Take Root Devotions

As Long as His Scars Remain

 

Are the wounds of Christ eternal? Is there an ongoing message carved in his flesh? From the post resurrection incident where “doubting Thomas” was branded with that name it would appear so. The story is from John 20: 24 – 29 and has had a strong impact on our collective memory. Thomas had missed out on a visit by the resurrected, glorified Christ that the other apostles enjoyed. And so, he remained firm in his bitterness and refusal to believe. He said: “Unless I see the marks of the nails in his hands and put my finger in the nail marks and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.” Of course, Jesus soon accommodated him: “Then (Jesus) said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands, and bring your hand and put in into my side and do not be unbelieving but believe.” The point of this hands on experience attained its purpose: “Thomas answered and said to him, “My Lord and my God!”

Jesus’ wounds served a purpose. They were a silent but visible proclamation of the Gospel of God’s mercy. There is another post-resurrection story that may implicitly speak of his scars. In Luke 24: 14 – 35 we have the story of two unnamed forlorn disciples who were sadly slouching their way to the village, Emmaus, when Jesus, who appeared as a stranger, joined them. Jesus walked with them to their house and went unrecognized until he joined them for supper. There he took the bread and blessed it as they ate together. What in the blessing of the bread caused him to be recognized? His beautiful, familiar way of blessing the food? A divine lifting of his disguise? Or, when he lifted the bread for the blessing did his sleeves slide down his wrists and the scars on his hands become visible?

These scars speak of two remarkable things that are eternally linked in a peculiar dynamic. First of all, we see in Jesus’ scars the eternal evidence of humanity’s violence against God. Second, we are struck by the immeasurable weight of God’s loving kindness for our souls. This love that called upon him demanded a total self-emptying. These are important lessons that need visual expression so it is safe to assume his scars are indeed eternal.

Such personal conclusions reveal to me how I have evolved over my years of incarceration from a Protestant to a Catholic spirituality. In my Protestant spirituality I would sing of the blood but I did not like to visualize. Protestants exalt the cross but do not want the body of the crucified Jesus upon it. This empty cross some of the claim is more emblematic of the resurrected Christ.

Saints, both ancient and recent, know little of is empty, unbloodied cross. There is a weight of evidence that indicates how critical it is to remember and visualize the high price God paid to work out our salvation. God uses unusual ways to draw our attention to Jesus’ sufferings.

St. Francis of Assisi is well attested to have actually borne the wounds of Christ in his own body. He carried bleeding wounds in both feet, both hands and in his side. A thousand years later a humble, quiet yet thoroughly charismatic priest named Pio, who spent his life in an Italian monetary carried similar stigmata for fifty years. Mysteriously these wounds healed cleanly without a trace shortly before he died on September 23, 1968. Here are two historical figures in which God portrayed on the canvas of human flesh the bleeding wounds of Christ crucified.

Sister Maria Faustina Kowalska, a Twentieth Century saint canonized in 2000, had a series of visions and interactions with the Spirit of Jesus. In her experiences she never saw Jesus without graphic portrayal of his wounds, particularly the wound near his heart. She also declared Holy Communion as a perpetual expression within the believing community of the wounds and death of Christ.

If she is right (and Paul seems to back her up in 1 Corinthians 11: 26) Then our participation at the Lord’s table is in fact an adoration of his sufferings, his passion, his outpoured love for us. When the priest elevates the bread and cup and says with the people, “Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us; therefore, let us keep the feast. Alleluia,” our sanctified imaginations would transport us back in time to stand beside Mary and John as they witnessed Jesus dying in the bloody violence of his execution.

The wounds of Christ will always speak to us of the helplessness and desperation of our personal need and the unstoppable and efficacious love of God who was willing to pay such a price to capture us in his love. In Holy Communion we see the crucifixion, the wounds of Christ. And we can rest assured that he will love us as long as his scars remain. St. Bernard of Clairvaux (1091 – 1153) wrote:

I must also feed on the Paschal Lamb, for unless I eat his flesh and drink his blood, I have no life in me. It is one thing to follow Jesus, another to hold him, another to feed on him . . . (no Christian actions) are anything without the mystery (of the bread and the cup) of our redemption.

