Volume 26, No. 3-Fall, 2002
Table of Contents
The Only Way: Cruelty to Compassion, Personal Transformation
by Gerald May
Walking the Labyrinth
by Monica Maxon
Holy Places
by Nancy Eggert
Visiting Shrines
by Rose Mary Dougherty
A Going Concern
by Bill Dietrich
Seeds of New Life
by Carole Crumley
In the Spirit of Asking and Giving
by June Costa
Presence
by Jeanne Befano
The Only Way: Cruelty to Compassion, Personal Transformation
by Gerald May
A single sentence has haunted me for over a decade. It is the first line of the Dalai Lama's Foreword to Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh's book, Peace is Every Step. This is what he wrote: "Although attempting to bring about world peace through the internal transformation of individuals is difficult, it is the only way."
On the surface the thought seems simple, almost obvious. We all know that changes in individual people affect larger social systems. But it is those last five words that catch me up: "it is the only way." The Dalai Lama's statement is far more than another simple encouragement to love one's neighbor; it is also a critique of all the other ways we human beings have tried to bring peace and justice to the world. It says that they simply do not work.
As I have reflected on the Dalai Lama's words over these past ten years, I find myself sadly in agreement. War, violence, oppression, injustice and countless other forms of human cruelty are endemic on this planet. They have been with us since the beginning of our species and they are no less present now than they were ten thousand years ago. With modern technology, the cruelty we humans wreak upon one another is now more devastating than it ever was.
It's not as if we haven't tried to find better ways. It is impossible to count the vast variety of projects and programs humanity has instituted over the millennia to promote peace and justice. How many communities of peace have been established? How many new world orders have been envisioned? How many social, political and religious systems have been established in the name of peace and justice? One might as well count grains of sand. All have been well-intended and many have encouraged real social change. Some have even created small temporary oases of peace in our troubled world. But the hard fact remains: they have not, individually or collectively, diminished the overall virulence of human cruelty. They have not saved us from ourselves. In this sense, they have not worked.
I am now convinced that our many programs and projects have not worked because they are all systemic remedies. Whether great utopian visions for society at large or simple moral and ethical principles for individuals, they consistently address our corporate ways of living together. But human cruelty is not, at its core, a systemic problem. Political, social, economic, religious and other collective systems can worsen or minimize cruelty, but they do not contain its roots. Instead, the capacity for cruelty is innate in every human person. It is part of our individual human nature. Thus the fault lies not in our collective systems, but within ourselves. And if there ever can be a remedy, a depth-change from cruelty towards compassion, it too must arise within the nature of the individual human being.
I did not come to this conclusion easily. In a quarter-century of practicing psychiatry, I tried to understand people's proclivity to cruelty as the combination of cultural influences and early childhood experiences.
My assumption was that aside from certain genetic abnormalities, human beings are born pure, loving, innocent and just. After birth, a child is subjected to extremely strong cultural conditioning and is formed also by his or her early experiences of trust, care, security and the like. I assumed that if this early formation occurred in a peaceable and harmonious fashion, the child would grow into a just, compassionate adult. Conversely, cruel and unjust behavior should be traceable to some disorder, some abnormality of nurture.
Looking back, I wonder how I could have been so naive. The evidence of real people in real life in no way supports such assumptions. The undeniable truth is that all children, no matter how well cared for, and all adults, no matter how well adjusted, are capable of terrible cruelty. To be sure, specific patterns of violence (e.g. child abuse, rape and murderous compulsions) are clearly molded by abnormal early experiences. But the violent potential behind such extremes, the primitive capability of and readiness for cruelty are not abnormal at all. They exist within all of us, all the time. They exhibit themselves daily, from small vendettas in workplaces to road rage on the highways, from family feuds to racial prejudice, from terrorism to national warfare. In truth, violence, cruelty and injustice are horrifyingly normal.
To put it another way, childhood and social conditioning may shape how we express or restrain our capacities for violence, injustice and other forms of cruelty, but the capacities themselves are inborn, "hard-wired" in our brains.
Most psychological understandings have assumed that in the raising of children and the maturing of adults, it is important that tendencies toward aggression, regardless of cause, be restrained and overlaid by enhanced tendencies toward altruism. Normally this happens by instilling moral and ethical principles, but at a deeper level Freud saw it as an ongoing competition between eros and thanatos, the life and death instincts. Harry Stack Sullivan characterized healthy adult maturity as a state in which tenderness prevails.
