Conforming to Silence

“Silence is the language of God, all else is a poor translation.”  –Rumi

For a few weeks now, I’ve had the perspective of not being front and center at the celebration of Eucharist (not that I ever am).  I haven’t had to be the presider, nor the preacher for that matter.  It seems that after fifteen years, though, you lose some perspective when you’re expected to be the orchestrator, as to what goes on, down off the steps that ascend into the sanctuary of the church, where the community gathers in prayer.

The one striking reality that hit me this past weekend was just how “busy” Mass is on Sunday morning.  After spending more than a week in predominately silence by that point, I was so struck by just how much we have learned to fill in all the space and gaps in the liturgy.  There’s very little sense, nor openness, to silence, even an uncomfortable silence if that’s what’s necessary.  In the words of a friend, church has very much become a microcosm of the larger world, and in these weeks I believe more and more that truth lies in that statement.  I felt, while I had the time, that it was the perfect opportunity and invitation to try to capture what all the hullabaloo is about with people abandoning religion, and in particular, Sunday morning.

There are certainly many reasons that people can give as to why they abandon Sunday, especially if it is simply “more of the same” like the other six days of the week.  It becomes one more thing I have to do.  However, we’ve managed to fill the uncomfortable silence with music and words, none of which are bad, in and of themselves, but as I’ve sat and listened, painfully at times, I couldn’t help but wonder whether all of it is really necessary, and again, that comes from a guy who has spent fifteen years standing atop the sanctuary steps, trying to preach his heart out.

As Rumi states, silence is the language of God.  Yet, it’s the one thing we never seem to have time for or the one thing we fear the most.  I’ve always found one of the most profound moments in any liturgy is the veneration of the Cross on Good Friday.  It’s one of the few moments in the entire liturgical year that we are pushed into a point of uncomfortableness.  In that one moment, we can no longer avoid the inevitable.  We are pushed to see mirrored back at us, the Cross that stands before us, in union with something very deep within us.  It is that one moment of silence when we stand before someone larger than ourselves, mindful of our deeper yearnings and longings that manage to become swallowed up and smothered when we fill our lives with noise.

With the absence of silence, comes great noise and confusion.  The microcosm that we are manages to lure us into making what is considered the “source and summit” yet another place for politics, for superficial thought, for wanting to “feel good”, all at the price of allowing space and silence for the true mystery that unfolds to penetrate our hearts.  If it truly is a microcosm, and I do believe it is in many ways, how then do we differentiate and for that matter, why bother?  Is that not the question your kids and grandkids ask at this very moment?

If the best we can do is “more of the same”, in our own little microcosm, filled with politics and chit chat and feeling good, then we’ve managed to find the best way to take the mystery out of what it is we celebrate, and for that matter, of who we are.  We’ve filled in what Parker Palmer calls, “the tragic gap”.  The only place where we can allow ourselves to feel uncomfortable and vulnerable, where a dialogue between God and us, and the divine within, really happens.  The only place where reconciliation happens not only with ourselves, but with God and others.

I am by no means saying we should “turn back the clock”, but at the same time, I understand why people believe that because they have a sense of what is missing, even if it is often shrouded in tradition.  The sense of mystery has been aborted from all means of life, especially the one place it should always exist, in religion.  I’d say the same for theological education as well.  Religion has forfeited its greatest gift for answers, certainty, for always knowing, for doing it right, for duty and obligation, all while often failing to bring in the fact that anyone that enters into relationship with God knows that there is so much that remains unknown. As a matter of fact, as soon as you think you know, you best be ready to be once again dropped off a cliff into the great unknown.  It’s called faith.  Faith is what allows you to take that first step, all while falling into silence.  A calculated risk to say the least, faith and reason intertwined.

