I don’t know who made the arrangements, but occasionally the two women would be put in a cab, given return taxi fare, and sent to the Cenacle for a women’s day of prayer.  Suffice it to say that both of them were rather conspicuous in the group of mostly middle-class women making the prayer day.  The appearance of one reminded me of the water-color illustrations of the crone ― the benign crone, not the sinister one ― in my childhood fairy-tale book.

One particular program they attended was being led by a priest.  At some point during the day, he asked each of the participants to share with the group her thoughts on his chosen topic (which I have long ago forgotten).

When it came the turn of one of the women from the state hospital, she said, “I can’t speak, but I can dance.”

And dance she did!

Was the rather dignified group uncomfortable or embarrassed with this display?  If so, there was no indication of it.  At least one woman, at the end of the day, said that this silent dance was what spoke to her the most powerfully from the whole day of prayer.

The dance of a mentally ill woman, an offering from one of the anawim, the poor of God, had revealed the beauty of God in a way that all the learned words spoken by the priest could not do.

Those who have eyes to see, let them see.

At that time Jesus said, “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children.”

Matthew 11:25 (NIV)

Let them praise his name with dancing,
making melody to him with tambourine and lyre.

Psalm 149:3

It happens every so often that someone tries to get in that door, figures out that it is locked, and without further ado walks around to the main entrance. This time, however, the door continued to rattle and there was a clamor of voices — or at least what sounded to me like several voices.

What was going on? Was the building on fire? Had the construction workers next door dropped a slab of concrete on a row of cars in the parking lot? Were incompetent terrorists staging an invasion?

Everything inside halted as all attention was focused on that door. Finally Father nodded to the server, who left the altar and pushed the door open, apparently undaunted by a possible invasion. And in came, not terrorists, nor a group of construction workers confessing to flattening our vehicles, but a single weary middle-aged woman using a walker. She found a nearby pew and sat down. Our priest, only slightly discombobulated, began the Eucharistic prayer.

Lord you are holy indeed,
the fountain of all holiness.
Let your Spirit come upon these gifts
to make them holy,
so that they may become for us
the body and blood of our Lord, Jesus Christ.

Now, I ask you: was this incident a disruption of the sacred liturgy? Or was it an irruption of the sacred in the midst of the liturgy?

My first thought was that it had been a disruption. I was annoyed. The flow of the mass had been interrupted, not to mention the fact that I generally just don’t like clatter.

My second, reflective thought was that the sacred had irrupted in our midst. I remembered the words of Jesus from the book of Revelation:

Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me. (3:20)

Yes, I know this was not only a standing and a knocking, but also a rattling and a calling out; but sometimes Jesus has to go to extremes to get our attention. And yes, I know that the one who entered and ate with us was a woman with a walker; but we also have these words of Jesus:

Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me. (Matthew 25:40)

O Jesus,
Teach us to be mindful and awake,
Always waiting for you,
That we may not be heedless to your appearing.

The young woman speaking was a good friend of mine from graduate school. She was intelligent and very gifted, working on her PhD and singing in a well-known choral group. Not only had she not had a “religious experience,” but, as I already knew, she didn’t believe in God.

She went on, “The closest I’ve come to a religious experience was singing Brahms’ German Requiem. I could imagine it might be something like that.”

If I had known then what I know now about the experience of God, I would have said to her that what she was recounting was probably indeed a religious experience. She just had not recognized it. In fact, we often don’t recognize the divine presence. Sometimes we go blithely on our way, never knowing that the Holy has touched us. Other times we may sense that something important has happened, or we may glimpse the mysterious depth of the moment, without being able to acknowledge that God was there.

The Celtic tradition speaks of “thin places,” where the veil between the temporal world and the eternal seems permeable, or “thin.” These have been called thresholds, or liminal places.

While the term properly refers to actual geographical places that are “thin,” I don’t believe we have to travel to Ireland or Rome or Jerusalem to find them. I suspect there are thin places that come into being when a location is infused with prayer. For example, I can’t count the number of times people have mentioned the peace they feel when they come through the front door of our Cenacles. It is not that the Cenacle community is any more holy than other people, but rather that the house has been steeped in prayer and worship — not only the prayer of the Cenacle Sisters, but also the prayer of our retreatants and guests.