Although it is logical to think that compassion needs to counteract aggression, two fundamental problems arise with how this takes place. It generally happens through conditioning, the negative reinforcement of violent behaviors and positive reinforcement of altruism. The first problem is that such conditionings are culture-specific. They conform to local ethics and mores, which determine the behaviors that are to be suppressed and those that are supported. Thus it may be wrong to attack someone who has simply insulted you, but right to defend yourself against a bully. It may be wrong to attack a family member, but right to brutalize an outsider. It may be wrong to wage war as an aggressor, but right to do so in defense against aggression. Thus arise the endless conflicts in our neighborhoods and our world, in which each of the warring factions feels it is "right."
The second problem with supporting altruism over aggression is more basic--it has to do with what happens in the individual. Effective conditioning usually produces people who function well in their cultures, but it does not actually change their basic perceptions or responses. Instead, we simply wind up with conditioned habits and ideas of what is right and wrong. For example, I am certain that it is wrong to lash out at another driver who cuts in front of me on the highway. I also know that to do so is likely to get me into trouble. But when the event actually occurs, my first reaction is hostility, my first impulse is vengeful. It takes at least a second or two to gather my wits and decide to act in a civilized fashion.
What, I wonder, would be the situation if something happened to actually transform my initial responses? What if my immediate reaction was one of sincere concern for the other driver's welfare? What if I felt, right then and there, the desperation or confusion that the other driver must be experiencing? In this example, my outward behavior might not be very different, but it would arise in a completely different way and come from an entirely different place. Here there would be no suppression of aggression, no sublimation or redirecting of violent impulses, no defense mechanisms at all. This, I think, would be an experience of true transformation.
For some, such a prospect raises fear. How would we survive if we did not use aggressive defense? And would not such a realization alienate us from our own culture? For others, the prospect is filled with hope, but it seems simply too idealistic, too good to be true. From my own experience, I can say that the fears engendered by this possibility occur more from thinking about it than from actual encounters with it. It is very similar to the way an alcoholic might panic at the thought of never taking another drink--which is why AA so strongly advocates the "one day at a time" attitude. Compassion is not as weak as it might sound. And yes, I think such an inner transformation does require a relinquishment of one's social and cultural bonds, as well as countless other attachments. But it does not necessarily lead to a sense of alienation. If the detachment occurs in the service of true compassion, the resulting feelings are far more tender than that.
Nor do I think it is too good to be true. I believe I have seen the inner transformation from selfishness to compassion happening to many people, and I believe I have tasted it within myself. I am convinced that although it is difficult as the Dalai Lama said, it is a very real and practical possibility. And I am ready to agree that it is the only way, our only hope.
This is an excerpt from Jerry's longer article of the same name which was prepared for the Fetzer Institute "Deepening the American Dream" Project, April 2002.
Walking the Labyrinth
by Monica Maxon
The labyrinth is a spiritual tool meant to awaken us to the deep rhythm that unites us to ourselves and to the Light that calls from within. -Lauren Artress
Unlike a maze that has a choice of paths and entrances and exits, a labyrinth is usually in the form of a circle, with one path in to the center and one path out from the center. It is an ancient mystical tool for spiritual transformation, and many people are drawn to the labyrinth for direction, clarity, insight and empowerment.
There is no set way to walk the labyrinth; you may dance over the path, walk slowly, pause at the turns or go rapidly to the center. As preparation, you might take some moments of silence, speak a prayer(s), or ask a particular question, but just the act of walking the path often brings a focus and a centering to the walker.
Walking the labyrinth can be seen as a pilgrimage, especially when one walks with the intention of receiving Divine assistance or as an act of penance or thanksgiving. But instead of visiting holy places in other locations, one is journeying to the holy within.
The classic labyrinth has eleven concentric circles with the center a twelfth circle. People sometimes remain in the labyrinth center, the rosette, for a while, kneeling or sitting or reading. And the journey back returns the pilgrim to the world, hopefully to bring home whatever has been received on the pilgrimage.
Labyrinths have been rediscovered in recent years and popularized by Lauren Artress, an Episcopal priest who has written about them and has led numerous workshops on walking the labyrinth. Several years ago, I was introduced to the labyrinth when she came to a conference at the Washington National Cathedral and brought a canvas labyrinth to walk.