Thomas Merton, great mystic, recognized that we are religious by nature, at our deepest core is an insatiable need to be in union, to bond, with the mystery of God.  He, though, was often most critical of religion because of the many masks it wore, hiding the true essence of who we are.  He certainly showed through his life that it can only come through silence and allowing ourselves to sit in the uncomfortable “tragic gap” of what is and what can be, to often just catch glimpse of this mystery.  That is the heart of the liturgy and celebration of Eucharist.  May I ask, is that your experience of liturgy?  Our little microcosms go searching for ways that make the liturgy appealing and attractive, which is often reduced to needing bodies to fill the seats.  If we truly want to allow ourselves to “fall into” this mystery of liturgy, Eucharist, God, our lives, then it mustn’t be about trying to give others what they want.  Rather, about giving others what we ourselves know deep down, in that most basic of religions, a great sense of mystery that can only be found in silence.

Sure, it may make us uncomfortable at first and there’s no way to measure success by numbers, but over time something begins to happen.  All the illusions begin to fall away and we begin to see the Eucharist, God, ourselves, others, for who we really are, as one with each other.  Everything we thought that defined us vanishes for it was never really the real in the first place. There’s a reason why God’s favorite language is silence and very good reasons why many want nothing to do with God and religion in the 21st Century, leaving us with “more of the same”.  Are we courageous enough to ease the pain of the “tragic gap” by filling it will less noise, on Sunday and in our lives?  If we really want to be bold, recognize that the steps up into the sanctuary should truly lead down, for that is the only path of ascent.  None of which makes sense without silence.

Finding Peace in a New York State of Mind

nativity

Although never a chart-topping hit for Billy Joel, New York State of Mind remains one of his most popular as he travels the world performing.  The basic premise of the song is that while others travel to different locations to get away, he still finds something life-giving about returning to the city, in particular, a city that never sleeps.  There really is, something, about the hustle and bustle that seems to crescendo in this city like none other that I have visited over the years.  None seem to come close in comparison of what unfolds, never a dull moment, in a city that seems to take chaos to a whole new level and meaning, as it continues to stand as a cross-section of a global world all within an area of just over three hundred square miles.  How on earth does anyone find some semblance of peace in any of that?

I’d be naïve to think that peace can never be found in such chaos but it certainly comes with challenges that are unlike other places.  Yet, that’s the challenge, finding peace in the midst of the chaos of our own lives.  From honking horns, people glued to their phones as the walk, pushing and shoving in trying to cross streets, glittering lights that entrance, skyscrapers that tower over all of us, it all seems to be, at times, the lived reality in my own head, always running and never quite finding the time to simply slow down and center myself in a way that allows the peace to surface in the midst of it all, quieting the noise of my own life and only exasperated while descending upon this city.  Maybe it’s not the right place to find peace.

In the process of getting from one place to another, all you can really do is keep pushing through the noise, because even the noise has something to teach, even if it is how easily we are distracted by it all.  The first inclination is to try to get rid of it, eliminate it, and then somehow I’ll have peace of mind.  It seems like a rather narcissistic idea of peace, where I become the center of it all, isolating myself from the rest of the world all for what I want.  Yet, if a walk through the city teaches us anything, it’s just how much it’s not about me, but rather points out my own smallness of a much larger world, an oft necessary perspective for any of us.  It all seems to flow much more smoothly when I move with traffic than always trying to go against.  I suppose it’s a dance we all do over the course of our lives, and every moment in crossing streets, sometimes needing to move with the flow, but at others going against the grain and pushing back in order to grow in different ways, despite the looks and the frustration that often arises within myself and others.  We’re all just trying to get to that place, wherever it may be, simply because I haven’t found that peace where I am, standing in the middle of 46th and Broadway, as the world seems to be passing me by in an instant.  It’s not where I maybe want to be, but it’s where I find myself and I can only be there at the moment.

Yet, somewhere, despite that New York state of mind that seems to encapsulate my life, there must be peace.  There must be a way to silence it all, to stop it, in order to find what I’m looking for in the midst of it.  It takes me to the most obvious and least obvious place in this journey, to the apex of the city at Christmas, Rockefeller Center and its surrounding area.  There’s nothing much like it and I continue to return to that same place, taking a break and sipping on coffee as I watch the world pass by my very eyes, people without a care in the world and lost in the moment.  It still, though, wasn’t enough.  I went further, to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, where I was sure to find some semblance of peace.  As I waited in line, just to enter the place, being pushed by hundreds of other visitors trying to get somewhere, it seemed all but lost.  Finally, though, I entered the doors, bag cleared by security, and headed to the creche and sat down for a few moments.  That New York state of mind seemed to follow through the cathedral doors, people chatting in a quieter tone, snapping photos, gawking at the enormity of it all, gazing at a scene that means so much, a baby born in a stable.  Peace.