Just so, the prayer corner in your living room, the chair in your bedroom, or the bench in the backyard where you pray regularly may lose its quality of ordinariness. What was previously an unexceptional spot may become a sort of thin place, bringing you more easily into awareness of the divine than most other places. Sitting there becomes a daily pilgrimage from the periphery of life toward the center.

Still other thin places, I believe, are not geographical at all, but are hosted within us. For me, music can open up a thin place. This is not automatic, of course, because any sense of God’s nearness is gift. But there seems to be something about music which carries within itself the possibility of liminality for people who are attentive. Even more remarkable, music can at times surprise into awareness those who would not normally be looking for the divine.

This gift of a threshold experience may have been what my friend was experiencing through the music of Brahms. She who did not believe in God tasted the reality of the divine, even though she could not name the reality she knew then as God.

However, Christians believe that the Messiah has already come. So why are we still waiting? And for what — or whom — are we waiting?

I am sometimes struck by how little time most of us Catholics spend pondering the Second Coming of Christ. This is puzzling, because we proclaim it every time we go to Mass. For example, here are three of the Memorial Acclamations:

• “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.”
• “When we eat this bread and drink this cup, we proclaim your death, Lord Jesus, until you come in glory.”
• “Dying, you destroyed our death, rising you restored our life. Lord Jesus, come in glory.”

But more important than saying these words is the very action of receiving communion: “For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup,” says Paul in 1 Corinthians 11:26, “you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.” Our own call is to share in the mystery of Jesus’ life, death, resurrection – and expected return.

When should we expect the Second Coming?

A Talmudic story goes something like this: Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi meets the prophet Elijah and asks him, “When is Messiah coming?”

“Go ask him,” says Elijah.

“But where will I find him, and how will I recognize him?” asks the good rabbi.

“He is sitting among the beggars,” answers Elijah.

Like the beggars, the Messiah also is covered with sores, but there is a difference, Elijah points out. When the others unbind their wounds, they unwrap them all at once, then bind them all up again. But the Messiah, instead of unwrapping all his wounds at once, unbinds just one at a time and then bandages that one up again right away. That is so he will be ready to make his appearance without delay, whenever he is called.

So Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi finds the Messiah and asks him, “Master, when are you coming?”

“Today,” he replies.

Rabbi Yehoshua returns saddened to Elijah and tells him that the Messiah has lied to him.

“He said he was coming today — and he hasn’t come.”

But Elijah explains that he has misunderstood. The Messiah was referring to Psalm 95: “O that today you would listen to his voice.”

We too must listen for Christ and look for Christ today, at this very moment. Not that there is any use trying to figure out the date of his Second Coming, for “about that day and hour,” he has told us, “no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father….Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming” (Matthew 24:36,42).

Perhaps he will come in glory within the next hour. On the other hand, perhaps he is calling us very quietly to let him come more fully into our hearts and into the daily events of our lives. If we are not paying attention, we may miss that silent coming.

Where should we look for his coming? Everywhere!

So, if they say to you, “Look! He is in the wilderness,” do not go out. If they say, “Look! He is in the inner rooms,” do not believe it. For as the lightning comes from the east and flashes as far as the west, so will be the coming of the Son of Man.
(Matthew 24:26-27)

It seems that the Second Coming will be as obvious as lightning illuminating the whole
sky and the land beneath — and very unlike that obscure birth in a stable in Bethlehem. Nevertheless, I imagine that all our expectations will be surpassed.

In the meantime, we must be attentive and look for Christ where we may least expect him. He may be found, as he was for Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi, among the beggars. He may make himself known to us today through a neighbor or a family member or someone whose beliefs are different from ours. He may come to us in an apparently insignificant event. Although the light of Christ already fills the earth, receiving him often requires being open to the surprises of the divine presence.

As we pray to be alert to the glorious appearing of Christ in the fullness of time, we ask also to be mindful of the holy Light that spreads over the most humble events of our lives, from east to west, from dawn to dusk, and through the night.

O that this very day we might listen to his voice. Come, Lord Jesus!

All-powerful God,
increase our strength of will for doing good
that Christ may find an eager welcome
at his coming
and call us to his side in the kingdom of heaven,
where he lives and reigns with you
and the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever.
Amen.