My main memory of walking the labyrinth at the Cathedral is how noisy and crowded it was, but I also felt a connection with the wide diversity of people who walked with me that day. And like so many others, I sensed something more to be given or found. I left the Cathedral knowing I wanted to walk the labyrinth again, to ask specifically for direction in my life.
Years ago, when I was considering seminary, a friend gave me a copy of a sermon about St. Paul, who was faithfully on the road, faithfully serving God, when he was called off that particular path and placed on another. Since then, my hope has been that if my intent is to serve God, even if I am on the wrong path, God will eventually--or abruptly--meet me there. But still there's the danger of a wrong turn, a constant need for an answer, a "map."
When I walked the labyrinth again, outdoors at the Bon Secours Spiritual Center, I was specifically seeking some direction or "answer" as to how I was living my life--was I doing the right thing? was this the right life path for me? But walking slowly on the inward labyrinth stones, I had the strongest sense of panic that I wasn't going the right way and that I'd never get to the labyrinth rosette.
There were three people ahead of me, all going the same way, and I knew that there was only one way in, one way out; I had to be on the right path. Yet the feeling was there, strong and swift, and then, almost immediately, I saw how absurd it was.
I stayed for a while in the rosette, still listening for some kind of a voice that never came. But on the way out I felt a sense of overpowering calmness--a calmness that went right to my very heart, my center. For that moment at least, I had a deep certainty that God would give me the wisdom and courage to act, the gift of seeing God in myself as well as others, of turning the mercy of God on myself, for once. The exact path or course seemed unimportant right then; where I went was not nearly as important as what moved and sustained me.
This doesn't, of course, mean that I won't continue to ask the question again and again, but for a moment I understood that there might not be a clearly right or wrong path--no correct direction of "turn right, then left, then right, then straight ahead." And even if there were a correct path, I might not recognize it right away, might not recognize it for years, in fact.
Walking the labyrinth was indeed a pilgrimage for me--illuminating my life, deepening my sense of God, and showing me that I don't need to worry so much about a specific path. All I have to do is walk with my heart centered on God, keeping God in every step that I take.
Holy Places
by Nancy Eggert
Thousands of names echo in solemn recitation across the barren pit. Swirling dust encircles the grieving survivors, settling on bouquets left in memory. The world watches. We recognize the first anniversary of 9/11 at Ground Zero. Some speak of their travel to this place as a pilgrimage--a sacred journey to holy ground, a journey with the potential for power and transformation. It is probably too early to discern whether history will claim the site of the World Trade Center in Manhattan or the Pentagon or the blackened field in Pennsylvania as permanent pilgrimage destinations. I wonder how a place of violence and evil can be a sacred place, a window into the Divine Presence.
I am cautioned by Gil Bailie, in his book Violence Unveiled, about the fate of many other tombs: "How casually and habitually the tombs of victims are turned into sacred justifications for more victimization." Bailie cites a notice posted by Nagorno-Karabakh partisans in Armenia in 1992, "All those who hold dear the graves of our ancestors, our churches and our holies, must sow terror on the foe." I ponder how places of violence and suffering and betrayal can be appropriated as sacred sites that will heal and empower us rather than serve as a springboard for more violence and suffering and betrayal.
I remember a classic benediction, "Whatever good you have done or evil you have endured..." it begins. Whatever you have endured, whatever you have suffered, may it bring you closer to the One who loves us. It is too early for me to grasp the significance of the evil endured at Ground Zero or surmise what blessing might arise from the dust. We dare not tell those who suffered losses on September 11 how they should respond to their personal tragedies. But if we ventured forth, at least in our imagination, to those ordinary places where we each have endured evil, experienced suffering and betrayal at the hands of others, might we explore whether such places could be valid pilgrimage sites?
I invite you to travel with me, not to anything of the magnitude of a 9/11, at least not at first, but to the personal, the mundane, the pathetic, the tawdry evil that comes our way, to see whether these places of suffering might be thin places where God's presence shines through and reveals the sacred in the midst of life, whether we might discover windows into the Eternal Presence where true peace is found.
Perhaps choose a place, an event in your life where the hard edges of bitterness and cynicism have been worn away by the passage of time. Then, following the rubric of a pilgrim encountering a cathedral, prayerfully and attentively circle this sacred interior site three times in your imagination.