In the moments that followed, the most obvious was the least obvious.  There is no baby in that crib for another two weeks, until Christmas.  Today that crib stood vacant, empty, as if just waiting for something.  The animals all seemed to know.  The other characters seemed to understand something that the rest of us didn’t know in that moment.  The peace we seek will never come in my New York state of mind but rather somewhere deep within, in the emptiness of my own heart.  It isn’t about going anywhere to find that peace.  As a matter of fact, the harder I seem to go looking for it the further I seem to end up away from experiencing it.  All I could do is sit in those moments and stare at the emptiness of that crib, following the eyes of all the characters that already seemed to know and that I had once again forgotten, needing to be reminded over and over again.  It was everything I could do to hold back tears looking at that space, sleep in heavenly peace.

We convince ourselves that if I had peace of mind it would somehow correct it all for me.  Yet, I have yet to find a way to totally silence the mind in that way.  It all too often feels like a New York state of mind, with sirens blaring, horns blowing, voices yelling, all trying to vie for my attention, assuring me that they have the silver bullet to my life and what I truly desire.  It’s so tempting and at times fall for their lie, only to be left least satisfied and lost in the chaos of my own mind.  It is, though, only in the places deeper within my own being where the creative act of God continues to work, priming me for another opportunity to be found in the silence lost in the noisiness of the world, since it’s the only world in which I have found.  When finally found, my eyes become fixed as well, and then finally, a deep breath can be had and I can take that peace with me out into the world, finding myself more patient with myself and others along the way who are simply looking for the same thing in the busyness of their own New York state of mind.

Suffering Silence

Isaiah 50: 5-9; Mark 8: 27-35

If you follow Church politics, and it’s really hard not to at the moment, then you know there’s been this debate about Pope Francis being silent on the accusations brought against him, and many others for that matter, except the guy making the accusations.  Now I’m not here to judge whether it’s right or wrong.  I don’t know it all nor all the facts so it’s hard to make such a judgment in the first place.  However, in the age we live we demand answers and justice.  We somehow think we deserve to know it all.  We want to react and overreact to everything without ever taking the time to step back and allow things to sink into the silence.

All that said, it’s important to keep in mind that both have been silent on it, both Pope Francis and the former diplomat who made the accusations.  There is, though, a difference in their silence.  The former diplomat is in hiding, not unlike the disciples on that first Easter when they were locked in the upper room out of fear.  Quite frankly, it’s easy to throw a lot of dirt and then run, but that is a silence rooted in fear.  It leads to secrecy and shame, a silence we’re all too familiar with in our own lives and from the Church for that matter.

There is, though, a silence that accompanies suffering.  It’s a silence we’re often less familiar with because we do everything in our power to avoid it.  It’s a silence that creates space for uncomfortableness, rather than fear and anxiety.  It’s a silence that moves us to deeper places in our own hearts, to a place of freedom, a place where the truth can be revealed.  It’s a silence that requires patience, quite frankly, to simply be in our suffering rather than reacting demanding truth, because, quite frankly, for us, it’s a truth that will never satisfy our own restlessness, other than maybe a few days or so, it’s thinking as humans does rather than as God, as Jesus points out today.