I remember when I was in the Duval County jail, just after being sentenced, the Chaplain called me out to inform me that my request for the sacrament of Holy Communion had been denied. He was very offhand, mater-of-fact, professional in his announcement of this no-big-deal religious matter. After all, one could always pray. Anywhere, really. And, regular Bible studies and preaching events were provided for inmates. However, he was unprepared for a man who regularly and easily discovered Christ present, physical and personal in this holy sacrament. He could not have hurt me more by reading a “Dear John” letter from my wife. He expected me to say, “OK.” Or, “Aw shucks!” Or, “Too bad.” Instead I erupted in deep sobs of grief. I felt abandoned as if the States Attorney not only denied me life, reputation and family, but also prevented from coming to the very body and blood of Christ himself.

I needed the visible, ritual sacramental drama of his ever present wounds so I could find a place to bring the intense suffering of my incarceration so recently forced upon me. It took me a great while, days, to recover from that horrible moment, but it was an awakening to me to realize how important this experience had become to me. In the Eucharist I come repeatedly to the still bleeding wounds of Christ.

When Christ gives us his body and blood he makes us who we are by making us his own. On the altar is our own mystery. We do not approach as mere spectators. As Rachel Hosmer and Alan Jones wrote in Living in the Spirit:

We receive Christ, and we receive our broken and healed selves back. When we say, “Amen,” after the priest has said, “the body of Christ,” we are saying “Amen,” to ourselves, too. Our brokenness is taken up into the broken bread, and we can begin again.

I had to learn to see in communion the eternal wounds of Christ and in them become able to empty my own suffering and torment and through them find healing. I needed more than a “spiritual” moment where I reverently prayed or meditated. I needed the physical ritual Jesus passed on to us. At the Last Supper Jesus said, “Do this . . .”, and so we should. Paul wrote, “I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you . . . For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup you proclaim the death of the Lord until he comes.”

It is at times a visceral, physical and very emotional worship experience for me. To receive the bread and the cup answers to my deep need to belong, to be secure, to be saved. To be loved. And, as long as his scars remain I know I am loved.

In Holy Communion I come to his wounds. As long as he bears his wounds I can come to him in my brokenness for healing. As long as he bears wounds no sin can have victory over me. As long as he bears his wounds my suffering can be dignified and my struggles rewarded. As long as he bears his wounds my faith will save me.

His wounds show me what my sins have done to him. And, if they are so bitter upon him what do they do to me? His scars show me what he has done for me. His scars draw me to trust in him. His scars. His scars. He loves me. I know he loves me as long as his scars remain.

Four-leaf Clover from St. Therese

 

“I will prove I am speaking with you,” said St. Thérése. “Bend down and pick up a four-leaf clover.” I’d not seen a four-leaf clover in at least twenty years and the barren, trampled yard where I was standing showed more sand than weeds and grass. But, I asked for a sign that I was really enjoying a valid time of prayer this morning and not just fooling myself.

Had any one noticed me at the moment I heard those words ring interiorly within my imagination they would have noticed only a 53year old prisoner keeping to himself within a crowd of other prisoners, locked inside an enclosed yard waiting on the gate to open. Yet, for me it was a moment of providential experience wherein I crossed a boundary into a deeper understanding of the divine conversation where the Holy Spirit is the engine of grace.

Thérése of Lisieux, also known as St. Thérése of the Child Jesus and of the Holy Face, became very dear to me early on in my 8 1/2 years in prison. Suffering can be very intense and unending in prison and she taught and demonstrated that suffering can be a road to power, to sainthood and even a grace itself. But most of all she taught me faith.

In prison I became Catholic. Nevertheless, most if not all of the prayer experiences and epiphanies I practiced are available for Christians of any stripe. I was a Pentecostal pastor who converted to the Episcopal communion. By study and prayer, I developed a hunger and eventually adoration for Holy Communion. In prison I found no access to Holy Eucharist except in the weekly Catholic service hosted by Sister Dorothea Murphy. Mary, the Blessed Virgin, had already become dear to me so it was not too difficult to make application to be received into the Roman Catholic Church. I jumped all the hurdles and followed the instruction from Sister and shortly became Catholic. It was a sweet and holy transition.

