Volume 27, No. 3-Fall, 2003
Table of Contents
Sunday Homily
by Tilden Edwards
A Mother's Legacy
by Kathy Spaar
That All May Be One
by Rose Mary Dougherty
God In the Darkness
by Anne Province
The Place of Grace
by Patience Robbins
A Community of Members
by Ann Kline
Keeping God Company
by Gerald May
Above the Muddy Water
by Bill Dietrich
The Habit of Retirement
by Carole Crumley
Sunday Homily
by Tilden Edwards
The medieval mystic Hafiz said the words you heard a few minutes ago: "Like a great starving beast, my body is quivering, fixed on the scent of Light." That's a radical thought for us to bring to spiritual direction, both as director and directee. That quivering in me is the strong, graced desire for communion- communion with the enlightening, loving truth of God. Jesus says the Spirit will show us as much of that truth as we can bear. We can bear more of this truth when we bring to our prayer and direction a powerful desire for it, when we're not half-hearted but full-hearted as we sit energetically listening to one another, wanting and willing for the realization of our communion in God, and the way of life that communion reveals for us.
A Buddhist story bears this out in its own fresh way: a monk once asked his master for help with enlightenment. They were standing beside a lake. The master put the student's head under water and held it there until the student came up gasping for breath. The master said, "You must want enlightenment as much as you wanted that breath of air."
The hard reality is that our desire for enlightenment, our desire for realization of God's transforming presence, is a desire for we-don't-know-what. God is merciful to us in that way, because anything we could imagine would be less than what God has in mind for us. So we're left with wide open desire; and we have to trust the Spirit to respond in its own way and time, in ourselves, in our directees, and in the world. That open yearning for fuller life in God shows that we are not willing to settle for less than what we are made for and that the world is made for. That unrelenting desire placed in us is one of God's greatest gifts.
This deep yearning for God's true loving awareness is a counterweight to the desires stimulated by the psychic and social forces we encounter daily. A further counterweight is spiritual direction: our taking time to share our soul's deep yearning and appreciation of what is being given us day by day. That shared spiritual companionship helps subvert the allure of these other cravings and shows up their emptiness. The power of the fears that constrict us can be lightened by God's loving Spirit in that sharing time as well, leaving us free for a little more of God's liberating truth to be absorbed.
Spiritual direction is for the long haul, because God never seems finished with us, nor do the false allures in our lives ever seem finished with us. We need someone to keep listening with us for the elusive but pervasive true Spirit of God in our lives. And we need someone whose encouraging presence can embolden us to trustingly live out the Spirit's freedom and love in the world.
Like spring water slowly wearing away rock, meeting with a spiritual director over time can bring to light the ceaseless dripping water of the Spirit in our lives. We become more and more aware of that holy water wearing away whatever hardness is left in us. Little by little we find ourselves identifying who we truly are-identifying not with that hard rock, but rather with the fluidity of the Holy Spirit whose child we are. Slowly we give ourselves with Christ to that sparkling stream of God's Spirit and let it be our way, our truth, our life.
This Sunday Homily was prepared for the 25th anniversary reunion of Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program.
A Mother's Legacy
by Kathy Spaar
In May, Shalem received a financial contribution from the Eleanor K. Spaar Trust and soon after Carole Crumley called me to ask who Eleanor K. Spaar might be. "That's my mother," I said, to which Carole replied, "But I thought your mother's name was Polly." "Well, it is," I explained, not for the first time, "but that's a long story."
And that is how it was with my mother-always a story, sometimes long, usually funny and often with a point to be made. My mother's full name was Eleanor Katherine Amis Spaar, but she was known to everyone as Polly or Polly Jane. The story of her multiple names is a complex tale better left untold here. But there is another story that Carole has asked me to share which has to do with the dona-tion that came to Shalem from my mother's trust. To tell that story well, I need to tell you a bit more about my mother Polly.
Everyone who knew her would agree that Polly Spaar was a remarkable woman. She was warm and gracious in that particular Southern way of hers. She was a listener, a straight-talker and colorful story-teller. She loved to have fun and she was passionate about many things, especially her children and grand-children, the arts, education and "doing the right thing." She had a deep faith that sustained her in good times and bad and a kitchen-table kind of wisdom that guided her parenting and counseling practice, and which she shared with those who so often sought out her kitchen table for soul advice. She believed in sharing her wealth and wisdom with others and gave gener-ously to her family and friends, her church and the Charlottesville, Virginia, community where she lived.