It’s this type of silence that Mark writes about throughout his gospel including what we hear today where he warns them not to tell anyone.  However, it doesn’t take long for Peter, and the others, to start doing the inevitable.  With each passing story there is a small bit of information and fact that is revealed, just as it is today, and they immediately think they know it all.  They think they have all the truth and will begin to abuse it.  They know what they know but they don’t know why and certainly don’t know what they don’t know.  The rest of Mark’s gospel will begin to reveal that mystery until it’s ultimate climax in the paradox of the Cross, the crossing of life and death that will reveal the deeper truth that they desire.  So when Jesus warns Peter today about shooting off his mouth, Mark tells us he looks at all of them to do it, warning the crew about their inevitable sin of not being able to sit with what is revealed and allow the deeper truth to continue to be revealed.  The next scene is the transfiguration in Mark’s Gospel and following that they will begin to argue about who’s the greatest, who’s has higher stature in the group, and so on, unable to allow the pieces of the puzzle to be revealed, step by step, and learning to live into that mystery, into that silence.  It’s painful, and like us, they want nothing to do with any of it.  Yet, it’s the only way for truth to be revealed, a truth that goes beyond facts and knowledge.  That forces us to stay on the surface and never delve into the deeper problems of a broken humanity.

It is also Isaiah’s struggle in the first reading today.  This is a reading we normally hear on Palm Sunday so it accompanies the passion and death of Jesus.  He reveals elements of the suffering servant.  He too, learns to sit in the silence and allow the deeper truth to be revealed in and through him.  Quite honestly, people have had enough with Isaiah at this point.  They’re tired of hearing what he has to say.  Not unlike us, they’re bombarded with it all.  They’re quick to judge, demand stuff, feel abandoned, and getting swallowed up in their own suffering.  Isaiah, though, today tells them that God has given him an ear to hear.  Sure, there is that physical ear he has like the rest of us, but that’s not what he speaks of here.  He speaks of the eyes and ears of his heart.  Our physical ears and eyes are too quick to judge.  They want proof.  They want answers.  They demand justice.  All Isaiah can do, though, is sit with it.  He’s aware they don’t want to hear it.  He learns to sit with the suffering and allow that silence to deepen they mystery and allow that truth to be revealed.

In an age when we are bombarded with noise, silence becomes all the more necessary.  We have politicians that are constantly throwing stuff at us and more often than not out of fear.  They try to manipulate and deceive with perceived facts and truths and all the rest and more often than not because we can’t sit in our own suffering.  We want to share it with the world rather than learning to sit in silence with it.  It’s the only way to transformation and the only way to move to the deeper places in our own hearts in order to experience the real truth.  We can demand and expect all we want, as human beings always do, but only leads to greater dissatisfaction and it’s never enough.  We end up acting upon our fear, our anxiety, our own uncomfortableness in life rather than allowing truth to be revealed.  It is only in the paradox of the cross where the deeper truth is revealed, not in facts or figures, but in Christ crucified.  It’s the piece of knowledge that Peter and the others didn’t want to hear and we often don’t want to hear either.  It really is easier to judge, invoke fear, accuse, demand, react and overreact, but it’s a whole other thing when we can simply sit in the uncomfortableness of the suffering that comes with the silence Jesus demands, for, in playing the long game, it is the only way in which the real truth will rise up and be revealed.

Prepare to be Amazed

Isaiah 49: 1-6; Acts 13: 22-26; Luke 1: 57-66, 80

It’s good to take a break from the ordinary cycle of readings to celebrate the birth of John the Baptist.  Whether it’s his, Jesus’ or even in our own families, we know there’s something special about birth.  Babies, infants, kids, have a way of pulling us adults outside of ourselves and to free us, even if for a time, of our selfishness and self-centeredness.  They are utterly dependent upon us and totally defenseless.  They are a good reminder to us just how much we’re not in charge and, despite their size, how many bigger things there are that often get missed.  Yet, as a human family we still find ways to abuse, separate, take advantage of, and use children for our own gain because of who they are rather than being a message of hope, as it is with John the Baptist and Jesus, both of which are intertwined in this beginning of Luke’s Gospel.

Of course, though, on his birth we hear nothing from him, not even a whimper.  He is the one, though, that prepares the way as we hear in Advent, for literally the advent of something new.  There is a message of hope.  Quite possibly, though, he learns how to be the one that prepares the way through his parents who are a part of today’s Gospel, Elizabeth and Zechariah.  Like Abraham and Sarah in the Old Testament, they are advanced in years, beyond child-bearing, and literally defined by Luke as being barren.  There’s no chance of life.  Yet, in their own way as Luke tells us, they have prepared for this moment.  There was still a sense of receptivity that God can still do great things in their lives, so both Elizabeth and Mary stand as model in that sense.