Soon I began to study and experiment with the communion of the saints. Out of loneliness really. Very little opportunity to find good friends within a prison environment. It can happen but it takes time, risk and good luck. So, I asked the Holy Spirit to provide me with prayer-friends to help me learn what I came to call the divine conversation. Through a few books and pamphlets that “magically” appeared I began to learn of Thérése. She wrote, rather prophetically, “In heaven one sole expectation makes my heart beat fast. It is the love that I shall receive, and the love that I shall be able to give . . .. I think of all the good I shall be able to do after my death. . .. I will help priests, missionaries, the whole church.” When one is in extreme circumstances as I was and so hungry for love, hope and holiness such words can have a marvelous and powerful impact. I was part of “the whole church”. So, I assumed she would be willing to help me.

It made me want to experience divine things. Yet, Thérése halted or softened such desires. For I found her words, “I love the Blessed Virgin and the saints very much, yet I do not desire to see them. I prefer to live by faith.” So, I decided it was not experience I wanted but faith; and, of course, peace. Nevertheless, quite a few experiences were granted me.

Her example and words encouraged me. She lifted suffering up to an accessible mystery with a deep spiritual value. Sensible joy was not vitally important to her. Peace certainly was. She helped me lift my suffering up to heaven to transmute it into something valuable for my soul and for the power of my brand new life of intercession. She wrote:

It must be made known that these transports and joys are only in the depth of my soul. It would not greatly encourage souls if they believed I had not suffered much . . . peace is not always accompanied by joy, not at least by sensible joy. To suffer with peace, it suffices that we truly will all that God wills.

God’s will. All that God wills. This is how Thérése chose to anchor my new experience in faith. To Thérése faith was a matter of supernatural confidence in God’s love that led her into an intimate audacity in her holy communication. This set an example for me to experiment in prayer. Within the bounds of reason, church teaching and tradition as well as her guidance I began to explore a new dimension in prayer.

For the two hours before I was let outside and was instructed to reach for a four-leaf clover I’d been on a hard wooden bench waiting for a medical check-up. While crowded cheek to cheek with profane, grumbling, joking and obscene inmates I, with the help of a prayer manual, had spent time in my sanctified imagination, with St.

Thérése.

For two hours I would hear in my spirit such as, “Let’s pray for your children.” And, so we would. We would pray quietly on my crowded bench as I exercised meditations of peace and faith for my children. When I was through Thérése would nudge me (all in my imagination, you understand), “Now go to page 231 and pray the prayer for your children.” So I would turn as she directed and there would be a beautiful prayer for children. Such coincidences and communications occurred for two hours as I sat and waited in the crowded, noisy room. During this time, I would be called abruptly and rudely by corrections staff and then treated indifferently and coldly by medical staff and then returned to the waiting room of bored, impatient, disrespectful prisoners. Yet, in the midst of an environment barren of good will I was enjoying roses fresh from heaven. In my little spot in hell I was receiving ice water.

As I stood outside I wondered if the previous two hours had been a schizoid dream or a moment of religious hysteria. But, when the now familiar voice of St. Thérése of Lisieux said, “. . . bend down and pick a four-leaf clover,” I immediately obeyed. In less than three seconds I was again erect with a four-leaf clover in my hand. Tears streamed down my face. God’s presence and favor were all over me. Thérése had given me a rose. In fact, I taped it inside a card and mailed it and the story to my daughter. 

Towards the end of my sentence I found my need for the Little Flower’s help even more critical. Even though I continued to enjoy the communion of the saints for the whole of my prison experience I found that as I approached the end of my sentence I became filled with anxiety and even horror at the prospects of probation. In Florida probation is so full of trip wires and land mines that very few can successfully comply. To illustrate briefly let me say probation costs a man who is already beaten down, in poverty with very poor job prospects from $250.00 to $1500.00 per month. 

I began to have panic attacks as I came within four months of my release. I often found my legs trembling in fear as I watched my release date approach. I wanted out of prison but the severe, anti-reconciliation and anti-restoration policies in place in Florida filled me with terror that I would be quickly violated and returned to prison. I already knew that of the five or so places available to me through friends and family I would not be allowed to be housed in any of them. I would need $1000.00 a month for rent at a very old, unattractive motel near the border of the county or as my classification officer told me, “I’ll have to assign you a place under a bridge. I think we can get a tent for you.” (I imagine she enjoyed sharing this story with co-workers and family. However, I did not think of it as a joke. It scared me. For some men this certainly did happen. I was fortunate in that I had friends and family to prop me up. Their payment of the costs of my probation is only one of many of the state’s hidden taxes on the poor).