Several years ago Mom's life took a turn when she developed emphysema, a debilitating lung disease that required her to breathe with oxygen at all times. Not one to let an oxygen tube cramp her style, Mom continually amazed family, friends and the oxygen delivery guy with her ability to get a lot of mileage out of each portable tank. She continued to be active, even with the growing restrictions, and she inspired all who knew her with her courage to accept the growing limitations and suffering. She chose to reflect on the positive lessons to be learned from this situation and gave thanks to God for the many rich blessings and fullness of her life. She spent more of her days in prayerful thought about what was important to pass on to her children and grand-children and made time to spend with each of us separately and together. I am so grateful for the honest and loving conversations we shared and for the great privilege of witnessing the ways in which she prepared for the next step in her journey towards God. On January 22 of this year, Mom died peacefully at age 81, surrounded by loving family, friends, nurses and ministers.
In one of the conversations Mom had with my brother, sister and me, she explained that she was designating a sizeable portion of her estate for charitable giving. This was no surprise, as she was always generous with her money. What was new to us was her request that we be responsible for distributing 75% of that money. We agreed, of course, understanding that she wanted to invite us into the pleasure and responsibility of giving but not yet realizing some of the masterful lessons built into this arrangement. Some of those lessons began to surface when, soon after the funeral and still grieving terribly, my siblings and I were notified by the estate lawyer. He gently reminded us that he would need our list of charitable organizations soon. Because we all live in different cities, the three of us had to arrange several meetings and conference calls to discuss how we were going to go about this. It seemed fairly straightforward and easy to do. But we found ourselves calling each other asking for advice or sharing our excitement about a particular organization, discussing the best way to decide which organizations to support and how much to give. We all agreed that this task was harder than we first thought and we joked that Mom had devised a masterful way to make us work together even after she was gone. As we talked back and forth, I began to glean other gifts in this assignment. The need to check in with my siblings opened unexpected ways to talk about Mom and to share our grieving. And what had begun with such a loss began to shift into a real presence of Mom's spirit working with us every step of the way.
As we worked through discerning how and where to give her money, I felt a great wonder and delight in the knowledge that Mom's generous spirit would reach beyond her giving in life and touch people and communities who had never known her. Although she never participated directly in a Shalem program, I know she would be pleased that it is a beneficiary of her bequest. For years she followed my involvement with Shalem, and she was grateful for the ways in which this community has nurtured my spiritual life and formation. In return she has given me a way to support and nurture Shalem-and other fine organizations-in a way that I could not do alone.
I cannot overstate what a special and loving gift this has been, among the many she has left us. It has been a gift of partnership with her, an act of trust that her generous legacy is in good hands. It followed through with her teaching that giving of one's money, time or talents begins a flow of resources that passes through the community and eventually cycles back and benefits the giver. In ways I did not expect from this assignment, my life and spirit have been enriched and opened. I experienced a deep joy in the giving itself and then a special wonder at learning how Mom's gift came at a critical time for many recipients. In one case I know of, it gave birth to a dream project waiting to be born. This giving brought me in contact with some remarkable people and organizations new to me and by whom I have been inspired. It has also inspired and informed my own giving, clearly one of the lessons Mom intended.
In writing about my mother I am touching on the spiritual challenges of money. For all of us, whatever our financial resources, money is that place where our material and spiritual selves meet and often struggle. For some, the desire to cling to money for its own sake or for security wins out over the needs of the larger community. Others may give routinely out of obligation or for tax reasons but without generosity of spirit. Neither approach properly feeds the commu-nity or the soul. The lesson I take from my mother's legacy is that true giving-the kind that nourishes both the soul and the world-begins with a loving heart. Rev. Patricia de Jong says it another way in a sermon on money and spirit: "Give from the center of your spirit...give from the depths of what you have been given, of what is the best, most unique and joyful within you. Let your money follow your spirit." I can just hear Polly saying "Amen!" to that.
Kathy Spaar is a graduate of Shalem's Personal Spiritual Deepening Program and has participated in Shalem pilgrimages to Iona, Scotland and New Mexico. She is currently a program leader for Shalem's monthly contemplative prayer group in Fairfax, Virginia, and spiritual director at Sanctuary Retreat Center in Beallsville, MD.
Please let us know if Shalem is in your will. We would love to add your name to Shalem's Shekinah Society and send you our thanks.