It’s Zechariah, though that has his own way of preparing for this moment of hope.  His story mirrors that of Mary in some ways when the message is delivered that they are about to give birth.  Mary, as we know, responds with a great sense of openness, freedom, and yet a sense of wonder as to how something like this is possible.  Zechariah, on the other hand, still comes with a sense of wonder, but like a good man, his wonder has more to do with how he’s going to do this.  His wonder is much more rooted in fear.  He has yet to be pulled out of himself and remains somewhat closed to the gift being given and so is silenced for nine months.  That, quite possibly, was God’s real gift to Elizabeth.  However, like any baby, when that child enters the world and Zechariah looks at him for the first time, things begin to change.  The one who prepares with fear and is silenced, now comes with a sense of freedom in dismantling his own lineage in naming the child John.  John will not be bound by that same history and inaugurates the new day.  In the end, Elizabeth and Zechariah teach their own son how to prepare by how they prepared for that same message of God breaking into their lives.  All John can do as his life proceeds is to point the way.

With the birth of a child our hearts expand.  They give us a sense of hope and wonder.  They allow us to be free to receive and to give this unconditional love.  Of course, it’s Israel’s own struggle and the great prophets that come before John try to lead Israel to that same promise, reminding them too that there are bigger things than themselves.  Israel makes the same mistake we continue to make to this day by getting caught up in ourselves, getting stuck in our own selfishness and self-centeredness.  The largeness of one’s heart can pretty much be determined by how they respond to children.  The smaller our hearts, the more prone to using them for our own advantage.  We have certainly seen that in the history of the world and continue to do so and certainly in our own country.  It’s the message that is conveyed in the gospels over and over again, about children, women, the vulnerable, the poor, all of which, for Jesus and John, pulled people out of themselves and gave the freedom to be receptive to the working of God, to mystery, to the newness of life.  It’s how Isaiah can proclaim today that the message goes to the ends of the earth.  When the heart begins to expand and we move outside ourselves, the message becomes universal.  That’s the working of God in the life of Mary, Elizabeth and Zechariah, but also in our lives to this day.

Our tendency is to become small and closed off.  We have no need for anything new, for wonder, for mystery, but that cuts us off from the Creator and Giver of life.  We don’t just celebrate the birth of the Baptist, we celebrate what God continues to do in our lives, despite our fear, our trepidation, our loss of wonder.  John reminds us that we too need to prepare for what great works God wants to do in and through us.  Maybe we’re just Zechariah and we just need to be silenced or find silence for some time, creating space and wonder.  Maybe we find ourselves like Elizabeth, barren in our own way.  They remind us that miracles still happen but we must be prepared and certainly receptive to the life being given.  As we celebrate this day with solemnity on the birth of John the Baptist, we pray with the family of Abraham for a greater sense of openness in our own lives and that like these characters, we may be used in similar ways to give birth to something new, something in our lives that, all we can do, is point the way to the One who continues to do great things.

 

Eternal Positioning System (EPS)

Jeremiah 31: 31-34; John 12: 20-33

One of the speakers at the conference I attended at Notre Dame was Nicholas Carr, who has written extensively on technology and the impact it is having on our lives.  Not only how we have become dependent upon it but even how it is changing the way our brains work, and not always for the better.  He had told a story about the use of the GPS which many of us, including myself, rely on daily to get us from one place to another and of course to get to that place as fast as possible with as little time wasted.  He mentioned how that system was introduced to Eskimos in the Arctic Circle who have remained on that land for centuries.  As the Arctic Circle changes with climate change and ice melts, it was thought that this would be a great benefit to them in navigating the changing terrain.

However, over the course of time it became apparent that it had become more of a hindrance.  Whereas for centuries they had trusted that internal voice and their instinct to get them from one place or another they began listening to another voice and over time people began to die!  They were literally falling into the icy waters because they began to listen to a false voice and depending on that voice rather than trusting from within and so they eliminated the use of the GPS in order to save themselves.

