Who are you, O Mystery of mysteries,
God of immensity and light
of atoms and unfathomable dark spaces?
You, the Unknown, radically Other,
yet never alien.
As close as the blood in my veins,
as distant as the vast unknown,
almost perceived when beauty is revealed.

You who, when I cry out, “Fix it!”
whisper, “My grace is sufficient for you.”
Who are you, who preside over my unmaking
and my reshaping.

You in whom I am immersed,
Loveliest of the lovely,
crucified, risen, sanctifying,
filling the universe.

Yet when I labor to discern your paths
under leaves and ferns,
through sandy berm or swamp,
or in the wisdom of the ages,
if I seek you in solitude
or plunge into the crowd,
if I grope in darkness
or stand dazzled in the light,
I find myself…

I find myself in You.

Blessed may you be,
O Mystery of mysteries,
O Heart of my deepest heart.

]]> http://www.vocationquest.org/cenaclearchives/2011/01/who-are-you-o-mystery/feed/ 0 http://www.vocationquest.org/cenaclearchives/2010/09/never-separated-from-thee/ http://www.vocationquest.org/cenaclearchives/2010/09/never-separated-from-thee/#comments Mon, 27 Sep 2010 19:52:31 +0000 Cybernun http://www.vocationquest.org/cenaclearchives/?p=849 “Anima Christi” – 7

(1. Soul of Christ, sanctify me.)

(2. Body of Christ, save me.)

(3. Blood of Christ, inebriate me.)

(4. Water from the side of Christ, wash me.)

(5. Passion of Christ, strengthen me.)

(6. Within thy Wounds, hide me.)

- – - – -

Let me never be separated from thee.
Ne permittas me separari a te.

There’s a deep sense in which we are never, ever separated from God, for if we were not in God, and God in us, we would not exist.

But on another level, we can separate ourselves from God, when our lives are not in harmony with God’s love.  Or we can feel separated from God by simply not being mindful of God’s presence, by not reminding ourselves throughout the day of the love God has for us and for every person.

Or sometimes it happens that God seems to hide the divine face from us.  Then we feel ourselves in darkness; or as if all the road signs have suddenly disappeared from our path.  In reality God may be working in us in a quiet, unseen way that we can’t comprehend.

But not being able to see what God is doing may drive me absolutely crazy, or at the very least make me think I’ve forgotten how to pray.  In this holy wilderness, the Spirit of God can work unhampered by what I think I understand and by what I think I need for my own sanctity. And because I can’t see what God is doing, there is probably less chance that I will get in the way.

Then I need to pray (although I may not feel inclined to pray) and to remember that I am not really separated from God who is still with me and in me and guiding me.

So I cry out to God:

In you, O God, I live and move and have my being, but the least distraction seems to separate me from you.
Without you, I would not be, but I often try to go my own way.
You hold me in the everlasting arms, but still I am afraid in the darkness.
Remind me once again, O God, for I am weak and forgetful, of your abiding love and faithfulness.

Let me never be separated from thee.
Ne permittas me separari a te.

- – - – -

Presence in Darkness image by Rose Hoover, rc

Am I the only one who has had this experience?  I wondered: Do my glasses need changing?  No. Was the sharpness set too high on the television?  I don’t think so.

I think the problem is that real life just doesn’t happen in high definition.

Part of the beauty of the world around us is that human faces do not reveal every flaw to the casual glance, and objects are not always distinct from each other.

Outside my window right now I see live oak branches covered with resurrection ferns and draped with Spanish moss.  The whole effect is one of graceful softness, highlighted and sharpened here and there by splotches of sunlight that make leaves, fronds, and moss glow.  In spots, the details are completely overwhelmed by the brilliance of light.

If every green frond were distinct from the other and from the branch, if each gray strand of moss in shadow appeared just as clearly defined as the ones in gentle sunlight, much of the beauty would be lost.

In our own lives as well, we move from day to day in a state of blessed blurriness, though we may often long for a higher resolution monitor, so to speak.

• The future is unknown in its details – though we know, through the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, that there is a happy ending to the human story.
• In many cases, it is not even clear to us what our next step should be – we have to trust in the guidance and good will of God as we navigate the ambiguities of life.
• The deepest truths of human existence are in the form of paradox and mystery – and when we try to codify them in high-definition propositions, we may take pride in our certainty and forget the mystery inherent in what we were attempting to clarify.

I find this quotation from Gerald May helpful:

When we were children, most of us were good friends with mystery.  The world was full of it and we loved it.  Then as we grew older, we slowly accepted the indoctrination that mystery exists only to be solved.  For many of us, mystery became an adversary; unknowing became a weakness.  The contemplative spiritual life is an ongoing reversal of this adjustment.  It is a slow and sometimes painful process of becoming “as little children” again, in which we first make friends with mystery and finally fall in love again with it.  And in that love we find an ever increasing freedom to be who we really are in an identity that is continually emerging and never defined.  We are freed to join the dance of life in fullness without having a clue about what the steps are.

