Memorial Mass brings memorable moments

Last Saturday I went to a memorial Mass celebrating the life and death of a long-time friend with whom I'd been out of touch. It was one of those situations where, despite the fact I hadn't seen or really talked to her for some years, I still felt close. She was a marvelous person who had a great deal of influence on me, especially in my younger years. (She was a good 15 or so years older than I.) I could write a lot about her and how she touched me, but at this point I'll just reflect on my experience at the Mass.

Joyce was a woman of great vision who at the same time was always connected with present reality, so I wasn't surprised that she had picked out the readings and music for her own funeral. Others have done that, but the effect on me this day was surprising. Part of it was the music, part of it the readings, part of it the text she chose for her funeral card, and part of it the fact the presider was a close friend who wove the scriptures and personal memories together in his homily.

All of this came together to give me an almost tangible sense of her presence; it was as though I could see her there in our midst. It also combined to give me a one-word key to her life, and that was love. I'd never thought of that specifically about her. In my mind she was generous, stimulating, visionary, calm, usually "out of the box"...... Now I could see that all she did came from a deep, all-embracing love of God. This love was manifested in ways that, while often out of step with most of society, were integral to her understanding of and her relationship with this infinite Being whose ways could never be limited.

I was grateful too that this Mass brought together many people whom I knew long ago, often because of our mutual friendship with Joyce. I find it a gift to have wonderful experiences of our past resurrected to be enjoyed again in a new way, and that's another one of the things that this day brought. Indeed, Joyce, both in her life and in her death, was a memorable gift.

a ky monk

Notes from God

Today at morning prayer a couple of things caught my attention in the psalms. The first thing was this line:
    By day you hand down your steadfast love,
     and at night your song is with me,
     a prayer to the God of my life. (Ps. 42)

The psalmist is telling me God sings a prayer within me, especially at night when
things are supposed to be quieting down. The song is one of praise to the very one
who is the Source of all love and all gifts, the "God of my life."

This gives me another slant on those bits and pieces of music that drift in and out
of my days. Some are bits from my own mind, others are remnants of hymnody
we used at liturgy, while others may be random memories from who knows where.
If I pay attention, any of them could literally be a "note from God". Instead of finding
them annoying, as I do at times (especially if I don't like the song!), next time I'll try
to hear what truth might be hiding behind the words, what insights the melody
might be offering me. Maybe there's a mini-prayer there!

a ky monk

Jesus: God's Invitation to Listen

In a post a while back I said I'd been asked to do a presentation about listening at a retreat. During preparation a number of insights came to me, and I thought a few could be worth noting here. For some readers they may not be especially insightful, but they were for me.

As I reflected on the act of real listening, I understood that it involves conscious steps: hearing  some message, taking it into myself, making it part of me in some way, then performing some action such as paying more attention to someone who is present or even changing something in myself; the action depends upon what the message is calling me toward. (These steps are what distinguish listening from hearing. The latter may bring some sound in, but nothing happens that affects me; there's no conscious action on my part. Some writers noted how hard listening is, one going so far as to say, tongue in cheek, that no one really listens, and if we tried it, we'd understand why!)

Amidst all these observations came the notion that much of what we listen to are words. Then the thought of Jesus as Word entered the mix. It dawned on me that one way to look at the incarnation is that Jesus is God's invitation to listen; he is the perfect Word! Next came the thought that Jesus was not only God's complete Word, but the perfect Listener because he did the will of his father totally and completely.

Since I am part of Christ's body, I share in this mysterious reality. I am to be God's word as well as one who listens to God's word wherever I am. This is quite a challenge to reflect on and try to make part of my daily living.

a ky monk

Looking for God

This morning I was struck by a passage from Psalm 48. The psalmist told listeners walk through Zion, go all around it, count its towers... basically, to consider their surroundings so they might know God as the one who guards them forever and ever.

I never thought about it before, but this is a reminder to reflect, to contemplate, to open ourselves to our environment because God is there with us on our journey. I'd not been aware of the psalmist giving that kind of advice; I'll have to pay more attention.