That All May Be One
by Rose Mary Dougherty
Recently someone whom I hadn't seen for a while asked me what I liked about working at Shalem. It took me less than a second to find a response. I talked about Shalem as being a community of people who go for and support each other in that which we hold out to others: simple, open presence to God moment by moment. I explained that we didn't always do it that well but that it was important to us. I said, too, that we are a fun-loving, iconoclastic community, often dismantling one another and all of us together of our illusions of self- importance.
I also spoke of the congruence of Shalem with the mandate of Mother Theresa Gerhardinger, the foundress of my religious community: "Sisters, wherever you are, join the prayer of Jesus that all may be one." I recalled a time in a residency for the Spiritual Guidance Program when a participant said, "All week I've been trying to figure out how we got to be a community so quickly. I finally realized that it's because you get us looking at God first and then at one another." I might name that a little differently. I might say that people come to our programs because they have been looking at God, or perhaps are beginning to realize that God has been looking at them from within themselves, drawing them through the stuff of their lives into that place of oneness. They are looking for a way of honoring that awareness. When they come to Shalem they find themselves in a community of people all wanting the same thing though they might give different words or even theology to what they want. Being able to hang out regularly with people who want to claim what is most important to them nurtures me in my ongoing prayer. Together we experience the oneness for which Jesus prayed.
I talked about how my role at Shalem has brought to the fore my gifts of creativity, administration, teaching and spiritual direction and how in many ways my role has given me the possibility of expressing the best of who I am through what I have to offer. I said that what has delighted me most in my work at Shalem is the opportunity to participate in a mission I believe in, and the integrating nature of the work I do. I feel most at home when I work with individuals and groups in encouraging them to claim the heart of who they are and allow their work to become an expression of their true identity. Within the immediate life of Shalem this comes into play as I identify new program staff in whom I sense a congruence with Shalem's mission and pray with and nurture these people as they find their own authentic message and style of leadership.
On and on I went until I finally said, "I am so grateful for what I've had all these years at Shalem. Not many people have the opportunity to spend twenty-five years doing what they most love."
The person with me grew quiet for a while then said, "Rose Mary, I don't get it. If all you say is true, why are you leaving Shalem?" The best I can say to her and to myself is, "It seems like the right thing to do."
Because it seems right doesn't mean I don't have moments of doubt, of uneasiness. In fact, during the last Spiritual Guidance Program residency, my mind was most vociferous in its challenge. I was in the middle of leading a seminar on discernment, fully engaged with people. Out of nowhere this mind bombardment began: "How can you give this up? You love it so much and it fits you so well. You don't have a clue about your next job. Where will you ever find anything as good for you as this?"
I didn't have a satisfying answer then, and I don't have one now. I didn't set out to explore the possibility of leaving Shalem; nor was something new luring me away. I was sitting in prayer one morning nearly a year ago, and the notion came to me. I tend to pay attention to what shows up when I'm not trying to make something happen, but I was reluctant to take this notion seriously. It seemed too outrageous. At first I tried to dismiss it, but it persisted. Then for several weeks I walked around with it in my heart, noticing what came up when I sat with it. Despite all the arguments I could come up with, something continued/ continues to seem right.
In moments of doubt, I remember a time in my life, many years ago, when I was in a similar situation, with an important decision looming. I tried to come at it with all the responsible reasoning I could bring, but to no avail. Having exhausted that process, I finally yielded to prayer -not graciously, you understand, but desperately. Somewhere in the course of that prayer, with my back against the wall crying, "Uncle," I was given the words from John's gospel, "You will know the truth and the truth will set you free." With those words came a deep peace and a trust. I didn't "know" anymore than I had before, but I could trust that I would know when I needed to know.
That trust is given me now. I pray for freedom. I do some Zen sitting to help me keep my eyes open, I pay attention to what seems to touch my core with the rightness of possibility, I share my dreams with those who know me well, and I grieve. I grieve the letting go of that which has been so grace-filled as I wait for what will be.
Some people hint at irresponsibility on my part, leaving a job before I have another one in view. That doesn't ring true for me. It would seem "ir-response-able" to do otherwise. It seems I need to let go in order to see the "what next." Other people tell me I am courageous. I wish I could think I am, but what I am about doesn't seem to be risky, only what's given for now.
Am I deluded or mistaken? Does my decision come from some ego-driven place in me that I don't recognize? My life experience tells me that all of these are real possibilities. However, my life experience also tells me that the Spirit abiding within is not dependent upon my purity of intention or unambiguous motives. I can't help but be aware of God's faithfulness for me and through me for others despite my foolishness at times.
