Silent Night

 

For me, music is the center of Christmas.  Music brings me to presence, it gets inside of me - or comes from inside of me, I don’t know which.  Or both.  In music, inside and outside meet.  

Just as music is the center of Christmas, Silent Night is the center of the music.  Silent Night marks the pivot point between Advent and Christmas, the time of quiet and stillness in which Christ steals into the physical plane.  

The service begins with full lighting.  The church is full of wreaths and boughs of pine and red ribbons, and maybe candles at each pew.  Sometimes there is incense, just enough to get the scent without causing too much sneezing. 

We open with a vigorous hymn:  “O Come All Ye Faithful,” usually.  Then comes “Angels We Have Heard on High,”  and the readings and the sermon.  There is another hymn before the Gospel, and an anthem before the communion.   As we move into the Great Thanksgiving and turn toward communion we keep singing, ancient words of praise.  Then, with a little quiet organ music, we go forward to receive the Body and Blood of this newly born Christ.  It’s all magical, capturing even the people who don’t really believe the official version; they can feel and hear that something special is happening.

But for me, the peak of the service comes after communion.  We each return to our pew and kneel in silence. The lights are turned down, or off.   In the quiet and dark, candles are lit.  We each received a small candle on entering the church, and now the flame is passed from person to person.  We hold our candles, and we sing “Silent Night.”  It is slow and gentle, moving up and down the scale, floating up and pausing.  It’s like holding your breath, only you’re singing.

“Love’s own true light.” “Radiant beams from thy holy face.”  “Sleep in heavenly peace.”  Light and sound come together.  I can see the light, as gentle as the sound.  I can feel the presence of God, within me and around me.  I could kneel here forever, but now it’s time to go.

  After Silent Night has been sung, the closing prayer signals a return to normal time.  Our breath is moving again now, as we prepare for “Joy to the World” and its busier descant.  There’s a place for all of these moods, all of these songs.  Send me out with joy and alleluias; but first gather me in with silence and peace.  I’ve had my moment, and I carry it in my heart until I can get home and be quiet again.

Sometimes I’ve been in places where they don’t sing Silent Night after communion.  It’s never felt right to me.  Silent Night is for this moment, this quiet and peace before we stand and prepare to leave.  Time stands still here.

When we don’t sing Silent Night after communion, I go home in peace anyway.  I stand out under the stars, and I sing it softly to myself, to the universe.  That’s the real moment of Christmas, where the stars and the song join together.  Heaven opens, and angels pour down.

Anniversaries

 I know I haven't been writing here very often, but I really need to today.  December 12 is a major feast for me.  It is the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, She who watches over the peoples of the Americas.  This would be lovely in itself, but it's not the reason it's huge for me.  December 12 is the date of two major anniversaries in my life, the twins pillars of my vocation.

On December 12, 2020, I became a postulant at the Community of St. John Baptist in New Jersey.  This is the beginning of the monastic journey, as the entrant learns about the life and discerns whether this path might be right.  For me it was a moment of being embraced.  I came into the little chapel and stood before the Superior, and she led me through a short declaration of my intent and the community's reception.  The novice director led me to my new stall in choir, where I found my prayer book and a little card, handmade.  Beside an icon of Mary were the words in gold: "Behold the handmaid of the Lord."  On the back were my name, the date, and my postulancy.  I still have that card on my desk.  I see it every day and give thanks.

On December 12, 2009, I was ordained to the priesthood in the Episcopal Church.  At that point I was living apart from the community, and a year later I was "dispensed" from my vows.  The Church could say that, but I knew that my vows were for life, to God; I just didn't know how and where I would live them out.  Eventually God sent me to Elizabeth and we built a new container.  But on that day in 2009, the Sisters were there along with my several church communities.

For years I've said that my monastic vocation is the deepest layer, that my priesthood is secondary to that.  But this year that has changed.  I'm sensing now that the whole journey is one thing, one big God arc.  When I entered the convent people said I should be a priest.  I said no, for many years.  And that was right: I had a lot to learn before I could even begin that process.  I still do.  But priesthood is not secondary.  It's just as much a part of me as my vows and my hunger for God.  It's all one.  

So I wonder: are there threads in your life that look disparate, even opposed, that might instead be one tapestry that God is weaving under your very nose?  Where does tension point to new integration beckoning?