Gerald G. May, M.D., The Dark Night of the Soul (New York: Harper, 2003), 132-3.

The obscurity is blessed, because we are indeed dwelling in divine Mystery, and that is where we are meant to be.  It is there that we find goodness, love, mercy, and peace.  It is there that we “join the dance of life in fullness without having a clue about what the steps are.”

In his homily on Sunday, Father Jose Mesa pointed out that the Transfiguration of Jesus prepares us less for the Crucifixion than it does for the Resurrection.  In both Matthew and Mark we read that Jesus cautions Peter, James, and John, who were witnesses to this manifestation of Jesus’ glory, not to tell anyone about it “until the Son of Man is raised from the dead” (Matthew 17:9).

Father Jose went on to say that in many ways the Resurrection is harder to deal with than the Crucifixion.  I nodded.  Yes, I do believe that is true.  Everyone has some experience of suffering.  And if as yet we have had no experience of death, we eventually will.

But resurrection? The victory of life over death?  The definitive triumph of goodness?  A radiance that will fill, not only Jesus, but us as well? How do we deal with this?  How do we even begin to describe it?  In the remarkable 15th chapter of 1 Corinthians, Saint Paul tries his best to tell us something of what the resurrection of the dead will be like, but ends up making it sound marvelously and totally incomprehensible.

When in the Presence of Mystery…

Faced with the dazzling glory of Jesus transfigured, Peter, who tends to rush in where angels fear to tread, says, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three tents, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah” (Mark 9:5).

Whereupon the disciples hear a voice from the cloud.

What do they hear?  Not “Nice idea, Peter,” or even “Let’s sit down and discuss what you are experiencing.” No, all three synoptic gospels record that the voice says something to the effect of “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased;  listen to him!”

Or to be blunt, “Be quiet and pay attention to Jesus!”

What is the proper response when in the presence of great mystery —   whether we happen to be Peter the first pope, Benedict the current pope, or an ordinary person such as I am (and probably such you are, too)?

Stop talking and listen! Pay attention!  The time will come to proclaim the good news (for the Mystery of God is always good news).  But not yet.  Now is the time for listening.

_____

The following is Peter’s account.  Notice that he conveniently leaves out the part that suggests he was talking too much.

…we had been eyewitnesses of his majesty. For he received honor and glory from God the Father when that voice was conveyed to him by the Majestic Glory, saying, ‘This is my Son, my Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.’ We ourselves heard this voice come from heaven, while we were with him on the holy mountain.

So we have the prophetic message more fully confirmed. You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts.

2 Peter 1:16-19

On my bookcase sit the following treasures picked up during a walk along the beach not far from our Cenacle in Lantana, Florida:

• a piece of shell edged in burgundy
• something white, curly, and lovely that I don’t recognize
• a U.S. quarter that has been tossed about by waves for so long it is almost unrecognizable
• and two pieces of bleached coral (is it a bad sign for the environment, I wonder, that coral is washing ashore?)

Spiritual gifts are as abundant as seashells, begging us to pause for a moment, stoop down, and gather them as we walk through the day. But we must not expect choirs of angels hovering above to point them out to us. If we are not attentive, we risk overlooking them. According to Annie Dillard in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek:

There are lots of things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises. The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand.

The world is indeed strewn with pennies (and wave-tumbled quarters) for those who have eyes to see.

But then I recall another quotation from Annie Dillard — a caution to those of us inclined to spend our lives combing the spiritual sands. Using the image of the ocean, she asks:

Have we rowed out to the thick darkness, or are we all playing pinochle in the bottom of the boat?” (Pilgrim at Tinker Creek)

From the gifts to the Giver
God’s gifts are good and to be received with gratitude. Nevertheless, we are not made for the gifts, but for God. The shells and pennies, literal or spiritual, are cozy gifts, more or less comprehensible to our limited minds. God the Giver of gifts, however, is beyond our human grasp, dwelling “in unapproachable light” (1 Timothy 6:16) — and the divine light, anything but cozy, can appear to us as darkness.

Are we just “playing pinochle in the bottom of the boat”? Or are we perhaps out of the boat, but gazing at our own feet in the sand of the beach? According to an oft-quoted expression, “We become what we contemplate.” Are the eyes of our heart so focused on God’s gifts that we overlook God? Are we satisfied with becoming the shells and quarters, or do we recognize the deep longing implanted in us for union with the Divine?

So I continue to pick up treasures God leaves for me in the sand of my day—and when I remember, I give thanks. Occasionally I even let myself be reminded by these gifts (or even by their absence) that there is Mystery behind and beyond them – and that it is this Mystery who is my purpose and my destination.