In the first revolution, I keep my distance. I recall the time and place, the actors, the unfolding of events. What is significant will surface and be revealed. Observe and notice. No need to judge. I circle again for a closer look. Confusion, dizziness, insecurity and fear swirl about. I see frailty--my own and others. Events have lurched out of control. A violent wind sweeps us in a direction we do not want to go. On a third and closer circumnabulation, more is made plain: someone was afraid, got into a bind, perhaps a shameful situation, or was the object of others' abuse and anger. One thing led to another. People are hurt, relationships severed, good work destroyed.
Having circled my pilgrim destination three times, I stop to rest under a tree before entering the cathedral itself. Can I view this scene through God's eyes of love and compassion? What would that mean? Don't Forgive Too Soon is both the title of a book and good advice. This is no time for cheap sentimentality. Evil is real. Evil destroys. Evil must be resisted. Only God's loving power can destroy evil, but do not be tempted into complicity through inertia or inaction.
I enter the cathedral and kneel for a blessing -- what kind of blessing I know not. Wait expectantly. You never know when anything is going to happen on a pilgrimage, where or how the blessing will be offered -- perhaps later, much later. Reconciliation? Forgiveness? Peace, the courage to try again, wisdom? What will I ask for?
To what holy place are you being summoned? Where are those special places of deep meaning--and renewal and transformation--for you? In what unlikely place--perhaps where you have suffered violence and betrayal--will you find your center, the peace that you have almost forgotten? What blessing will you ask for--whatever good you have done or evil you have endured? What blessing will we ask for our planet?
Visiting Shrines
by Rose Mary Dougherty
During a recent retreat, one of the leaders spoke about the Japanese poet, Basho, and his pilgrimage through the southwestern provinces of Japan to visit shrines and monuments, accompanied by one of his students. They found their way to the "High Fort" of the Nambu province, where soldiers had fought desperately to protect the province from intruders. They had hoped to find the monument that for many years had marked the place of chivalry, but finally there, they found the monument crumbled, the place barely distinguishable from the landscape around it, nothing left to speak of glory.
The retreat leader shared Basho's response with us:
But what a fleeting thing is military glory. That select band of
loyal retainers who entrenched themselves here in this high fort and fought
so desperately--their glorious deeds lasted but a moment, and now this
spot is overgrown with grass.... We sat down upon our straw hats and wept,
oblivious of the passing time.
-"A Haiku Journey: Basho's Narrow Road To A Far Province," Trans. Dorothy Britton
For some reason, Basho's description became pivotal to my retreat. It led me to reflect on journeys I had taken and on the times I had erected shrines and monuments in my mind's eye, to preserve certain people or experiences.
I remembered journeys I had taken to people or to sights, expecting to be dazzled by what I found, only to be disappointed because what I expected to find wasn't there, and I couldn't be content with what was there.
But then, two other experiences came to mind. The first was a visit to South Africa in 1993. It was the time just before apartheid officially ended. What I had heard most about the country was the civil unrest that was there. If I went with any expectation, it was with that of walking amidst the unrest in fear for my own safety. What I found in the land and in myself while I was in that land was so very different from what I expected. I was truly awed by the grandeur of nature and the willing hearts of the people I was with. None of this eclipsed the signs of unrest. It simply opened my heart to another dimension of reality and my soul was open to receiving it. Gratitude became the huge container, even for my fear.
The second experience I remembered was a visit to Ireland. For years I had been hearing from family and friends about the beauty of Ireland and its inhabitants. I listened with skepticism, convinced that no place could ever be that wonderful. Finally I had the opportunity to visit there. It was everything I had heard and even more. "Beauty before me; beauty behind me, beauty all around," (Navaho prayer). It didn't matter whether I was sitting on a dirt road waiting for cows to cross over, or standing on the cliffs of Mohair watching the ocean, or walking in the soft rain. All was truly beautiful as were the people--from the man who towed our car with a fraying rope, to the devout woman I met at Eucharist, to the bar tender in the local pub who invited us to a politician's private party. All were beautiful.
There may be skeptics among you who are saying to yourself, "That Rose Mary is a romantic. Nothing is all beauty." But I tell you, Ireland is, at least to me.