Simone Weil, when writing to a spiritual friend about her decision to leave France and come to America with her parents says: "It seems as though something were telling me to go. As I am perfectly sure that this is not just emotion, I am abandoning myself to it. I hope that this abandonment, even if I am mistaken, will finally bring me to the haven." (Simone Weil, Waiting for God. Harper and Row, 1951)
I find a consonance with her words. For Weil, the haven was the Cross. I would name it Love.
God In the Darkness
by Anne Province
One of the most graced moments I've experienced as a director was when the psychological content of the relationship could have overpowered any sense of the presence of God but didn't. The directee, "Rosalind," had come to me for direction for about a year. Ten years earlier, shortly after the birth of their only child, her young husband had died unexpectedly. For a decade she had been in therapy and seeing a spiritual director, trying to cope with this tragedy.
In our first two meetings, she told her story and expressed her frustration that she still could not let go of her despair and grief. She desperately wanted to marry again and provide a father for her son. She had come close to marrying twice, but each time her continued feelings of grief and anger seemed to cause an end to the relationship. She raged against God.
I asked her about her prayer life, and she said that the only prayer she had been able to pray for years had been, "I hate you for letting this happen," and that the only feeling she had in prayer was desolation.
All the responses I might have usually given--anger against God is still a relationship with God, her grief has opened her to the suffering of others--seemed empty platitudes. All the psychological approaches to grief that I knew, she also knew. I mostly sat in silence, witnessing. I prayed very hard and long before our next session. I asked for insight, wisdom, words of comfort. I felt an echo of her despair over my own sense of helplessness around any response I might give her. Before our third appointment, I spent 30 minutes in prayer and felt deep emptiness and despair.
When she came, there was a lot of silence. She asked if I could help her. I told her about my experience in prayer and my own feelings of emptiness. And then I said some words that I only partly remember, but as I said them I had a profound sense of the presence of God as I spoke, of an energy that seemed to rise up and fully inhabit my body and the room. And she was completely still while and after I spoke, and then wept quietly, and then was still again. And now, seven months later, she still remembers that moment as the turning point of her journey.
What did I say? Something about yes, her heart was broken and always would be. Yes, she was very angry and always would be. That her grief and anger were holy and were her gifts to the world. That, for her, grief and anger were the path to love and to God.
None of our subsequent sessions had, for me, that powerful and immediate sense of the presence of the divine-but that didn't seem to matter. For her, everything was changed. She went on a retreat (with her boyfriend) and together they constructed complex three-dimensional representations of her anger, despair, grief. And joyfully and thoughtfully, they decided to marry.
From a psychological standpoint, I do believe that deep emotions are important information and that moving toward them rather than pushing them away is critical to opening ourselves to authenticity and wholeness. I've tried from both a therapeutic and prayerful approach to acknowledge and accept my own strong feelings of rage and fear. But the radical understanding that her anger, fear, love and the desire for God were all somehow the same thing, were at some level of God, was a graced perception I would never have gotten on my own. I'm not even sure "perception" is the right word. In the prayer before she came, I think I had a graced experience of God-in-the-darkness.
In the time with her, I felt more than ever the strong sense of the presence of God during spiritual direction. I've responded before to some stirrings of heart or mind that seemed to arise out of some deep place. I've come out of prayer for a directee before with a clear sense of insight. This was different. This was not an experience of being taken over, exactly, but more like a very height-ened awareness, of a voice of wisdom coming from me that was not wholly of me but not wholly not of me either.
I've read a lot on John of the Cross' Dark Night of the Soul. I've occasionally seen someone in spiritual direction who, it seemed to me, was in that relationship with God. I don't know where Rosalind's experience fits into those constructs. I think they have relevance in that she reached a different understanding of the Divine, a non-dualistic understanding that anger, fear and tragedy are not separate from the Sacred.
For both myself and my directees I think we struggle to find non-psychological language that describes our longing for relationship with God. Therapeutic language tends to imply that one can achieve something on one's own, and it can get in the way of opening to the presence of God. The growing edge for me continues to be to find language that communicates this willing and expectant approach to God.
Anne is a graduate of Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program, Summer 2003, and serves as a spiritual director at the Seton Cove, an interfaith spirituality center in Austin, Texas. This article is taken from one of her program papers.
