leap reading Barbara Cartland novels (ah, youth...).

These days the leap tends to come primarily either in the course of meditation (in which case it's more a surge than a leap) or through my eyes, when something surprises me with beauty -- as did this little scene I spotted while turning around in a side road on the island in order to return to a scene I wanted to photograph.  The leap always seems to be about color: I get it sometimes while browsing in art galleries and museums, as well; something will just sing to me.

Even though the source/inspiration of the leap is different now, it still seems to me to be -- perhaps because it's centered in the heart, even if it's a response to something seen by my eyes -- about love; about the gift of attention, of noticing, that allows us to sense, however briefly, the larger, divine, love that surrounds us all.

I know.  It sounds a bit far-fetched; it's just my interpretation.  But when I catch sight of something like this brief explosion of light and color, I feel a wonderful sense of blessing washing over me...  And now, as I look at this image one last time, I see Moses' burning bush.  Perhaps this is, indeed, a glimpse of God.

A better perspective

Wandering through my images this morning, I came across this one, which reminded me of that Henri Nouwen quote I posted two days ago, the one about small slights and kindnesses looming larger than world catastrophes.

So what is it people say to us when we get unduly caught by the trials and tribulations of ordinary human interactions (caught in the sense of attachment; what Pema Chodron calls "shenpa")?  "Get over it!" "Rise above it!" "Look at it this way:" or, as they were fond of saying in my classes at Antioch, "Get on the balcony."

All of which comes to me because there are three photos in this series, taken from the dock at Waterfront Park on Bainbridge Island; each taken from a different perspective.  For this one I squatted low and shot across the bow of the dinghy.  For a second shot I stood but held the camera low, and for the third I held the camera high.

The higher the camera, the more the two boats come into balance; the more accurate the perspective.  And clearly, dropped to its lowest point, the shadow cast by the dinghy looms even larger than the dinghy itself.  So it's not just a matter of distancing ourselves from our challenges -- it really is a matter of rising above them -- not in a snooty, sort of "I'm more important than this" way, but rather learning to see as God sees, from a higher plane.

And I think the only way we can do that is to devote a certain amount of time to getting to know God better -- however you define God, and however you practice: meditation, awareness practice, prayer, mindfulness... all those things can help give us a better perspective.

Be still and know

I've been listening a lot lately to the chants of Ana Hernandez, curator of ECVA's upcoming exhibit, Imaging the Sacred Art of Chant.

The song that seems to keep resonating in my heart is one that riffs on the theme, "Be the Peace that you wish to see in the world."  So when I opened my eyes this morning after meditation, and this was the sight that greeted me, I had to go for my camera -- which made me think of a discussion I had yesterday with a couple of artist friends.

We were talking about the importance of home to each of us.  Where do we work?  Where do we feel most at home?  How often do we leave home, and how is that related to our art?

Mulling our words over later, I realize I've been sticking close to home for a long time now.  Of course, the ten speed bumps I have to cross every time I leave or return are a factor in that decision!  But I think I've been unduly hard on myself for not wanting to go out more.  There is a peace here that feeds my soul, and it's part both of what keeps me here and what allows me to do what I do and be who I am.

... but I think it's also that peace that helps me to be more aware of the compulsion that lies behind it to be and do MORE than I am being and doing.  There's always this drive; always this question, "What should I be doing now," or "what have I done today," or "How can I make this better?"

Not this is new, for me, or for anyone else who is drawn to the contemplative practice; it's the age-old tension between Action and Contemplation, and the reason Richard Rohr's organization is called the Center for Action and Contemplation.

But as you're taking a moment today to process your week and prepare for the week ahead, I invite you to think about how that tension manifests itself in your life.  And, while you're doing that, take another moment, and breathe out all those shoulds that are driving you.  See if you can get back into that space where there is no "more," where you can accept that who you are, and what you're doing now, is enough.

As one of Cynthia Bourgeault's chants tells us:

Be Still and Know that I Am.

Be Still and Know.

Be Still.

Be.