That is true of all of us, not just because of GPS but because of our culture and society in which we live.  We begin to trust every other voice, and often being deceived, other than the voice within.  That is the shift that Jeremiah calls forth for the House of Israel who we hear of in today’s first reading.  Jeremiah tries to make the point that this experience of exile in which they find themselves is not necessarily a bad thing.  It may feel that way and they may feel lost and abandoned, but it’s a time to learn to trust that voice within to lead you and navigate you through the difficult of times.  It’s no longer going to be as he says, a God “who took them by the hand” but rather will “place the law within them and write it upon their hearts”.  That’s the real change that is necessary for Israel, and quite frankly, for all of us as well.  The eternal that was first given to man in the beginning is once again being given to trust and the more they listen and trust that voice, the more they are led forward in life and out of this experience of exile.  From the beginning God has placed the eternal GPS within and yet we doubt, we question, we become deceived by the other voices that demand our attention and even convince us that that’s not of God.  Jeremiah reminds us, that’s precisely what leads you to the experience of exile and as crazy as it seems, what will lead you out.  The false promise is exposed for what it is and the real promise is revealed again.

The same is true for the disciples and all who now enter into these tumultuous times in John’s Gospel.  John is well aware of the lie and deceit that people are led to believe and the false promise that it entails.  It sets up this climactic chapter, following the raising of Lazarus, will now lead to the demise of it all.  From this point on everything begins to fall apart for the disciples and they are going to be left with the same choice as Israel, their forefathers, as to the voice in which they will trust and there will be many competing narratives the next two weeks and most of which will come from the place of fear and control.  They’ll hear from Pilate, the religious authorities who very authority is being threatened along with the political rank, gathering the crowds around fear of the truth in Jesus.  What began in the beginning in Genesis when Adam and Eve give credence to the wrong voice, the father of lies, will now come to a head with the eternal Christ.  They have convinced themselves that this cannot possibly be God, and yet, for John, in the mouth of Jesus, reminds us today that it all has to fall away into the depths of the earth in order for new life to come forth.  The events that will unfold, now that the hour has come for Jesus’ purpose, will not only reveal the truth of this God of love but will expose the lie from the beginning and not only the disciples but each of us will be left with that same choice as to which voice to believe and to trust.  The one that promises an absolute quick fix to our problems, the avoidance of suffering, the false promise of a better life or the one that leads to what we too desired from the beginning, the gift of the eternal life here and now and in the age to come.

These next two weeks will provide great opportunity for reflection in our lives and the tumultuous experiences that we often face as well in times of trial and darkness.  It is, though, in the darkened earth that the seed takes root and begins to bear much fruit.  Lies and deceit seem to become a way of life, exposing all of us to confusing and throwing our GPS out of service, leaving us wandering and like Israel, in exile.  Yet, the voices are hard to deny.  They seem so right.  Yet, they begin to drown out the truth and the eternal navigational tool within that tries to lead us through.  These weeks demand of us silence and listening hearts in order to tune back into the voice of the eternal within our hearts.  No one is there to take us by the hand and make the choice for us for we have been given what is necessary.  It’s a matter of once again being called to trust and believe not only that redemption is at hand, but that the one who is the way, the truth, and the life, continues to guarantee the eternal promise that unites the divine within to the eternal, leading us to everlasting life.

A Matter of the Heart

Joel 2: 12-18; 2Cor 5: 20–6:2; Matthew 6: 1-6, 16-18

Happy Valentine’s Day!  I think it’s somewhat appropriate that Ash Wednesday and Valentine’s Day would fall on the same day since they both deal with the same thing, matters of the heart, matters of love.  The Olympics are also in full-swing.  I don’t know if you saw Shaun White perform last night but he ended up winning the gold.  The guy is really a master at his sport in using that snowboard.  After his score was posted he simply fell to the ground and crying.  Even he couldn’t believe what had happened.  In listening to him afterwards they were comparing his time at the last Olympics and he had commented that he had all the skills, the maneuvers, everything, during the last Olympics but he said what was different this time compared to then was that his heart was in it this time.  It’s a matter of the heart and the wellness of that heart.

