Givens Creative

Life at the intersection of faith, nature, history and art

Steve

Today’s Word: Here

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Merci, at Marianist Retreat Center. SJG photo.

Well, I haven’t posted one of these for a while…Don’t be shocked! I think it’s the warming spring weather…

Yesterday I took my first real walk of this early spring, a leisurely three-mile stroll around Mallard Lake at Creve Coeur Park near my house. I had my earbuds in, listening to Yo-Yo Ma’s recording of Dvorak’s Cello Concerto in B Minor (which quickened my pace right away with its triumphant beginning), but as I rounded the first corner of the loop nearing the footbridge, the music in my ears was overwhelmed by the music of thousands of frogs in a wetlands area. Let’s just say they were having a good time and were none too quiet about it. I stopped and considered how quickly life and its fecundity pick up when the weather starts to heat up. And I thought where I was standing. It was no place special with no particular beauty — just a bog of sorts — but certainly holy ground at that moment.  Here.

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Christ Has Come, Uninvited

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In a Nicaraguan Orphanage. SJG Photo.

It’s almost Christmas. It’s the fourth week of advent. And we wait. But for what?

Well, we say, we wait for the birth of Jesus, of course. We wait to welcome him again to the world because, unlike those people in Bethlehem 2,000 years ago, we would make room for him in the “inns” of our hearts. Good answer. But would we?

Actually, perhaps the better question is, “do we?” For certainly the opportunity still awaits us. In his essay, “The Time of the End is the Time of No Room,” Thomas Merton writes:

“Into this world, this demented inn, in which there is absolutely no room for Him at all, Christ has come uninvited. But because He cannot be at home in it, because He is out of place in it, and yet must be in it, His place is with those others for whom there is no room. His place is with those who do not belong, who are rejected by power because they are regarded as weak, those who are discredited, who are denied status as persons, who are tortured, bombed, and exterminated. With those for whom there is no room, Christ is present in the world.”

I’m not sure there has been another time in my 55 years that I have felt so much like I was living in a “demented inn.” The world seems wracked in pain — in war, terrorism and every conceivable kind of violence. And yet, Christ comes — has come and continues to come — to us all. Whether we invite him or not, whether we are aware or not, Christ is present. He is not far away, waiting on a high mountain for us to struggle up to him. He is not buried deep in the rubble of history waiting for us to excavate him. Rather, he is standing right beside us, waiting for us to turn toward him.

And when we do that and find him in the comfort of our warm homes, we must be aware of all the others to whom he has come as well. For if Christ lives in us, as we Christians so often claim, then it falls to us to be the sane room in the demented inn, available to others. It is up to us to present Christ to the world, and especially to those who seem to have no room to go to. If Christ’s place is with those who are weak and do not belong, then so is ours.

Chapel wall at Marianist Retreat and Conference Center by Br. Mel Meyer, SM. SJG photo.

For those who do not belong,
For those rejected by power,
For the weak and discredited,
For those denied status as persons,
For the tortured, bombed and exterminated,
For those who have no room,
For the immigrant,
For the victim,
For the persecuted,
For the unjustly accused,
For the ignored,
For those led into lives of violence,
Yes even them,
Christ comes.
Christ is present.
And where am I?

Standing at Edge of the World Singing

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Monochrome horizon, Lauderdale By the Sea. SJG photo.

I stand at the edge of the world
Sea and sand swirling ‘round my feet
Anchored by the weight of the pulling and swelling
Facing outward, toward a monochrome horizon
Ocean and sky barely distinguishable one from the other
A landscape that could have been sketched by a No. 2 pencil.

Hidden in plain view before the sand and the foam
I sing you a song only you can hear within the roar,
A song I’ve known from before I could even pronounce the words
Prayers from my Grandmother’s throat as she rocks me to sleep
A lullaby that lured me into a bigger life than I could possibly imagine.

And as I sing, blowing words into the wind that rush back into my mouth
The clouds shift ever so slightly, a last-ditch effort, it seems,
For a sunny day that has not been,
And I catch glimpses of something beyond
black, white, gray.

A gull’s beak, the color of a yield sign.
How had I missed that?
A soaring pelican with a hint of blue in its wing.
No, wait. Brown. Green.
There it is. Blue again.