When I returned from that trip, I shared my experience with anyone who would listen, tempering my enthusiasm as I could. Then came the inevitable invitation. "Since Ireland meant so much to you, would you like to go with us on pilgrimage? We'll be gone ten days, and we will limit ourselves to three or four of the holy places so we can drink in all their goodness." My heart leapt at the possibility of returning to Ireland so soon, but I knew I couldn't go. What might be so totally right for another would be so very wrong for me, a violation of all I had come to know about Ireland. I could not with integrity limit myself to certain designated "holy places." Holiness abounds in Ireland. Reverence all of it!
As I recalled my response to the invitation to pilgrimage in Ireland, I couldn't help but reflect on how I view my life, in fact all of life. In the deepest place in me, I really do believe that all of life is sacred, that all of life is vehicle of grace. That, as Joko Beck would say, "Nothing Special"--either everything is special or nothing is special. And yet, I find that over and over again I pick and choose among the moments of my life and the people who are part of it. I predetermine what I will see and what I will ignore. I designate what is worth paying attention to and build my shrines around it. I walk through life missing most of its beauty, longing to visit the shrines I have erected from my memories. And when I find a shrine that is crumbling, like Basho, I weep.
Sometimes when I am about to begin a pilgrimage to one of my self-erected shrines, the present moment stops me in my tracks: "See what is here," it calls. Then the words of the poet Dogen come to mind: "Just when my longing to see the moon over Kyoto one last time grows deepest, the image I behold this autumn night leaves me sleepless for its beauty." I pray to live the beauty of this moment.
A Going Concern
by Bill Dietrich
"... I have gone forward, not as one traveling on a road cast up and well prepared, but as a man walking through a miry place in which are stones here and there safe to step on, but so situated that, one step being taken, time is necessary to see where to step next." -John Woolman (1720-1772)
John Woolman, American Quaker saint and abolitionist, penned these words near the end of his life in a brief essay on the ministry which often appears as the conclusion of his famous Journal. He wrote the essay while journeying in England, and he also traveled widely throughout the American colonies.
Woolman had a unique capacity to look deeply into the situations of his world, seeing clearly the root causes of the evils and injustices of his time. Yet he was also quick to acknowledge what goodness he saw in those he encountered, even those complicit in perpetrating the injustices he fought against.
It is clear from his writing that he made each journey after careful discernment of motive and hoped-for outcome, which usually included seeking clearness and endorsement from his local Quaker meeting. Yet however well established his motives at the outset, once he embarked he was always careful "...to experience the renewing thereof...to abide in the pure life of truth, and in all my labours to watch diligently against the motions of self in my own mind." Life, Woolman knew to his core, is meant to be lived in the present moment, attached to nothing but Truth, which we trust God's Spirit in us reveals at our deepest level, being ever watchful that "self" (our false self) doesn't cloud our vision. Of this inward truth Woolman assures us: "The gift is pure; and while the eye is single in attending thereto the understanding is preserved clear; self is kept out."
At Shalem we speak of spiritual discernment as habit, not just a static event or a method of making decisions that we can pull out of our bag of tricks, but an ongoing process, something we need to practice in the immediacy of life fully lived. We're called as a community and individuals to be radically dedicated to living out of truth, even as it may call us to question or reconsider past discernments in light of God's current reality. John Woolman knew and lived in this freedom, and understood that to do so we may risk "...appearing weak and foolish to that wisdom which is of the world." At times this freedom leads us right into the "miry places" of which Woolman wrote.
Such unattached living can surely be difficult in the murky environment of today's world, when we are faced with rumblings of war, dismal financial markets, shaken faith in the ministry and church leadership. The world seems in total flux. We want something to be stable and unchanging, so we try to recall what seemed clear to us before, about our country, about our institutions, about ourselves. It feeds the fundamentalist in each of us, our latent longing for certainty as we fear the destruction of what we knew, what we were so sure was God's will. As we look to the past for assurance, we begin to project a future of better times, "if only things could be like they were." Our gaze flies from the past to the future, missing the present moment, which is where we need to be, where the truth is always to be found.
There's a story about Gandhi and his own in-the-moment inner freedom that I love. Some time after starting a protest march but before achieving its goal, Gandhi suddenly stopped the march, angering many of his eager protestors. When asked for his reasons, Gandhi explained simply that while he was human and could make a mistake, God could never make a mistake. Now, he discerned, it was God's will not to march. Had he erred in originally discerning it was God's will to march? It really doesn't matter. It is only the truth revealed in the present moment that matters, not our past discernments of truth to which we can cling and out of which we can make idols.
