Today is the feast of the Annunciation. Today we remember Gabriel's announcement to Mary that she would become pregnant before marriage and raise an extraordinary son.
As I read the Gospel passage, I'm drawn to three phrases of Gabriel's. Three times he seems to offer a blessing or reassurance, and each time reminds me that these words are needed precisely because things are about to get hard.
"Greetings, favored one!" An angel appears from nowhere. Or perhaps he knocks and walks in, a stranger. However he arrives, he is not familiar. The favor he announces is in fact a honor that her neighbors will see as disgrace. This fits the upside-down world of the Gospel, where God's values break into a world that runs on other principles. But for this young girl, as for many of us, the good news doesn't initially feel like favor.
"The Lord is with you." This familiar phrase may sound comforting to us, who hear it in church over and over, but as I ponder it I'm unnerved. The immensity of God, the awesome power of the creator, is here with me? Far from snuggling into my chair, I want to fall on the ground. Perhaps we sing "lift up your hearts" after invoking God at the Eucharist precisely because the first announcement should have us on the floor in terror.
But then we get the third good word. If we've survived meeting the messenger and realizing God is with us, then comes this: "Don't be afraid."
This is always a bad sign. No one tells us to not be afraid unless there's something to be afraid of.
"You have found favor with God."
Well, who wouldn't want that? But we know what that means. It's the beginning of a lifetime of challenges and fears and disappointments. It's the beginning of grief. Later, joy will come in the morning, but even that joy can't eclipse the sheer bewilderment, the utter bafflement of seeing your Son resurrected from the dead. Mary will know great joy and great pain. The one thing she is not likely to know is the simple comfort of an ordinary life.
Today begins Mary's journey to the cross and beyond. The favor bestowed on her is the favor of an extraordinary life, of fears faced and loves embraced. Her favor is surprise and wonder, both at what happens to her and at what she herself is capable of. It's a fearsome, daunting favor she receives.
May you be favored today with the extraordinary potential of your ordinary life. May you find courage to enter whole-heartedly into God's dream for you. May you be an angel in turn.
Happy Annunciation!
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Why I pray with my eyes closed
Well, first I want to say: I can't believe how long it's been since I wrote!
I've been thinking about this topic for a while, but just never got to it.
As a child I learned to pray by bowing my head and closing my eyes. Of course, as an Episcopalian I was in a church with lots of books and words that needed saying. So in church we were supposed to pray with our eyes open and our mouths speaking, except maybe for the Lord's Prayer. Once you learned the responses, perhaps you might close your eyes, but to be safe not to make mistakes you'd really better keep them open. So private prayer and corporate prayer were different, not only in who was there, but in which senses we used.
Now, I gave up bowing my head long ago, except where it would be a scandal not to. I pray best with my eyes closed, with my head up.
Why?
I recently heard an interview with a woman who has written on the experience of being blind. She is not herself blind, but she spent a year working with and talking to students at a school for people without sight. She said that she learned that sighted people experience the "world," while blind people experience "consciousness." What she meant is that the visual sense is so dominant when it is working that it puts other senses into the periphery of experience. Further, vision presents a world "outside me," in which things appear to be separate and discrete. When vision recedes, however, other senses - sound, touch, taste, smell - become more prominent. These senses work in ways that erode the neat boundary between inner and outer. People without sight live in a world where consciousness is more accessible, precisely because the "outer" world is not so insistent in its presentation.
When I heard this, I knew finally how to explain why I pray the way I do.
When I pray with my eyes closed, and my face raised, I feel the light of God on my face. Even in the dark, it's there.
When I pray with eyes closed and another reading, I can let the words enter my heart more directly.
When I pray with my eyes closed, I feel any breath of breeze, any movement of Spirit around me.
When I pray with my eyes closed, smells are vivid and rich.
When I pray with my eyes closed, I rarely taste anything other than my empty mouth. But I do experience my emptiness in a different way. I'm open in my emptiness, not defending against it.
When I pray with my eyes closed, I am not separate from the world around me.
When I pray with my eyes closed, I am not cutting myself off from you. I'm connecting with you in a deeper way, as I listen to you and sense your restlessness or your peace. I'm just with you.
When I pray with my eyes closed, I'm in a whole world in which God is as visible as I am, as you are.
When I worship with others, I need to keep my eyes open much of the time. When I lead worship, I need to keep them open almost all of the time. But there are still times - before we begin, during readings, when others are leading the prayers, after communion - when I can close my eyes and be with you, and with You, in a deeper way. I'm experiencing consciousness, in which we are all one.
Don't get me wrong. I love icons. They can help me focus and connect when my monkey mind is running around. Our visual sense is a source of joy too. But I, personally, need to pray with my eyes closed.
God bless you in your prayer, however you pray, every day.
I've been thinking about this topic for a while, but just never got to it.
As a child I learned to pray by bowing my head and closing my eyes. Of course, as an Episcopalian I was in a church with lots of books and words that needed saying. So in church we were supposed to pray with our eyes open and our mouths speaking, except maybe for the Lord's Prayer. Once you learned the responses, perhaps you might close your eyes, but to be safe not to make mistakes you'd really better keep them open. So private prayer and corporate prayer were different, not only in who was there, but in which senses we used.
Now, I gave up bowing my head long ago, except where it would be a scandal not to. I pray best with my eyes closed, with my head up.
Why?
I recently heard an interview with a woman who has written on the experience of being blind. She is not herself blind, but she spent a year working with and talking to students at a school for people without sight. She said that she learned that sighted people experience the "world," while blind people experience "consciousness." What she meant is that the visual sense is so dominant when it is working that it puts other senses into the periphery of experience. Further, vision presents a world "outside me," in which things appear to be separate and discrete. When vision recedes, however, other senses - sound, touch, taste, smell - become more prominent. These senses work in ways that erode the neat boundary between inner and outer. People without sight live in a world where consciousness is more accessible, precisely because the "outer" world is not so insistent in its presentation.
When I heard this, I knew finally how to explain why I pray the way I do.
When I pray with my eyes closed, and my face raised, I feel the light of God on my face. Even in the dark, it's there.
When I pray with eyes closed and another reading, I can let the words enter my heart more directly.
When I pray with my eyes closed, I feel any breath of breeze, any movement of Spirit around me.
When I pray with my eyes closed, smells are vivid and rich.
When I pray with my eyes closed, I rarely taste anything other than my empty mouth. But I do experience my emptiness in a different way. I'm open in my emptiness, not defending against it.
When I pray with my eyes closed, I am not separate from the world around me.
When I pray with my eyes closed, I am not cutting myself off from you. I'm connecting with you in a deeper way, as I listen to you and sense your restlessness or your peace. I'm just with you.
When I pray with my eyes closed, I'm in a whole world in which God is as visible as I am, as you are.
When I worship with others, I need to keep my eyes open much of the time. When I lead worship, I need to keep them open almost all of the time. But there are still times - before we begin, during readings, when others are leading the prayers, after communion - when I can close my eyes and be with you, and with You, in a deeper way. I'm experiencing consciousness, in which we are all one.
Don't get me wrong. I love icons. They can help me focus and connect when my monkey mind is running around. Our visual sense is a source of joy too. But I, personally, need to pray with my eyes closed.
God bless you in your prayer, however you pray, every day.
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