Many decades ago Bro. David Steindle-Rast, a Benedictine retreatmaster and author, told our retreat group that contemplation was listening to the conversation between our feet and the sidewalk. This spoke volumes to me. It had been a kind of guiding light in my spirituality; it still is. Weeds fighting thru cracks in the sidewalk,  the ornamentation of sewer lids, the motley faces that pass by -- these and so much more reflect God. This is a gift. The constant challenge is to increase my awareness of this sacred reality.

a ky monk
 

Seems death has been making the rounds recently in my small corner of our world. We've had 3 community members die since December. In my last blog I commented on the death of Bishop Hughes and the impact he had on my life. Today another acquaintance died. This one, Sara, had recently become more of a friend; I was growing in a deep appreciation of her -- her gentleness, her humor, her fidelity, and her patience with suffering. (She had cancer.)

It was just Friday that I found out Sara was dying, so I made arrangements to go over and visit with her in her home. When I walked in I was struck silent by how close she looked to leaving this earth that she embraced so vibrantly. I knew she loved music, particularly mine, so I had taken along some appropriate pieces to sing to her. I did that, but she couldn't acknowledge with any kind of response. (She did have tears running from her eyes, but when I inquired from her daughter, she said that happens on frequent occasions since her stroke. I figure it could have been a response to the music or it might not. No matter.)

The next day, today, I was shown a little memoir about her mother that Sara had written. I read almost the entire thing in one sitting, and Sara's personna just jumped out and danced in my mind. I wished I had known about the book sooner. I wanted to tell her what delight I found in its pages and how much it revealed about her, not just her mama. In between jobs during the day I kept thinking I wanted to go over and tell Sara how much I enjoyed her writing. Even tho she might not understand, there was a chance she might, so I wanted to tell her. I couldn't get away. Then this afternoon Sara died.

One of the losses death can bring is the loss of potential, the loss of the possibilites
that exist in every relationship. I will miss Sara, not only for her bright eyes and quiet smile, but for all that she bore within that I didn't know about. I didn't "tune in" to her soon enough. She is a treasure that was just beginning to be unearthed in my personal garden. Thank you, Sara, and thank you, God. Help me to learn from this to start knowing people sooner.

a ky monk

Death brings both shared pain and treasured memories

Yesterday evening I had a beautiful, sad experience. The bishop who many years ago hired me for a leadership position in our diocese was laid out in the cathedral, and many of his friends and co-workers gathered with the current bishop to celebrate a vigil service. He was a marvelous man and a bishop who saw his role as that of a "servant of the people of God," embracing Vatican II's definition of church. The gift he was to so many was evident in the faces of those who came to honor and pray for him.

I and many others experienced a bittersweet joy in greeting each other, recalling our working alongside him, sharing with him the major challenges and sweet delights of navigating the post-vatican II developments of our church. The pain of loss was evident among us.

As the eulogist said, he gave us a powerful lesson in letting go as the institutional Church began to shift over the years to a stronger emphasis on structure and a stricter interpretation of tradition. All of us who knew and loved him, and who embraced his understanding of church, now have a challenge. We need to learn, as he did, what to let go of and what to hold on to amidst changes already here and those still pending. May the Spirit who strengthened him be the spirit that strengthens us.

a ky monk

Musings about Listening

Once again, my apologies to any readers. I keep hoping to be more consistent, and my hopes get swamped with the daily, weekly and monthly to-do's. Today is Ash Wednesday. Who knows. Maybe my lenten resolutions will get me to these pages more often. Here's my first attempt at some regularity this Lenten season. We'll see how it goes.

I've been asked to do a reflection on listening for a small retreat group next month, and my mind is already becoming more sensitive to the topic. I pick up references to it more often in the psalms,  music lyrics, and in my own random meanderings.

An image crept into my mind yesterday that I want to think about for a bit and see where it leads: it's "listening as breathing." When we breathe, we take in air and it becomes part of us. When we listen, we take in something -- words, ideas, information, attitude, desires -- and it becomes part of us. I want to think about that.

Like the air we breathe, does everything we hear become part of us in some way? If we don't want it to, can we control that? Does what we'd rather not hear leave a residue despite our best efforts?

Only a few highly trained individuals can really control their breathing. The rest of us can stop for a while, but soon our body will step in and force us breathe.  We can't physically close our ears like we can hold our breath, so do we have to hear? What's the difference between hearing and listening? How does our free will enter into the act of listening? What happens differently within us when we choose to listen and when we choose not to do so?

I'll think about this. If any readers want to add any thoughts to this process, please feel free to do so. You can help me shape my reflections, and I'd appreciate that.

a ky monk