This lightness in holding past discernments can prove especially challenging when groups consider their collective decisions, which sometimes involve agonizing deliberation. It can be even more difficult in an organization that is considered a "going concern." In accounting and business theory, a "going concern" is a basic assumption: the entity is presumed to continue indefinitely. All decisions, all financial information and projections presume to serve the purpose of ensuring that continued existence. I'm not sure John Woolman would have thought to presume such a thing, so given was he to living out of that immediacy of God's discerned will.
When I first encountered Shalem almost 15 years ago, one thing that struck me most was how lightly many in the community held its very existence. Folks were willing to be radically open to what God wanted for Shalem moment to moment, seemingly unattached to any presumptions of continued existence for its own sake. There seemed to be no underlying going concern assumption, and major decisions were painstakingly slow to be made--as if we were all walking through that miry place of which Woolman spoke, searching ever so carefully for the next stepping stone.
As a financial executive with many years in business, I confess at first this way of being drove me nuts! I recall, for example, doubts among some about the wisdom of having an endowment--to me it was simply a wise business practice. How could it be questioned? How could we not assume that Shalem would continue long into the future and provide for its financial stability, especially given how we discern the unique importance of its work in our world? As Shalem has grown and evolved, these and similar questions have become even more challenging to our collective desire to live out of truth in the moment. Now that I'm on the staff I find my own vested interest in those questions has taken on a much different hue. How can I hold my livelihood, my discerned vocation so lightly? What assumptions can I make?
As a Buddhist vow begins, "Delusions are inexhaustible." I've come to realize, often painfully, that my own assumptions about past discernments are delusions, impulsive constructs I make to remain comfortably stable. I can easily create my own set of going concern assumptions that keep me from growing into God's truth now. Woolman calls us to be like pilgrims wading through the mire, to pack lightly, take our time as we go, and be more deeply aware of all those attachments we have that keep us from real freedom.
It's not an easy road. It is always challenging and often fearful to discern how to move forward, how to find that right next stone. But Woolman's wisdom shows us how to begin, how to move through the fear into freedom. On his journey to encounter the Indians, Woolman confronted his own doubts about the wisdom of continuing when real dangers were all about. He simply renewed and affirmed the foundations of his discernment: "Love was the first motion. And as my eye was to God, humbly desiring to learn what God's will was concerning me, I was made quiet and content."
I pray that love will always be our first motion to lead us beyond fear, beyond the wisdom that is of this world, to the deep inner Truth revealed in each moment. That is the only real going concern.
Seeds of New Life
by Carole Crumley
What shape waits in the seed of you to grow and spread its branches against a future sky? -David Whyte
Last month I spent a few days away from Washington, visiting a friend whose house sits far back from the road tucked into a wooded hillside. She has a little guest cottage which has been a place of spiritual retreat for many of us at Shalem. This time as I climbed the three steps up to the wooden porch I noticed a bird's nest on the porch railing. How nice, I thought, a "found" nest. It must have fallen out of a tree and been placed there by my friend or another guest. The nest was skillfully crafted, a marvel of twigs and mud holding together. I thought about taking the nest home with me to have a visual reminder of nature's artistry and closeness.
The next morning when I went outside, I was stunned to see an egg in the nest. One perfect beautiful blue egg. One perfect, beautiful blue robin's egg, but no sign of a mama robin anywhere. So I waited and watched, peeking out the window every now and then to check. Suddenly there she was, settled in, and looking around with her black beady eye. Whenever she caught a glimpse of me or of my shadow, off she would fly again seemingly for hours at a time. Sometimes she was gone so long that I thought she had abandoned the nest for good, leaving the egg on its own.
I couldn't imagine a bird choosing such a precarious location for her nest. How was that egg ever going to hatch, I wondered? It seemed so vulnerable and unprotected there on the railing. Any stray animal could easily attack this nest and its precious contents. And often the mama bird was nowhere in sight. Was she watching from afar? Could the egg hatch if the mother bird was away so much, I worried?
I left a few days later (much to the mother robin's relief I'm sure) not knowing if the new life hidden in the beautiful blue egg would be born. I prayed for its protection.
On our recent pilgrimage to Ireland, I was reminded of that experience. We were in Glendalough, home of the sixth-century Irish saint Kevin. Kevin was known for his ascetical practices, in particular praying in the cross vigil position. He would stand or kneel for hours with his arms extended and stretched out to his sides, in the shape of a cross. His palms would be turned up, hands and heart open to God.