Most have been in that position and what it’s like when your heart is not into something.  Whether you’re an athlete, a musician, an actor, teacher, or even this priest, if your heart is not in it things just don’t click.  Michael Phelps made that comment before his final Olympics.  It was said of the Eagles in this Super Bowl.  It’s been said of people all the time.  It’s a matter of the heart.  It’s a matter of getting in touch with that heart in order to life our lives more fully.  We know what it’s like when everything clicks and our heart is into something.  It makes us feel alive.

It is the message that Jesus leaves with his disciples today on a portion of the tail end of the Beatitudes.  He tries to redirect the disciples to a different model from that of the Pharisees who were more about having the right words, the right acts, the right maneuvers, like Shaun White had mentioned, but there was no openness to a change of heart.  For that matter there’s no talk of a heart at all.  The way of the Pharisees thought the way to God was to make things look good to others, to grab the attention of others through their shallow acts of prayer and fasting, as if the more gloomy they look and somehow in some fabricated way living in pain that they will capture the attention of God as well. 

Quite honestly, any one of us can go and do that.  Any one of us can go through the motions through life, and many do, but they never get in touch with that deeper part of themselves and live from the heart.  The first reading challenges us today as we begin this season to come with our whole heart before the Lord.  We’re not always good with doing that.  Our lives become so preoccupied with getting the motions right and doing the right thing, the busyness of our lives, tasks, school work, sports, internet, that we never seem to have the time to simply slow ourselves down and get in touch with the very source of life within us, the place that nourishes, the place that allows us to live up to our fullest potential in life.  Like Shaun White, our desire is to have all our cylinders running and we begin to embody that very love that we celebrate this day, Ash Wednesday and Valentine’s Day.

As we enter this season of Lent, together, because it is a journey we make as community, we come seeking that mindfulness of just how much and how easily we can become disconnected from our own hearts.  Somehow like the Pharisees we begin to tell ourselves that as long as I go through the motions, say the right words, and at times, even do the right thing perfectly, if our hearts aren’t there and we’re not open to a changed heart through the experience we just won’t experience the fullness of life that God desires of us and seeks us out for in order to experience all things clicking in our own lives.  It’s not only how our hearts are changed it in turn is how we change the world.  It is a day of the heart and of love.  It is a day that reminds us of a God that seeks out those hearts of ours in order to bring them back to life and to give us that life.  It is a God who is stirred to concern for his people, each of us individually and as community to become the best version of ourselves.  Return to me with your whole heart, Joel tells us in the first reading.  First and foremost, we return to that source of life within us, our very hearts that are so easily neglected in our lives, coming second to so many other things.  Yet, when our hearts aren’t in what we do we know what that is like.  When our hearts aren’t in our relationship with loved ones, but most especially with God, it’s not much different.  We pray for that grace, now, to return to the source of our lives, our hearts, so often in need of healing, attention, silence, space, and care of a God who loves and seeks us out in order to bring us to the fullness of life and to a place where everything clicks for us.  Maybe it doesn’t bring us the gold medal but it allows us to share in that experience of the fullness of life that this God promises each of us this day.

 

 

Silent Presence

Genesis 15: 1-6; 21: 1-3; Hebrews 11: 8-19; Luke 2: 22-40

On this Feast of the Holy Family you’d think we’d hear something from one of them and yet nothing.  Maybe a commercial as to what it’s like to raise this child.  Or maybe some advice when it comes to the woes of being a parent in their day.  There is plenty that they could tell us about what it means to be holy in one way or another and yet nothing.  It seems as if everyone does the talking for them.  But maybe that’s the point and that’s their simple message not only to parents but also to all of us gathered here this day is to simply be silent.  All they could do as they listen and see all that is going on around them, like any new parent, it be present to the moment and try to take it all in as mystery unfolds around and within them.  Their lesson is simply to find that silence and be present to the moment, to presence, to the mystery that has consumed their lives. 