The Place of Grace
by Patience Robbins
"Divine Union is not achieved through personal accomplishments of any kind. Rather, Divine Union takes place when we accept ourselves and our whole personal history just as we are, in total honesty, without anxiety or self-recrimination. At the moment of utter powerless-ness and, to us, the failure of everything the false self wanted to achieve, God joins us in our suffering and transforms it into our redemption for ourselves and for others." -Thomas Keating
Recently I had a sense in my prayer that it was okay to be who I am, just as I am. This felt big and powerful. It felt like a total acceptance of all that is and I was being held in that. So when I read the words quoted above, they seemed to speak to this experience. God's deep love and longing for me has nothing whatsoever to do with what I achieve but more about acceptance of myself as I am--with all my weaknesses, illusions, and woundedness. This is a profound and challenging mystery!
I am aware that I constantly live with expectations and demands of myself-to be better or different-something other than who I am. For example, I should be a more caring parent, I should take more time for prayer, I should be a more attentive wife, I should be able to accomplish more in a day. I live out of these images of the way I think life and I should be. I find that I rarely allow myself just to BE and accept myself as I am in this particular reality. Yet, this is my only starting place in relating to God-this place-what IS-not in the shoulds or images of how it could all be perfect or complete.
Being with what is-being in the real-can be very humbling. I really don't like to acknowledge and own my frailty, weakness, my inadequacy. I find that I quickly and easily judge and berate myself for not living up to the expectations and ideas that I have about myself. But even more than acknowledging and owning all that I am, there is a deeper awareness that God loves me just as I am, even if it seems poor or weak or not enough. If God can accept and love me as I am, can I honor and reverence myself?
I wonder how this could play out with an anticipated visit from my in-laws. I am anxious and concerned- wanting their time to go well and somehow connecting this to what I do. If I make all the proper preparations, if I am centered, if I am welcoming and hospitable, then everything should go smoothly and be enjoyable. I recognize how I am locked into this expectation-this idea of how it all should look. And I put pressure on myself to make it happen. What a surprise to imagine that I could allow it to unfold and know that I am loved regardless of how it all turns out. Even more, can I accept myself if things get messy and fall apart and I fail to be all that I'd like to be? Rather than moving into judgment whether from others or myself, can I allow myself to be loved?
Parenting also offers ample opportunity for me to grow in this acceptance of what is. I expect myself to be patient, attentive, understanding, flexible, kind and of course, it usually does not flow like this. I can be very impatient, sharp, irritable, and mean. Can I accept and even be grateful for what does happen-even if it is very different from the way I would like it to be? Even in the messiness, failure, and mistakes, God is present and loving. For me, the challenge is to believe that could be possible and to be open to receive that love. The place of grace-where God and I can meet-is being in the moment with what is real and letting God love me as I am.
A Community of Members
by Ann Kline
"To live our highest in all things that pertain to us, and to lend a hand as best we can to all others for this same end." -Ralph Waldo Emerson
I am new to the Shalem staff, but not new to Shalem. And in that transition lies a story of faithfulness that says much about this enterprise I have come to work for and to love. Faithfulness was the theme of the Shalem staff retreat this year, and characterizes for me the strength and the gift of this audacious endeavor. I am here because Shalem and its staff have been faithful to a vision of a way of being in the world, and have lent their hands to me and others "to live our highest in all things."
When I walked through the Shalem doors six years ago, all I had was a hunger I could not name and a prayer I could not express. I had asked God for a teacher. I found (was given) something better--a community of mentors, who wanted to do more than just impart their experience. They wanted for me what they wanted for themselves: to find the truth of one's individual experience of God and live out of it with faithfulness.
Mentoring has been called "the art of encouragement." The Talmud says, "every blade of grass has its angel, whispering 'grow, grow'." A mentor is that "angel" standing beside the mentored, providing the support and encouragement needed for the mentored to grow into the fullness of her or his own wisdom. The community of mentors I found at Shalem helped guide me toward a place of authenticity and self-confidence by sharing their own honest seeking, questioning and living out of those questions.
Marsha Sinetar in her book, The Mentor's Spirit, wrote: "Our mentoring heart awakens with maturity. First comes truth telling and sufficient self-respect to risk being real. It follows that we'll appreciate life enough to want and trust others' success--to wish them well as they set sail for the depth of their unknowns....If our mentors trust us with their truths and well wishes, we become animated by what St John of the Cross called 'a seed of fire': 'very minute, burning and full of power...like a vast fire of love and [the soul sees] that the point of its virtue is in the heart of the spirit.'"
Through the honesty and encouragement I have experienced at Shalem, particularly the generosity and vision of Rose Mary Dougherty, I have touched my own "seed of fire." It has animated in me a desire to do for others what has been done for me, to live with faithfulness to my evolving sense of truth and support others in their own becoming. Because of my mentoring, I have grown from a participant in group spiritual direction to coordinator of the local group spiritual direction program, and now to new ways of encouraging others in their paths, which in turn encourages me all the more in mine.