Further out, white swimming buoys bob,
Nearly lost in the metallic except for the red icon of danger,
A warning not to be missed,
A signal that there is always something waiting, lurking
Something to be seen.

Looking closely at new life. SJG photo.

For if we look
Give ourselves over to standing still,
Paying attention,
Rejoicing in the present, recalling the past, peering ahead.
We are sure to see in all three directions at once.

What have I done?
What am I doing?
What should I do?
For you, maker of monochrome skies that hide rainbows.
For you, creator of gull beaks and pelican wings.
For you, hidden but right before my eyes.

Then sings my soul:
How great thou art.
How great thou art.

Today’s Word: Resonance

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Resonant Beauty, just outside Taos. SJG photo

Yesterday at mass at Assumption Church in Lauderdale By the Sea, Florida, (where we are visiting for a week) the musicians played a song that I hadn’t heard in many years, although it was popular back in the early days of “liturgical folk music” when I was coming of age as a Catholic and as a musician. Hearing its simple melody once again, something deep inside resonated, like I was connected once more to that earlier time. That’s what music does. It resounds in us as a myriad of elements — musical notes, chords, silences and words, but also memories, poetry, other bits of music — all come together to create something new. Taken separately, none of these elements are as powerful as when they come together and resonate in our hearts and heads.

This song, titled “All I Ask of You” and composed by Gregory Norbert and recorded by the Monks of Western Priory, includes this simple and prayerful refrain: “All I ask of you is forever to remember me as loving you.” But as those words and the voices of other worshippers poured over me, I realized that something even deeper was resonating in me — the meaning of the words.

What resonated was the thought that these few lines so simply and beautifully retold Jesus’ great commandment to us — that we are to love God with all of our hearts, minds and souls, and that we are to love those around us as much as we love ourselves.  If we could somehow reduce our lives to these essential elements of love, we could certainly begin to believe and hope that we had lived as God wants us to live. And we would be remembered for that.

All we ask (friends, family, colleagues, acquaintances, Facebook friends, strangers, neighbors, those in need, those with plenty) is that if you remember us, you will remember us as loving you. Nothing else matters.

All we ask (God) is that you remember us loving others and loving you. Nothing else matters.

Ask yourself in silence: How will those around me remember me? How will God remember me?

On the Road: San Francisco de Assisi Mission Church, Ranchos de Taos, New Mexico

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San Francisco de Assisi Mission Church, SJG photo.

Before even leaving for our trip to New Mexico, I knew one of our stops would be the majestic and oft-photographed San Francisco de Assisi Mission Church just outside of Taos. My good friend and mentor Fred Volkmann had shared his photos with me years ago, and I later learned that the mission church has been the subject of paintings by Georgia O’Keeffe and photos by Ansel Adams and Paul Strand, among countless others.

Construction on this adobe masterpiece began around the time of the American Revolution and was completed in 1815 by Franciscan missionaries in honor of their founder and patron, St. Francis of Assisi. Like all mission churches, it held a dual purpose. It was both a place of worship and served as protection from attack, in this case from Comanches. Today, it continues to serve as a parish church in the Santa Fe Diocese and is listed as a National Historic Landmark and designated as a World Heritage Site.

San Francisco de Assisi Mission Church, SJG photo.

And like all churches of its era, this is a sanctuary built (and rebuilt) by hand. Spanish colonists moved to the area in the mid-18th century from the larger settlement of the Taos Pueblo (unfortunately closed during our visit) and found fertile land for wheat and corn. They built their adobe homes from mud and straw around a central plaza to create community and for protection. The church, with its massive flowing buttresses and bell towers, occupies a place of importance and inspiration on the plaza. A thick adobe wall encircles the church and its small cemetery and forecourt.

The church remains in great condition, thanks to the continuing efforts of the parishioners, who have lovingly and authentically repaired and rebuilt it over the years. In fact, citizens, parishioners and visitors come together for two weeks every other year to re-mud the exterior, a job that can only be done by hand and with the knowledge that they are maintaining a spiritual and cultural home for generations to come.

St. Francis, looking in. SJG photo.

For all the advances of modern society and advanced building techniques and materials, the sight of this old adobe church basking and baking in the New Mexico sun was a reminder that the works of our hands, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, are meant for the service of others and for the glory of God.

[Thanks to the National Park Service website for historical information.]

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