Sometimes Kevin would retreat from the monastic community life for more solitude and deeper prayer. The location of Kevin's solitary cell lies at the top on a steep embankment that leads down to a large lake. Three oak trees are growing up among its foundation stones and a wooded forest surrounds the site on all sides. One morning we sat in the little stone circle, all that remains of the beehive hut where Kevin stayed, and imagined the saint at his prayers.
Legend says that because his hut was so small, when Kevin prayed in the cross vigil position, his arms would stick out the windows on either side. During one of those times at prayer, with arms outstretched and palms up, a blackbird came, nested in his hand and much to his surprise (and perhaps dismay) laid an egg. Not wanting to disturb the bird, Kevin stayed in this prayer position, with his arm stretched out, gently holding the nest in his hand until the egg hatched and the young bird was born.
Of course this story is legend, not fact. Still, there is truth in the images. Sitting in the stone circle under the oak trees, I tried to imagine Kevin, the blackbird, the egg and then the patience and pain, the waiting and prayer, the days and nights, darkness and light that finally brought forth the new life.
We are told that in the Celtic spiritual tradition, the blackbird represents the Holy Spirit. As I enter this story more deeply, I imagine the Spirit building its nest right in the hollow of my hand, laying its golden eggs of new life, then brooding, waiting for my stillness and prayer to nurture the birth. As I consider the story further, I realize how often I am more like the mama robin, distracted by many things, frightened by shadows, running off rather than sitting still, leaving this new life of the Spirit unprotected and vulnerable to attack from without and within. I wonder how many gifts of the Spirit have been stillborn or destroyed by my own restless wanderings?
That question haunts me and brings to mind a passage from New Seeds of Contemplation in which Thomas Merton talks about the seeds of spiritual vitality that exist in every moment and every event of everyone's life on this earth. But, he says, most of these seeds perish and are lost because we are not prepared to receive them. The seeds of new life in the Spirit can spring up only in the "good soil of freedom, spontaneity, and love." Cultivating that good soil is a life's work, Merton says, requiring sacrifice, risk, tears and close attention to reality at every moment.
As our calendar turns now to the fall season, I am glad to notice that nature is extravagantly sowing seeds for the future. The abundance of seeds gives me hope that a future springtime will bring new life and growth. What remains hidden now, when nourished by the quiet of winter months, will burst forth in surprising ways. And I can feel my own heart turning inward, drawing me into a quieter place of attentiveness and prayer where, hopefully, the wild and winged seeds of the Spirit will be welcomed and find a home.
In the Spirit of Asking and Giving
by June Costa
"And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing." -I Corinthians 13:2
In the words of Jerry May, Shalem's Senior Fellow, "Shalem exists to the simple end of supporting people's prayers: prayer in speech and action as well as prayer in silence and stillness. Regardless of its form, prayer always contains a radical edge, a potential risk. It is no accident that the words 'prayer' and 'precarious' share the same root. The more honest and heartfelt prayer becomes, the more courage it can take to turn towards God in the face of reality as-it-is. And the deepest silence may require the greatest courage."
Today, Shalem's mission is still as prayerfully strong as 29 years ago when it was founded. Our founders were a mix of clergy, laity, and vowed religious who had a strong desire for a place where one could experience deeper spiritual formation through contemplative practices.
During these days of global unrest and uncertainty, we are all beginning to think more intentionally about the various ways our charitable giving can make a difference to the worthy causes that need our financial support. There is a theology of giving that is rooted in our faith traditions, and faithful giving is nurtured by spiritual discipline. The invitation to "give with a cheerful heart" has become more providential in our lives. Although in our modern economy we have learned to measure our livelihood and worth by what we own, lately there has been a higher calling to assess these tangible goods in a spiritual context of discernment.
This calling to assess our giving in the context of spiritual discernment brings to my mind the three questions asked at the Shalem staff retreat in mid-September this year: (1)What nurtures your yes to God? (2)What stirs you to love? (3)What is fanning the flames for you?
In my reflection on these words, I was reminded of several conversations with various donors, who have a long history of giving to Shalem's annual fund, as they expressed the need--more than ever--of living in God's presence. These individuals have not wavered in their spirit of giving. Some have had to decrease their level of giving and others were unable to give right now for various reasons. But what was inspirational to me during these conversations was the spirit in which each person prayerfully responded to me prior to Shalem's fiscal year end June 30, 2002.