While in such a mental state of anxiety I was praying my regular daily prayer to St. Thérése when she spoke to me. I can’t remember exactly what she said. It was such a difficult promise – so hard to embrace in the face of my tangible anxiety and fear (terrors, really). She said, “I will begin showering you with roses your last several months in prison and into your time on probation.” I felt she also told me not to worry she would take care of me.

Beginning May 18, 2010, I began to pray, Dear sister, my flower, may Christ be honored by the way you shower roses upon me for the next 108 days (and, beyond). This is your desire. My delight. And, has Mary’s blessings. Amen.” Thérése has spoken to me many times but seldom prophetically and I do not (remember her cautious words regarding faith) covet such. However, after she spoke to me I received the two best roommates possible which meant my last four months were lubricated with rich Christian fellowship and not with screaming, cursing, loud music, bullies or rowdy crowds as I experienced with previous roommates.

I began to receive a series of letters as well as a special visit from a man I met on a KAIROS weekend (prison’s version of Cursillo) who pledged and followed through on a promise to befriend me during my probation/transition period. Retired Bishop of St. Augustine Diocese, John J. Snyder, came through on his promise to keep in touch by phone and visits after my release. Another friend gave a 1998 Dodge Caravan. One of my daughters had it repaired for me in an automotive repair shop she runs. Two other daughters, my mother and wife showered me with clothing, money and many other gifts. Another friend gave me a cell phone with unlimited minutes for two years. Even though I had a mortgage on a home where I lived prior to my arrest I had to live in the motel mentioned above. My mother paid over $20,000 so I could avoid living under a bridge. People in government who make such laws must not realize their laws and civil codes punish and burden the family and friends sometimes more than the released inmate.  An old friend gave me a job painting houses with his company which provided good work, money and easy comfortable safe fellowship. On and on the love has poured out upon me. All of my friends stayed in touch and supported me. Some have given me money and gifts and many prayers. During this time my wife died and in the grief of her loss I found she left me with proceeds of a life insurance policy that allowed me to purchase a home. Shortly thereafter I met up with an old friend of 40 years and she became the love of my life and asked me to marry her. Roses. Just as Thérése promised.

My Protestant friends are amazed when I tell such stories. Hopefully, they will come to believe that the divine conversation is for all believers, but many have no theological mechanism by which to process such experiences. Nevertheless, how can they doubt the facts? St.

Thérése has become a friend and protector for me.

I have roses and a four-leaf clover to prove it.

Below: A scan of the four-leaf clover mentioned in the story. I attached it to a card and mailed it to my daughter. One of the leaves was damaged in mailing and handling. It is still evident it has four leaves. 

A Homeless Man’s Sign

 

~by Louis Templeman

 

His disheveled hair crowned his head like a fright wig or like pine needles carelessly raked in the wind. I could see his eyes, pools of fear and frustration. His clothes needed to be tossed into a burn barrel. He stood apart from the other bus riders who hung closer together near the Plexiglas shelter on the corner. He was watching the passing cars. I doubted he was waiting for a bus. His dress easily categorized him as someone with no place to go and someone who would have to look far and wide to find welcome.

It was hard for me not to look at him. I felt like a rubbernecker at a wreck on the highway. I also felt ashamed at my thoughts towards him. In my life I have been a pastor, a social worker, a volunteer prison minister and spent many years as an active member in an inner city mission. I have seen and interacted with many men and women who were draped in raggedy clothes; who peered through vacant eyes that pooled in hunger and who were quick to beg for food, beer, cash or attention. I have never been able to help anyone in that condition make positive life style changes. Acts of kindness would only put me in the register of those who were an easy touch. Nevertheless, I believe kindness and generosity should mark the steps of a person of faith.

I only had a twenty dollar bill on me and that would have to do me until my retirement check showed up in my credit union account in a few days. I was mystified at my reaction to his presence. I would avoid his eyes but still look at him if possible. Seems silly now to recall the anxiety I felt.

