Under the Chapel

I have just returned from the Ministers' Retreat in New Norcia. The theme of the retreat was Jesus as Teacher. One of the reflection times was focussed on the topic of prayer. As well as a screed of thoughts, ranting and wonderings - this reflection emerged.

Under the Chapel

As I sit here pondering prayer;

it's point, it's purpose,

the pious parade passes

towards midday prayer.

I have chosen to be under the chapel,

within earshot,

an outside observer.

Footsteps approach and fade

on the weathered wood.

I close my eyes in the sun.

The chants begin 

like a warm fragrance,

muffled enough that the words

cannot rob the beauty.

Here,

the birds,

the wind in the trees

and the passing traffic

are part of the chorus.

I am thankful for those 

in the chapel;

their commitment,

their duty,

but I have no need to be there.

I am here,

under the chapel;

my eyes open,

my ears attuned.

I am at prayer.

Dancing with Someone

I picked up a book of daily meditations by Richard Rohr on the weekend and committed to reading one a day. I am often far from disciplined in my spiritual life and so when I find something that might keep me on track for a while I grab it. I've only been reading the meditations for three days, but am convinced that this book found me.

Yesterday's reading took me back a few years to a retreat I attended. The group was challenged to spend some time reflecting on what our soul space looked like. This soul space is the "place" that, at the best of times, is filled with God or the Spirit and, at the most difficult times, seems empty. At the time I imagined my soul space as a large ballroom. The space was largely unused as I sat quietly, and somewhat comfortably in the centre. My realisation during this reflection was that a ballroom is made for dancing. I began to see my relationship with the divine as a dance that filled that big, empty ballroom taking me uncomfortably out to the edges of the space.

Yesterday's meditation from Richard Rohr was about a different kind of knowing God. He says, "God becomes more a verb than noun, more a process than a conclusion, more an experience than a dogma, more a personal relationship than an idea. There is Someone dancing with you, and you no longer need to prove to anyone that you are right, nor are you afraid of mistakes." What a beautiful image!

I can't say that I am the most comfortable dancer. It often takes a few drinks at a wedding to get me on the dance floor, but once I'm there I enjoy it. Dancing is about the experience, the relationship, being vulnerable and being held. This is how I view my relationship with God. God is not in the audience watching and waiting for my mistakes, but there dancing with me and part of the movement.

The reading for today was about prayer. This is another part of my spiritual life that I often struggle with. I have often been cynical about prayer and how it can be used abusively in churches. Part of my job each week is to choose or write prayers that connect with the people in my congregations. So often, words seem inadequate. I am far more comfortable lighting a candle, dropping a rock in water or sitting in silence. These days my personal prayer life has no words. I sit in quiet. I close my eyes and soak up the warmth of the sun. I watch intently for the signs of God around me. I listen. I gaze on God and allow God to gaze on me.

Richard Rohr comments that we sometimes make prayer "a pious exercise that somehow makes God happy, or a requirement for entry into heaven." Maybe this is why I often feel cynical about prayer. He goes on to say, "It is much more like practicing heaven now." What could be more heavenly than dancing with God, no words needed. In this ballroom there is freedom and life. In the dance there is passion and spirit. In the movement there is rhythm and intimacy. How would it be to imagine our spiritual journey not as linear with a goal up ahead, but as a dance circling and turning within us?

A Lament from the Understorey

O God of my life, 
I yearn for your light.
These people have lost sight of your face.
They stand tall in the valley and mask the sun's rays.
Their shadows are cast over me,
smothering me in near darkness.
I do not know from where the sun rises,
or to where it sets.
Without your light I am lost
and left sitting in my own disappointment.
And so, I await your wind of change
that blows where it will.
I await the old leaves that will fall at my feet.
I await the opening canopy above
and your warm rays tickling my senses once more.
And when the day is bright around me
remind me of the humility of being
part of the understorey.
Amen.

How do we speak of God?

One of the topics that has arisen at times during the Common Dreams conference is how we speak of God. The opinions amongst the delegates were extremely diverse. Some have gone to the extreme of describing God as a human-made construct, while others want to hold on to a God that is real, perhaps even tangible. This, of course, has implications for many aspects in our faith life. One of these is prayer. 

One of the lectures we had was on the topic of "Praying when God is not a person: Non-theistic prayer". Although it was an interesting presentation, I was left wondering what the purpose of prayer might be and who or what God was in order that we would even choose to pray. Today, I got some clues.

Margaret Mayman, from New Zealand (but soon to move to Sydney), spoke about critical realism when speaking of God. She shared an excerpt talking of God that included the following. "Not as real as daisies, but as real as 'I love you'" God is certainly real, but cannot be expressed or even given evidence for. There is something about this way of trying to understand God that is more... More than I  can get a grip upon. 

Bruce Sanguin also offered a very helpful reflection. He expressed that "God is not a person, but is deeply personal". He concludes that God cannot be less than personhood, but is also more. Sanguin told us about Ken Wilber's "1,2,3 of God". God is described in three persons; the one speaking (first person "I am"), the one spoken to (second person "beloved other") and the one spoken about (third person "source of life, energy, light etc."). What a fascinating way to reinterpret the Trinity. 

Sanguin expressed his concern that the progressive movement has tended to forget about the second person of God, the beloved other. This is the God to whom we devote our attention. To reclaim and remember the beloved is to find a place for prayer and contemplation. This image of God does not have to be like a person, but is deeply personal. This person of God is the object of our love, attention and devotion. This is the God that is more than words can express, but closer than our heartbeat.

Dwelling Places

Just over a week ago we were privileged to have Sarah Agnew with us from South Australia. On the Sunday afternoon we had a workshop on Writing Prayers. Sarah encouraged us to reflect on one of two passages from scripture and to write a prayer. I spent time meditating on the first few verses of Psalm 84. With so much activity happening in our family's life regarding selling and buying houses at the moment, I was quite taken with the image of God being our dwelling place. This is the prayer I ended up writing.

God, you are our dwelling place.
We come home to you.
We have longed for your warming fires,
and your place of rest.
You are where our story begins and ends.
In you is a deep knowing,
a familiarity with all our ways.
Connected in intimacy,
nurturing and feeding,
You are my dwelling place, O God.
Amen.