Do not be deceived, my beloved.
Every generous act of giving,
with every perfect gift, is from above,
coming down from the Father of lights,
with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.
(James 1:16-17)

An early visitor was the five-foot-long rat snake that made its way from the roof to our water heater closet. Then there are the raccoons, which sound as if they are constructing multiple-family lodgings above our bedrooms, and which on occasion have fallen onto the front porch or tumbled, quarreling, into the courtyard.

The latest intruders from the roof jungle have been highly unwelcome: a colony of fire ants. I had never heard of fire ant mounds on a roof, but these built their dwelling up against the second-floor bathroom skylight. Somehow they found tiny openings into the skylight itself. Since the ledge around the circumference is very narrow, however, their interior annex collapsed from time to time, casting dirt and ants onto the bathroom floor, where the ants would wander around looking dazed and biting the unsuspecting sister with whom they came into contact.

Several times, with the help of Sister Annette, I cleared them out as well as I could, then climbed up into the skylight to seal the seams with caulking — doing this by feel as I couldn’t se where the openings were, and hoping not to get stung in the process. With the third climb, I think I have finally thwarted the fire ants.

Yesterday I noticed a new invader from above — grass growing inside the skylight in soil brought in by the ants and deposited in a crevice I can’t reach. Eventually we will have to do something about the roof, before its function as border between indoors and outdoors is totally compromised.

Boundaries
In matters of the spirit, boundaries are not so clearly defined. We are accustomed to speaking in terms of the physical and the spiritual, but here the borders tend to be fluid. The denizens of one domain spill over into another like raccoons and fire ants, whether we want them to or not.

We are both spiritual and bodily creatures. Although the physical may often seem to us to pose a block to the spiritual, at times, and through grace, we become aware that it can provide a pathway to God — who after all is the one who created the physical world and called it good. The spiritual is not an intruder in the physical world as the snake was an intruder in the water heater closet, nor is the physical an intruder into the world of the spirit. They mingle comfortably, even if we are not always comfortable with their mingling.

Bearers of Mystery
The physical is in fact a bearer of Mystery. This may be most obvious to us in the sacramental elements of water and wine and bread, but our own bodies are also bearers of Mystery, suffused with the presence of God. This requires of us a reverence in our approach to the human body. It requires a humble trust when inevitably our bodies appear to fail us. For even in our weakness — and perhaps especially here — we come face to face with the incomprehensible mystery of ourselves and of the God of Jesus Christ, whose Spirit never ceases to work in us.

Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you? (1 Corinthians 3:16)

First, the escalator at Macy’s wasn’t working last week, so along with the other customers, I was walking down. Standing on the bottom step — as some sort of safety measure, I suppose — was a woman, an employee of the store. Between her feet was a shoe, so that she looked as if she had three feet. When I reached the bottom, I said to her, “You look like you have three feet.” She gave a polite, uncomfortable laugh, perhaps to acknowledge the obvious, or perhaps to humor someone who had just said something absurd. I walked on, pondering the mystery of the three-shoed woman.

Second, while I was in Florida visiting my father, I took a walk to the pond. A bird hopped down beside me and began following me — a rather nondescript bird, a little larger than a mockingbird, with dark wings, a brown breast, and a beak which looked very sharp. He hopped alongside me, and then his family joined him. Soon he flew up to a branch, but he continued to follow me, flying from low branch to low branch. I asked him if he had anything to tell me, but if he did, I didn’t hear it. My dad, who is very practical, commented later that someone had probably been feeding him, but I couldn’t help but wonder. After all, this was not a pigeon, a seagull, or even a sparrow: that is, not the kind of bird I usually associate with begging for food.

A woman with three feet and a bird hopping along beside me are probably not mysteries of the caliber of a burning bush. However, I can’t help but feel that if we don’t pause and take off our shoes before these small mysteries, we may miss the large ones.

It portrays Saul, the future Paul, at the moment described in the book of Acts:

“While I was on my way and approaching Damascus, about noon a great light from heaven suddenly shone about me. I fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to me, ‘Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?’ I answered, ‘Who are you, Lord?’ Then he said to me, ‘I am Jesus of Nazareth whom you are persecuting.’” (Acts 22:6-8)

Persecuting Jesus? How can you persecute someone who is dead? Saul has only been trying to wipe out a dangerous and heretical sect. And why would this Jesus come to a person who has no use for him?

So here is Saul, wrapped in Light, dazzled, blinded by this Mystery which is too much for him.

Within a fraction of a second he will land in the dirt — but not yet. For this life-changing instant he seems suspended in the Mystery. Once so sure of himself and of what to believe, now his world is upside down, and it will never go back to what it was. He doesn’t know which way is up, which way is the solid ground, where to put his feet.

But this Mystery — this Christ, this Love — has not only knocked Saul off his feet. As of now and forever, this is all he will ever want in life or in death.

Yet whatever gains I had,
these I have come to regard as loss
because of Christ.
More than that, I regard everything as loss
because of the surpassing value
of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.
(Philippians 3:7-8a)