I am eternally grateful to the CSJB Sisters, and to Phillip Wilson and the Church of the Redeemer, and to David Desmith and St. David's Church, to confessors and directors and mentors and everyone who walked with me on that journey.  And I give thanks for all those who continue with me now, and show me more when I think I'm done.  And I give thanks for Guadalupe, watching and guiding me.

May God bless you and keep you; may God make her face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you; may God lift up her countenance to you, and give you peace.

 

Welcome to Advent!

 Here in West Park, we have been longing for Advent.  At its origin Advent was 40 days long, like Lent, beginning on November 12.  By the 13th century, however, the four-week Advent had become the norm in the West.  Over time the longer Advent became forgotten.  However, with the Revised Common Lectionary, the last three weeks of "ordinary time" do introduce the theme of ending and return.  There is a small but growing movement to restore this longer Advent.  We've decided to join.

One of the virtues of this shift is that we get a few weeks before the full cultural insanity of Christmas takes over.  Advent now is not only shorter than its origin; its meaning and power are eclipsed by the larger social context in which many of us live.  Beginning Advent early lets us begin to reflect and anticipate, and the longer season deepens our awareness of what is to come.

Of course, this is all hypothetical for us, as we begin this experiment, but it's our hope - an Advent word!  And don't we need that now?

So what does this mean?  We began our liturgical new year last Sunday.  We have begun using our office for Advent at Matins and Vespers, with appropriate antiphons and hymns and prayers.  We haven't begun to light candles yet; we just got started!  We are changing the altar colors.  We are pondering what other changes we might make to mark this time: not as penitential as Lent, but meaningful.

If you are curious about this shift and how to do it, here's a good place to start:  

http://www.theadventproject.org

It's never too early to pray: Come, Lord Jesus.

Renewal

 I'm returning from two months sabbatical.  Most of it was at home, so it wasn't a complete get-away, but that proved to be useful.  Time away is relaxing, and may lead to insight, but the real point for me is to renew and deepen my commitment to the monastic life, to the Companions, and to life with Elizabeth.  In our daily lives we get on tracks that may not serve us, and without time to reflect and talk they turn into ruts.

I did get some time away, at the beginning and the end, but I did not get the extended trips I had planned.  And because I didn't, I was available for other opportunities: an Enneagram workshop that opened up a lot for me, and a weekly writers' group that is teaching me and inspiring me.  And because I was here, Elizabeth and I could have good conversations.  Together, over these past five months, we have indeed been renewed.

Which leads me to what I want to focus on.

We had gotten used to people not joining us in residential monastic life.  Elizabeth held out hope that someone would come, but I was frankly resigned.  I had stopped talking or writing about it, and I was open to the possibility that God really wanted us to be the only ones, to be the seeds for the larger Companions community, which is indeed growing.  But the sabbatical reignited that desire in me.  When I told Elizabeth, she immediately said, "Yes! We need to tell people again!"  So here I am.

I know this may not seem the time to be considering whether you have a monastic vocation, but I think it's perfect.  COVID is shaking us all up, sometimes forcing us to reconsider our priorities and choices.  And the conviction of call, the mutual discernment, are slow processes.  So now may not be the time to visit (unless you've quarantined for two weeks!), but it may be the time to ask yourself, is this something I have put off, or put away in a dark corner of my mind?  Might God be inviting me to "sell all" to buy the pearl of great price?  Might I dare to look?

This question is not just for women.  We decided long ago that if men felt a vocation we were open.  If you are trans or non-binary, same thing.  We are interested in you, and in what God is up to in you.

You may be thinking you're too old.  Well, I don't know.  I'm no spring chicken myself.  The question is, are you young enough at heart to be open, to be a beginner, to trust others in your life?  Are you brave enough to try?

I don't know.  You may have other objections.  But if you feel the nudge, give us a shout and let's talk about it.  We are not out to harm you; if it feels wrong, we will tell you.  But it just might be right.

Our email is companionsma@gmail.com.  Start praying; if not for yourself, please pray for others to find their way, and for us to be ready to receive them.  God bless you in your vocation, whatever it may be.

In the Boat

 I keep thinking about last Sunday's Gospel (Matthew 14:22-33).  There's just so much in this story.  It's easy to make it into a simple point:  Get out of the boat!  Trust Jesus!  But going to "the point" cuts out so much that's worth pondering.