I see this as faithfulness, and as Shalem's great strength. This summer I visited a virgin spruce forest. Some of the trees were over 250 years old. One unique aspect of spruce trees is that they often grow out of the trunks of the old logs, drawing their nourishment directly from the life that has gone before. Shalem 's vitality comes from this same faithfulness- each person sharing his or her embodiment of love with another so that new vessels can emerge and continue a chain of creative growth.
As the psalmist says, "One generation shall laud your works to another, and shall declare your mighty acts." That is the work of Shalem, and of each of us who wish to foster contemplative life. We keep turning each other toward the glory of God-the eternal within each of us. In doing so, we participate in God's creative work and help to ensure that the fruits of that great love continue to flourish in seasons to come. That is the gift of Shalem's faithfulness, and I am grateful to be adding another link in the chain.
Keeping God Company
by Gerald May
"For the wound of the daughter of my people is my heart wounded, I mourn, and dismay has taken hold on me." -God speaking in Jeremiah 8:21
People who walk with me in spiritual companionship sometimes speak of unexplained experiences, deep and profound feelings that seem to come from nowhere. Perhaps the most common experience is tears welling up, unbidden and unexpected, somehow associated with a deep grief or sadness that the person does not understand. Sometimes the feelings are more pleasant, as in sudden, overwhelming gratitude and joy, again not apparently related to anything in particular.
I heard many more such accounts around the time of the terrorist attacks on America in 2001, and later as the United States government went to war in Afghanistan and Iraq. Some of the feelings people reported were very dramatic: paralysis, inability to speak or move, overwhelming dismay and grief, even mild seizures. Understandably, the first judgment was usually psychological; such bizarre and inexplicable experiences had to be symptoms of stress during particularly traumatic times. Some people even sought medical consultation, but psychological explanations didn't seem right. At some level, these people were certain their experiences had a profound spiritual significance. The feelings arose from a place much deeper within them than any emotion.
Some people were even able to claim their experiences as a kind of prayer. They assumed the prayer was somehow related to the suffering going on in the world at the time, but it wasn't the kind of prayer they might have expected. It wasn't compassionate intercession for those who were suffering, nor was it petition for peace and reconciliation. Those prayers were there too, but this was something very different, deeper, filled with unknowing, and it wasn't the kind of prayer one "does." The people were willing for it, but they certainly did not will it.
As we explored these mysterious happenings, each person came to the awareness that what they were experiencing was a little bit of God's own feelings. Beneath all their conscious awareness and intent, there was a sense that God had invited them to "keep God company," to share in God's suffering, woundedness, vulnerability. Many also realized that at other times, in other situations, God had similarly invited them to participate in God's joy and exuberance. Each person felt deeply honored to have received such a gift.
But the insight also tended to raise some rather unsettling theological questions. Is this supposedly omnipotent God really so vulnerable, so capable of being wounded? Moreover, there was a definite sense that God needs our intimacy, our compassion, not just for God's creation but for God's own self. Could God somehow be dependent on us in this way?
The idea of sharing God's experience is not new, but it's also not very well-known. St. Paul's explanation of why God created us gives a hint: "God created us to feel for God, and to find God." (Acts 17:27). Perhaps God created humanity to have someone to love and someone to be loved by. And love is more than adoration, praise, and service; it includes a heartfelt, soul-felt sharing of joys and sufferings.
Clement of Alexandria spoke of "keeping God company" in the second century. Teresa of Avila distinguished between the contentos of meditation, which "arise in our senses and encourage us towards God," and the gustos of contemplation, which are "God's own joy, overflowing into our senses." She also spoke of "participating in the Trinity" during experiences of realized union.
In more modern times, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, shortly before his execution by the Nazis, wrote, "We are summoned to share in God's suffering at the hands of a godless world," and said we are meant to "stand by God in God's suffering." Martin Buber said our purpose is to participate in the work of "stilling God's suffering." And Jurgen Moltmann spoke of opening ourselves to suffering and to love in "sympatheia with the pathos of God."
Theology aside, the direct experience of those who live deeply in prayer and contemplation repeatedly affirms that God's love does limit God's omnipotence. So God does suffer in ways too vast for us to begin to comprehend. And God also enjoys and celebrates and dances and takes delight in boundless ways that we could never fully understand. And most important, God doesn't just want or permit us, but deeply, profoundly, and achingly needs us to share that experience, to be part of it, to feel something of what God feels as God feels it.