I noticed his cardboard sign was extended at arm’s length, as if to indicate that his message was important. He aimed his gaze at each passing car and held the sign perpendicular to the front seats. He had a message. So, I decided to sneak a peek at it as I passed him. The light was green so I was able to cruise past without stopping beside him. As I passed I looked at his sign.

It stood out in bold relief, as if the man that held the sign faded away and became a post. The sign was fresh and not soiled at all. The sun was reflecting of its shiny surface. One quick look and I turned toward the on-ramp to I 95. As I sped up to the flow of traffic and eased in to the northbound stretch of highway I could not get his sign out of my head. It was completely blank. Empty of words, but profound in meaning.

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. Romans 8: 26.

I do not know what the homeless man was saying. I don’t know that he had adequate insight to figure it out. For all I know he may have been holding the sign backwards. I do know the message his powerful display had for me. In my frailty, my wrong doing, my penchant for selfishness and immorality I often find my prayer time in a similar state. I stand before God in helplessness knowing that only his mercy can recommend me to him. Spiritually I am a ragamuffin; poor hygiene, disheveled, dressed in dirty clothes. I cannot think of anyway to impress him. I do not know how to call his attention away from more important people and truly beautiful lives to give me the time of day. I stand before him with my sign without words, with hungry eyes and my fear of failing and coming up short.

I find the words of the Roman Centurion in Luke 7: 6, 7 particularly close to my heart, “Lord, don’t trouble yourself, for I do not deserve to have you come under my roof.” And, also those of the tax collector in Luke 18: 13, “. . . the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, ‘God have mercy on me, a sinner.’” Without the mercy I find in Jesus I am in much, much worse shape than my homeless man with his sign. It was good for me to encounter this strange experience. I am convinced that at those times when my prayers are as wordless sighs that the Spirit is there. I am not alone. He will supply the words.

 

 

 

 

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Goodbye Bob

~by Louis Templeman

 

When I walked out the front door with your breakfast in hand I wasn’t surprised when you did not greet me as you usually do. My neighbor’s hunting dogs were running loose and had awakened me around 3:00 a.m. It was so quick. Their low, hollow barks circled around my home and were gone. When I could not find you in your usual places I felt a pang in the pit of my stomach, “They got you. Oh Bob, I’m so sorry.” Although I felt sure I had lost you I kept looking for a week or so.

I was so angry at those dogs I wanted to catch them and hurt them. In just two months I’d lost two of my three cats. I assume Jet went the same way. I could employ wishful thinking in my grieving over Jet. He was so friendly and charming he could have adopted a new owner and moved on to better digs. But you Bob were so traumatized as a kitten you were a bit feral. With your lame right front paw you were at a disadvantage if ever you needed to run.

I remember when you introduced yourself to me. I was in another house. You were under a tropical plant that was slowly creeping its way around the back yard. As soon as I looked at you, you hissed. After I fed the other cats I walked out to you with some dry food in a bowl. You posed as if to flee, so I stopped while continuing to make little clucking sounds through my teeth. I set the bowl down about fifteen feet away from you. Then I gathered the other pets, all overfed and nosey, and put them in the house so you could have a chance to inspect my offering.

You and I repeated that scenario for several weeks before you came close enough for me to pet you. It took some courage for me to trust you, and vice versa I suppose. A couple more weeks and you became comfortable with me. You stayed pretty cranky so I thought you must be in pain. Once you became calm enough with me that you’d let me pick you up and put you in a carrier I got you to the vet who found an abscessed tooth which she removed. She guessed that your lame leg came from rough treatment when you were an unwanted kitten.

You never warmed up to the other cats, always the grouch, but you slowly became an affectionate little buddy to me. It was almost a year before you crawled up into my lap. It was then I first heard you purr. Once the bank took my house and made me move I had no place to care for you and your fellows. It took me almost four months to find a place that would fit us and my temporary housing could not accommodate any of you, so I was happy to visit all of you first thing every morning and again every day after work and make sure you had food and water; and your monthly flea treatment.

Once I got our new place in good enough shape for me to put a bed in it I picked you up and your two step-brothers and brought you home. I was able to keep you three in a bedroom for a week to acclimate you to the new surroundings before I let you outside. But, once I did it was beautiful. The front porch became your domain. Nearly every morning you would wait for me perched on the 2 x 6 railing. It was wide enough for you to nap on. You always found a way to be comfortable.