Opening Prayer for the First Sunday of Advent
(The Roman Missal, Copyright © 1973, International Committee on English in the Liturgy, Inc.)

(Lightning image courtesy of Microsoft)

“We’re overbooked for that part of town and can’t take any more reservations,” I was told.

An injured foot discouraged me from taking the “L,” so I resigned myself to calling a cab, my least favorite mode of transportation — not only because of the expense, but because my introverted self, already frazzled from packing, is wearied by the forty minutes of relating one-to-one with the stranger in the driver’s seat.

So my Sunday morning began with the expectation of just plowing with determination through the day. God, however, is full of surprises, and ordinary events soon reminded me of the abiding presence of God’s Spirit.

The Spirit of God in the Taxi

First, the taxi driver turned out to be a very polite young man from India, and as a bonus, he was quiet, freeing me from the necessity of conversation. Along the way, we stopped at a traffic light where an aging woman approached carrying a corrugated cardboard sign which read: “I am homeless.” The taxi driver motioned for her to stop, and gave her a dollar bill or two.

I said nothing, but pondered this simple gesture as we continued toward the airport. Finally I said to the driver, “I appreciate your compassion toward the homeless woman.”

In his lilting English he replied, “I believe that we have to help each other.”

“We don’t know,” I added, “the circumstances that brought her to where she is.”

His response evoked the Sermon on the Mount, “It’s easy to judge, but we can judge wrong.”

One can argue about whether or not it really helps a beggar to give him or her money, but what was unarguable was the kindness of the driver.

The Spirit of God in Midway Airport

Since traffic was light, we arrived early at the airport, and I began the long trudge toward the gate. (Midway is no longer a small airport.) On the way I noticed a sign for the airport chapel, and almost to the gate I heard over the loudspeaker: “Catholic mass will be celebrated at 11:00 in the chapel. It will last one half hour.” This was obviously designed to lure the harried traveler.

Letting myself be lured, I turned around and headed for the chapel. When I entered I was welcomed warmly and asked to be one of the gift-bearers at the offertory. The liturgy began, and somehow the priest, whose 59th anniversary of priesthood was that very day, managed both to give a homily (which he promised would last only three minutes, and to reassure us, held his watch before his eyes as he spoke) and also to have us sing at the proper moments — and all in one half hour.

Besides the general atmosphere of cordiality and efficiency, I was struck by the words of the priest right at the beginning: “I am available to hear confessions after mass. If you’ve been away for a long time, you don’t have to give numbers and details, just a general idea of what you’ve done against God. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been away. And if you don’t need to confess, come anyway for the grace of the sacrament!”

Nothing out of the ordinary had happened. But here in Midway Airport was the same Spirit which I met in the cab driver: a welcoming Spirit, non-judgmental and kind. My anticipated miserable day was turning out to be bright with the contemplation of goodness.

A final detail. There was one empty seat in the plane, and it was right next to me.

If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you.
(John 14:15-17)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus is indeed present to us in many ways: through the sacraments, in our prayer, through the Holy Spirit dwelling in our hearts — and also through the people we meet every day. As Paul tells us, “Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it” (1 Corinthians 12:27 RSV). We are called both to reveal Christ to each other and to see Jesus in other people — and act accordingly (see Matthew 25:31-46).

Sometimes when we glimpse Jesus in others, we experience him as healer; sometimes as Prince of Peace, or Divine Mercy, or the Wisdom of God. Other times we see Jesus as the vulnerable child or as the Crucified One, broken and wounded.

Here are some of the people who have revealed Jesus to me recently:

* My community, as always, who accept me in my foibles and weaknesses.
* The man with only one leg who, after struggling to open the heavy glass door of the bank, waited for me and with gentle courtesy held the door for me.
* The Vietnam veteran who introduced himself on the sidewalk and added, “I have such pain in my heart. I did terrible things over there.”
* The new Catholics who were received into the Church during Holy Week, and who are radiant in the Risen Christ.

If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you.
(Romans 8:11)

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

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

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

the challenge of seeing God-with-us in the nitty-gritty of life;

the call not to be “worried and distracted about many things,” as Martha was (Luke 10:41);

and especially the gift of knowing that God is graciously sufficient, even when many things are still lacking.

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