So the next time a strange feeling comes to you out of the blue, and if it seems like a prayerful thing, consider that just maybe it might be a moment of deep, loving intimacy with God.
Jerry presented this material at the 25th anniversary reunion of Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program. It is also addressed in his new book, "The Dark Night of the Soul," to be published early in 2004 by HarperSanFrancisco.
Above the Muddy Water
by Bill Dietrich
"Remember those who are in prison as though you were in prison with them." -Paul's Letter to the Hebrews 13:3
One morning last July, I was walking toward the entrance to the "Camp," the minimum security facility for men at Lewisburg Federal Prison. Beds of carefully tended daylilies lined the walkway. At the side of the one-story cinderblock building, I saw what I took to be families with children, gathered around picnic tables on a patio enjoying the warm summer morning. There were no fences around the building, and it seemed anyone could just come and go. Beyond the Camp were mowed fields bordered by trees and in the distance beautiful Pennsylvania farmland. It might have been a church, school, or community center in any American suburb.
But when I glanced behind me it was clear I was at a prison. Looming over the Camp a hundred yards away stands Lewisburg's maximum security facility. It is classic prison architecture-a fortress with high walls atop which are glassed-in observation turrets. In the nearest turret I could make out silhouettes and wondered if someone was looking down at me. The scene conjured up images from prison movies and television shows, and the sheer massiveness of the structure seemed to almost push me towards the Camp building.
Along with another member of the interfaith Zen Community of Baltimore, I had come to Lewisburg that day to teach meditation to the inmates. We signed in at the guard desk and made our way down the long corridor to the chapel while the guard announced the meditation time over the loudspeaker. The five inmates who came were dressed unremarkably: no uniforms, no stripes, no numbers across their chest. They greeted us politely, almost meekly, and they listened quietly as we offered instructions on meditation practice to guide them through the 90 minutes we had together.
After we settled into the silence of our first meditation time, I soon became aware of several apprehensions I'd brought with me into that room. Some were familiar, the ones I often get when teaching a new group: concern over whether my instructions were clear, whether the inmates understood what to do, whether they would have many questions, whether I could let go of these pre-occupations and settle into the meditation myself.
But I was aware of another level of apprehension that I could trace to the prison volunteer training I received the month before. Our trainer had issued several stern warnings about interacting with the inmates: Don't trust what they tell you since inmates are habitual liars and con artists. Don't divulge personal details or even tell where you're from. Don't give them anything or take anything from them. Don't contact them outside the visits. Don't become involved with them in any way.
The trainer also interviewed each of us individually. He took fingerprints and photos and asked questions about my family and employment. Then he asked why I wanted to be a prison volunteer. I said something about wanting to help the inmates learn meditation as a way towards seeing what was real about themselves and their situation, to help them improve themselves in some way. It seemed to come out rather clumsily, but from his smile and nod I took it to be an acceptable answer. I was also aware of a certain amount of unknowing about why I was doing this. For some time I've sensed a call to a broader social service. When the opportunity to participate in the Lewisburg ministry was offered it stirred something in me, though what exactly I wasn't sure. I figured, though, that the trainer wanted something more concrete than this just seeming like a good idea to me.
Later in the training he produced several examples of crude but rather formidable daggers inmates had fashioned from miscellaneous objects. He described how they'd been used, giving just enough detail to get his point across: prison is a nasty place. He assured us that the violent stuff typically happens in the maximum security area and that he recalled only one inmate murder in his time there. Seeing our growing state of alarm, he assured us we were as safe inside the prison as at our local Wal-Mart!
I didn't doubt the need for all the warnings and restrictions. There can be real dangers involved in prison work. Volunteers can and have been used by inmates to get around prison restrictions and even aid in escape attempts. Yet I wondered how these preparations would color my time with the inmates. It certainly isn't typical for me to be so guarded and distant with people attending a Shalem prayer group! I remembered a line from the Buddhist mealtime gatha (prayer): "May we exist in muddy waters with purity like a lotus." I wanted to rise above the mud of these apprehensions and respond to the inmates with compassion, or at least with my self-image of compassionate "me."
I got an opportunity to respond at the end of our meditation time that day in July. One inmate asked if I knew how to contact Bo Lozoff, the longtime prison activist and founder of the Prison Ashram Project. My internal alarm bells went off immediately. Why was he asking? What was he trying to get me to do? I was surprised and disappointed at how quickly my defenses were triggered. I hesitated a moment and said I didn't know. He looked down and in a low voice said he'd just ask one of the chaplains. I figured he'd realized that I wouldn't or couldn't connect with or help him as he'd hoped.