By then you had become people friendly and easily stole the hearts of nearly every visitor. If ever a visitor’s hand got near the table or the railing you would jump up and rub against them, inviting them to scratch your head. I don’t know that any refused. It was a slow process but you became born-again from feral scaredy cat to Mr. Personality. But still, you had nothing but hisses and disrespect for my two black twins, Jet and Flo. And, when you made it too difficult for them to ignore you, they would snarl, attack and run you off.

My mother was at our visit to the veterinarian’s office with me and insisted on paying for your care. When they asked me for your name I realized I had not settled on one. Since you looked like a little bobcat, Bob became your name and since your benefactor’s name was Shelton, I completed the name as Bob Shelton. Everyone chuckled and thought that was an unusual name for a cat, but to me it was a close fit.

It is hard for me to think how I admitted you to such a violent world. You were a victim of violence before we met and in the end, again a victim. Out here in this semi-rural neighborhood I have witnessed moments of violence. Twice I rescued a bird from Jet’s claws. And, a week after you were gone I witnessed a red hawk pouncing on a finch through my kitchen window. The other birds, scared but lucky, flurried off to safety as in a choreographed leap of fright. The hawk had to pause a moment to recover from his sudden stop where it appeared he crashed into the yard as he landed on his trembling prey. He then flew off with the little finch in his fisted talons.

I thought I was being strong regarding your sudden departure until I spoke of it to my mother. I said, “I’ve got bad news, Mom. Bob’s gone.” She wanted to know, Bob who? It was then a flood of tears gushed out with my short little requiem, “Bob Shelton, my cat.” That’s when I really knew my heart was broken. It grieves me that violence is such a mainstay of today’s world, both yours and mine. When I consider how we both came from the same creative fatherhood I feel we must share a common hope. For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now. (Romans 8: 22 ASV).

In this strange, often violent world that we live in there has to be a hope to get us through such grief. And, I think God has provided just that. I see it particularly in St. Paul’s words, “For the creation was subjected to vanity, not of its own will, but by reason of him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the liberty of the glory of the children of God” (Romans 8: 20 – 21).

My black cat Flo is alone now. He was traumatized at Jet’s departure. It took him a week or so to get back to normal. Flo does not seem to miss you. However, I do. I will cherish your photos and memories. We were good for each other. You are up there with God waiting on me, keep the light on. I’ll get there eventually.

 

 

 

 

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Seeking a City

~by Louis Templeman

I have cried over pictures of the hordes of immigrants from Syria pouring into Europe to uncertain destinations. These folks are leaving jobs, neighborhoods, and dead and missing relatives and friends. They are victims of a crazy war which has no less than five different armies going at it. Human history is replete with such disturbing pictures. In the Bible we find the nation of Israel as pilgrims fleeing Egypt. We find them later as captives removed to Babylon. Our American history reflects that under President Jackson the entire Cherokee nation was forced en masse on the Trail of Tears to points west.

Our history and our current world situation finds millions who are homeless, searching for an opportunity to make a stake, work an honest job and care for their families and escape famine, disease, oppression and war.

The desire for a home is hard wired into the human psyche. That God will dwell with his people in an eternal home of comfort and joy is woven securely into the fabric of our faith. We need a home in the here and now. And at the end of our pilgrimage of faith we desire our ultimate home.

Hebrews 11:16 – Instead, they were longing for a better country–a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them. NIV.

 

Our compassionate God insists we consider the strangers and homeless with our prayers, money, and other ministry as love leads and empowers. In Matthew 25: 34-36 Jesus makes it clear his heart is with the homeless and hurting: “For I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink; I was a stranger, and you invited me in; naked, and you clothed me; I was sick, and you visited me. . . .” NIV

Homelessness is a terrible situation which God wants remedied. Ultimately we can see ourselves in the plight of our brothers and sisters in distress. We long for and work for them to find a home. And, their plight echoes our own restlessness until we find our hearts secured in our final destination.
For here we do not have an enduring city, but we are looking for the city that is to come. Hebrews 13:14 NIV.

 

 

Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And yet not one of them will fall to the ground without your Father’s leave.