They encounter in this moment today, in the midst of their silence, these great wisdom figures who only appear at this one time and yet have waited patiently for this one singular moment.  Simeon and Anna are not there to tell them what this child is going to do or tell them how the plan is going to unfold and all the expectations that Mary and Joseph should consider.  They’re not their to give advice at all.  What they do, though, is point Mary and Joseph to what is being revealed.  It’s not going to be Mary and Joseph that define who the Christ is going to be.  Rather, the Christ is going to define who they are as parents, just as the eternal Christ has done for Simeon and Anna, illuminating before their eyes a vision of the heartache of letting go of their own self-absorption and their own plan while experiencing the joy of learning to trust and grow in this sense of freedom that comes with faith.  They, Mary and Joseph, now stand on the shoulders of their ancestors, such as Abraham and Sarah, and all they can do is stand in wonder, in silence, and be present by the overwhelming mystery before their very eyes and yet snuggled deep in their hearts.  Their lives are forever changed by this mystery and yet they can present this child knowing full well that they don’t gather alone, but rather in faith with their ancestors who have pointed the way to and for them.

Abraham and Sarah are two who have pointed the way for Mary and Joseph and we hear their own vision in today’s first reading from Genesis and coupled with the Letter to the Hebrews.  I think one of the most important things to take away from this first reading is to know that there are six chapters missing in between the first part of the reading with the vision given to Abram and then the fulfillment of the promise at the end with Sarah giving birth to Isaac.  Life happens in between.  Abraham and Sarah doubt, they question, Abraham tries to fulfill his own idea of the promise, their skeptical, they laugh at God, all this taking place for that child is born.  They too feel they are doing it alone.  They got to figure it out on their own.  Yet, it’s not until they begin to stand on the shoulders of their ancestors can they begin to learn to let go and surrender, to be liberated from their own self-absorption and to be open to seeing God and God’s plan through a different lens.  They too needed to learn to silence their own idea before they can be open to giving birth to a new way of life.  It takes them their entire lives before they can move to such a place.  Those six chapters are crucial to finding their way to the promise and to be able to finally stand in awe and wonder and the mystery unfolding and being birthed in their own lives.  Abraham and Sarah become the wisdom figures with Simeon and Anna that we now stand upon to point us to the way of faith.  In an age where doubt, fear, skepticism are what we put our faith in, these giants point us in a different direction and ask us where our faith lies, even if it means an encounter with the sword that pierces.  The Christ not only illumines who we really are but also points to where we are not and where we still, like Abraham and Sarah, need to learn how to trust, surrender, and grow in faith.

Hebrews spells it out so beautifully in this second reading today.  It would be worth your while to go back and read it in its entirety.  It’s not just Abraham and Sarah, the writer goes through salvation history and how this mystery has unfolded in all of God’s creation. Our ancestors aren’t there to tell us how to live and to give us advice.  No, they’re there to point the way and nothing more or less.  They point the way to mystery, to beyond our doubts and fears, and to stand with us when we go astray, in order to point again back to mystery, back to the Christ child born in us this day.  The reading from Hebrews shows not perfect people; none of us are.  Mary and Joseph doubted themselves as well.  However, they show us in faith what can happen in and with our lives when we learn to trust, step back, and simply stand in awe and wonder of the mystery unfolding in our lives.  It seems as if everyone else knows what Mary and Joseph already believe in their hearts.  The shepherds knew it.  The animals knew it.  All of creation has known it.  And now revealed in the flesh.

Mary and Joseph and the Feast of the Holy Family isn’t here to tell us how to raise our kids.  They’re not here to give advice.  They’re not here to tell us how great our kids are and all that they should do.  That only feeds into our own self-absorption and thinking that our kids are really ours in the first place.  No, like the ancestors that have gone before, we stand on their shoulders as they point the way to a still more perfect way of faith and trust.  Thing will never go the way we plan and will never unfold the way we want it.  That’s simply our own way.  Our ancestors in faith remind us to live life, doubt at times, but always surrender to someone and something bigger than ourselves, the Christ.  The more we can learn to stand in wonder and awe before this mystery that is so enormous and yet intimate at the same time, the more we learn to surrender and to be liberated from our own idea of who this God is, thinking we know, and simply chuckle like Abraham and Sarah that once again God has proved me wrong and in that moment, do as Mary and Joseph, simply be silent and be present to the presence being illuminated before and within.  Maybe on this Feast of the Holy Family it’s the best advice they can ever give.