My heart broke. I began to feel, as in Paul's words to the Hebrews, that I too was in prison, that this was joyless service. This wasn't what I'd hoped for. What I wanted was what Lozoff writes about Mother Theresa of Calcutta in his 1985 classic, We're All Doing Time: "She feels no sense of sacrifice; she's doing what gets her stoned! What is she sacrificing-Star Wars and Sugar Frosted Flakes, to look into the eyes of Christ...to be bathed in joy?" Was I asking too much?
Since that July visit I've prayed much on the "why's" of my going to Lewisburg and whether I'm called to continue. As the time for my next visit approaches, it seems right to continue with this service and see what is there for me. Is God calling me to joyless service to deepen my understanding of compassion and of myself? I realize that the realities of prison make it difficult to know if what we are offering is of any benefit to the inmates. But I've already begun to see more clearly the self-created prisons that capture me and undermine my motivations. In time whatever joy I'm meant to realize may show itself, though not because I seek it and, I suspect, not in ways I've experienced before. And like the lotus, I pray I may rise above my muddy motivations and touch the pure flowering of service.
The Habit of Retirement
by Carole Crumley
"In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength." -Isaiah 30:15 (NRSV)
One of my passions is mystery novels. I have enjoyed reading the works of various authors and none more than the late John D. MacDonald. His most famous mystery series traced the exploits of Travis McGee, an occasional detective of sorts. Travis lived on a houseboat in Florida, working only when he needed new funds for living expenses and for his so-called retirement. He would take a case if funds were low and after completing work on the case, he would "retire." McGee tells the reader that he believes in taking his retirement "a little bit at a time." He says that he began applying this philosophy early in his life so that when retirement age actually comes (if ever), he would have already taken his retirement all along the way.
This different way of living captured my imagination and stuck with me more than the story plots ever did. In his own curious way, Travis McGee embodied for me the wisdom of "rest and return" that scripture declares is essential for wholeness of life.
Recently, a friend sent me an article entitled "Quaker Spiritual Disciplines for Hard Times" by Patricia McBee. In this article I learned, to my amazement, that Quakers consider "retirement" one of their foundational spiritual disciplines. For them, retirement is what happens on a daily basis as we pull back from the busyness of our outward lives and pause in the midst of daily activities to listen deeply to the whispers of God. Any activity that assists our presence to God is considered "retirement." Worship can be a time of retirement. Walks in the woods might be retirement. Retreats could be retirement. Breathing deeply, appreciating life as it is, is always retirement.
For the spiritual refreshment of our souls and for living creatively in hard times, it is essential to retire daily, writes McBee. In fact, she says, "for early Friends, retirement was a prerequisite for a life of faithfulness."
I am grateful for this use of the word retirement for it helps me see that I too have been taking my retirement a little bit at a time, all along the way. According to the Quaker understanding, I have been developing the habit of retirement perhaps even more than I know. Smiling when stopped at red lights, praying for peace with our Shalem community, giving thanks before meals, slow walking, participating in contemplative retreats, making sweet talk with my husband, laughing with others around the lunch table, all are moments of retiring and touching the Divine Presence that pervades and enlivens all of life. Each moment of retiring deepens my confidence in the goodness of life and strengthens my soul for returning to the practicalities of living.
I'm thinking a lot about retirement these days as Rose Mary Dougherty, Sheila Noyes and Doris Froelich retire from Shalem in the next few months. All three of these beloved staff members have given a significant part of their lives to God through the ministry of Shalem Institute. Doris, our wonderful receptionist, is a new grandmother. She hopes to spend more time with her precious grandson who lives in Arizona. Sheila, our wise and dedicated program registrar, is recently married. She and her new husband will live in both Florida and Montana to be closer to their families. And Rose Mary, our exceptional program director, will take some sabbatical time to listen, write and just "be" as she seeks God's invitations for the next steps in her life and ministry.
Although individuals officially retire from Shalem, often they come back (like "boomerang kids") to offer leadership in a new or different way. Tilden Edwards, who retired three years ago, continues to offer creativity and leadership to our programmatic life. Doris promises to return as a volunteer with special oversight for our library. Sheila is looking for ways to be Shalem's advocate in two new regions of the country. Rose Mary may discover some new form of ministry that will rightly find a home at Shalem. We welcome these happy "boomerang" possibilities, for scripture reminds us that both rest and return are part of the spiritual discipline of retirement.