St. Matthew 10:29

 

 

 

 

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Prayer in the Tube

I had an MRI today. I went there thinking I would have to lie still while in a pinging, banging metal tunnel. One in five is unable to accomplish this supposedly simple exercise. To lie still and not scratch my nose or cough or twitch for twenty-five minutes. That’s what I was told. However, I learned five minutes before the procedure it would be closer to forty-five. Friends who have experienced this have warned me of the claustrophobia. They were not exaggerating. No one told me of the cacophony of bangs and electrical noises. Maddening, startling and sometimes scary. I decided from the start I needed to escape inside my head. By using my fingers I managed to recite the rosary. From time to time I dozed off. It took the whole forty-five minutes to pray one single rosary.

My position in the tube reminded me a bit of prayer. God’s love drives him to possess me. Sister Wendy Beckett wrote, “To be so loved and so wanted is so terrifying and so awful that we can see why we shrink from believing it.” I have sometimes experienced prayer as risk. The risk of losing control. Jesus told his disciple Peter that when he was older he would be bound up and taken where he did not want to go. His life of prayer and service would end in a total loss of control.

Lying in that noisy tube I realized I had given control over to trained strangers. I was in a helpless position. I needed them. I had to place my body and its posture and position to their directions. In that way it reminded me of prayer, the prayer that brings you to God’s presence where you accept vulnerability and give over control and management to another. There have been times when I believe I have experienced that. I’ve done nothing to earn the experience. It is all grace and gift. The natural movement in my life of faith is to relax, grow weary, lose heart and let inertia take over. It is a God-thing when I experience that, not a Me-thing.

I have to work against the weariness. The work involves doing the opposite of what your lower impulses insist on: laziness, complaining, dullness, gossip, anger and the like. Those attitudes are easy. They come naturally without work. Henri Nouwen spoke of this effort needed to enlarge the interior life. He used gratitude as the difficult action he needed to combat the negative emotions:

To be grateful for the good things that happen in our lives is easy, but to be grateful for all of our lives - the good as well as the bad, the moments of joy as well as the moments of sorrow, the successes as well as the failures, the rewards as well as the rejections – that requires hard spiritual work. Still, we are only truly grateful people when we can say thank you to all that has brought us to the present moment . . . Let us not be afraid to look at everything that has brought us to where we are now and trust that we will soon see in it the guiding hand of a loving God.

We are, I believe he is saying, Spirit-controlled when we are grateful. Or joyful. Or hopeful. Or gracious, or generous, or kind. We live in a world that sees such as that as weak. Taking on the fruit of the Spirit requires time in the tube where we surrender control and pray much. Not to change things but to change ourselves.

Hero Worship

 

I suppose the great benefit to loss of short term memory is that you get to enjoy the favorite memories over and over without tiring yourself. Second benefit is it shields you from the exhaustion you put your company through.

“Have you seen this?” asked my older brother whose face was brightened into a wax mask of adolescent excitement. He didn’t recall loaning it to me or showing it to me at least three times previously. He was so enthusiastic I succumbed.

On this 2002 documentary of a Paul McCartney concert in Atlanta it was remarkable how many of the fans were in tears. People of all ages were effusive with emotion as they were interviewed.

My mother found the tears distasteful. She found it, in some shameful fashion, to be idolatrous hero worship. Yeah, that is what it was like, commented my brother. He was there. He knew.

After an hour into the program I realized I’d exceeded my daily minimum requirement of nostalgia. I left and forgot about it, until the next day at noon Mass.

I got there early and prayed a rosary and then joined in on a weekly novena with the congregation. After Mass began I found myself, like always, switching mentally from distraction to meditation and back again. After passing the peace I kneeled and briefly checked out into some cerebral dead zone until I heard, “Behold the Lamb of God! Behold him . . . “. I snapped to attention and fixed upon the host being lifted and shown off in the simple ceremony of the celebration.

I felt my heart leap to my throat and had to choke back tears. I wanted to worship. I ached to pray. All I could come up with was, “You’re here. You’re here. And, I’m here to.” I was caught up in the presence of the Other. Perhaps there is a bit of hero worship in worship. All I wanted was to touch him, hold him, taste him. I held him in my trembling hand and I was not ashamed.

 

"Always keep lifting your foot to climb the ladder of holiness, and do not imagine that you can mount even the first step. All God asks of you is good will."

St. Therese of Lisieux

Words of Hope and Faith

Words of Hope and Faith