It was not a tone of despair or sadness but a voice of hope and trust through spiritual discernment. One donor's comment to me was, "Shalem's biggest asset is its prayer life." Another person (a former board member) stated, "everybody gives to disaster because you can see the visible need, but one can not see the internal need; people may be starving spiritually but you don't see that."
As I listened to these testaments of faith, I still had to wrestle with asking for money in this volatile financial market. Yet hope, faith and charity are priority words in my vocabulary these days, and they continue to provide the sustenance I need in order to ask for a gift. It is so easy today for potential donors to disassociate from the realization that the mission of the organization requires financial support. All of Shalem's existing programs are important, and the need to sustain its flame of origin is crucial now more than ever.
My conversations with Shalem donors have evolved into an affirmation for me that our organization's merits are truly judged and trusted on the basis of our deeds and works in helping nurture the individual's spirit to go deeper inwardly, listening for God's voice. Prayer and spiritual grounding are needed more than ever in our lives. It is my prayer that you have felt this encouragement in one way or another, through our programs, writings, or other offerings.
I will close with these words of one of our board members: If we are mindful of the needs of those whom we serve; if we attend to what and how we offer our gifts to the world; and if we call out and speak to the deep longings that our programs are designed to meet, we will draw people who will honor Shalem's mission and give.
Presence
by Jeanne Befano
One of the most memorable Eucharistic celebrations that I have ever participated in was with a small group of people who had gathered for Shalem's Wondrous Bread and Wine Group. Through this particular sacred meal, I was reminded once again how God is ever willing to enter into our human experience--not as we humans expect God would but on God's own terms.
During this celebration, the priest raised an oversized loaf of bread. At the same time, he reached to lift the chalice. The heavy, flat loaf wobbled on the plate as it was lifted. In his attempt to keep it from sliding off, the sacred wine that he held in his other hand splashed up the side of the glass chalice, also splashing onto the bread and the altar cloth.
I can still vividly recall the scene and the surprised look on the priest's face--and our faces. Silent seconds slowly passed as the shock wore off.
In the aftermath, what stood out for me was the contrast that this Eucharist invited me to look at. Most of us are used to sharing in a sacred meal that is tidier, neater, and certainly cleaner and more smoothly prepared. But our small group was asked to see where God might be in the messy and the awkward, the clumsy and the stained.
I was reminded of the bloody sacrifices offered by the Jews on ancient altars as goats, lambs and other animals were prayerfully relinquished to Yahweh. It became easier for me to imagine the rich, red blood spilled out onto both altar and floor, giving permanent stain to both.
In the messiness of the celebration, I was urged to remember the Last Supper and to imagine Jesus prayerfully offering the loaf and wine as he told a small group of the willingness and desire of a loving and humble God to enter into the messiness of their human, bloody suffering.
The spilled-out, consecrated wine somehow became a vehicle which carried me to the cross of Jesus in invitation, urging me to be open to experiencing in a new and deeper way the blood of the Lamb of God, poured out onto an earthen altar.
Through this particular Eucharist, it seemed that Holy Perfection and human imperfection were to meet and to rejoice in each other. My own prayer seemed to be met with a renewed sense of a Divine Lover who gave to a broken, imperfect world--in that single act of sacrifice--all that he had.
Nothing in our human experience grabs our attention and calls us to immediacy as dramatically as seeing blood. The spilled wine had the same affect. Yet it seemed as though it was not to be judged as good or bad, as was my first inclination. Focusing solely on the accidental splattering might have prevented me from seeing the Holy One, into whose broken body it had been transformed.
We meet God in the present moment. If ours is a God who is in all things, then we are asked to look for God not only in the places that we deem sacred but also in the messiness, brokenness and clumsiness of life.
Knowing this can quite logically lead us to look at the darkness in our lives. Our spiritual journey demands of us truthful and honest examination that leads us to name and claim our sinfulness. However, we must not remain stuck there, for we are called to focus beyond ourselves to the Forgiving One who calls us beloved and urges us to wholeness and holiness.
Jeanne, a graduate of Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program, was a participant in last year's Wondrous Bread and Wine Group. This article is adapted from a similar piece that appeared in her parish newsletter.