Why does Jesus send the disciples on ahead?  There's no one answer.  Today I'm going with: the whole thing is an experiment, for them to see what life is like without him.  They set off, and things get hard: the wind blows against them.  They row harder.  It's not working.  At this point they're not afraid; they're just tired and stressed.

Then Jesus comes strolling along.  He's not struggling.  He's cruising.  Now they're afraid: this makes no sense.  Is that a ghost?  He says no, it's me.  Peter isn't sure, but he's willing to be convinced: if it's you, command me to do what you're doing.

Now, I love this moment.  It sounds like a test, and in a way it is, but if Peter didn't already believe somehow he wouldn't risk meeting the challenge.  A demon could command him to get out of the boat, and he'd be fish food.  But when Jesus says "Come," he does.  He already believes that this is Jesus, albeit doing things he's never seen him do.  He doesn't follow perfectly, but he does follow.  He gets to experience walking on water.  I bet he remembers this after Jesus has left.

The other disciples don't even try to get out of the boat.  They, not Peter, are the ones of "little faith."  They'd rather stay in their boat than risk following Jesus in this crazy way.  Row, row, row.  Keep trying.  Do what makes sense.

The other night I dreamed I was driving a truck.  It was older, beaten up, but functional.  I turned onto a road that got really bad quite quickly, but I trusted the truck, and I trusted my ability to drive the truck through this bad spot.  But suddenly the road ended, washed out.  Before me was a pool, almost a pond. There was no way forward for the truck, or for me, unless I swam.  I tried to back out, and the front of the truck - the drive mechanism, the engine - came off and stayed stuck in the mud.  I knew I'd have to walk back out.  That's where the dream ended.

Truck.  Boat.  It's the same thing.  I think I can drive this puppy, I can handle the rough road on my own with my old familiar tools.  But I'm ignoring the signs telling me this road is a mess.  I pass two people who watch me go by.  For all I know they could have helped me, but I'm certain I can do this.  I'm in my boat/truck: I've got this!  Until I don't.

For me this week, Matthew is talking about the contrast between rowing on my own and walking with Jesus.  Jesus knows the easier, softer way.  It involves a lot of prayer, a close connection to God.  Both ways involve effort, but in the end Jesus' way works when mine doesn't.

Now I'm walking back out to a more open, stable place, and asking God to direct me.  Show me where to go, and how.  I will do my best to listen and follow.  How about you?

Come, Let us Sing to our God!

 

Holy Currents

I'm reading Eric Law's book, Holy Currencies, while attending the Kaleidoscope Institute annual conference (via Zoom, of course).  When I read the daily office reading from Acts yesterday (3:-1-11), I was reminded of what he says about currencies.

Law explains that the idea of money as "currency" originated about 400 years ago.  The word derives from  "current," and the reason for the name is that, like water, money only helps when it flows.  Money is not to be hoarded, but to be passed along.  If it doesn't flow, it begins to stagnate and rot.

Seen in this way, Law argues that money is only one of many "currencies" that enrich and sustain people.  Just as important are things like relationships, truth, wellness.  These flow like money; they too are currencies.  We may lack some of them, but we can build on those we do have.

In the reading, Peter and John are walking toward the temple when they meet a lame man who asks them for alms.  Peter and John "looked intently at him" and Peter said, "I have no silver or gold, but what I have I give you; in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, stand up and walk."  And the man stands up and walks, and leaps, and praises God.

In his condition, the only thing the lame man can imagine that might help him is money.  He has people who lay him at the gate so he can beg, but apparently no one who can or will support him so he need not.  He asks for the only currency he can expect.  Peter and John, however, have received the Holy Spirit.  And, like money, it cries out to be shared.  It manifests here as the capacity for wellness, for healing.  Rather than turning away and saying, "I can't help," they give what they have - which turns out to be so much more than any money they might have given!

So I'm thinking about the Holy Spirit, and all the ways she flows for the health of the body of Christ.  I'm wondering about what currencies I have, and what I can share and give away.  I think language is one of mine, so I'm trying to share with you.  That's bound up with relationships - even with those of you I don't know, don't correspond with.  I'm offering what I have received.  But where else can I enter the circuit of gift?  Where do you, can you, will you?

Go, be a blessing.  You will receive more than you can imagine.