calling

Today’s Word: Listen

Steve · August 10, 2014 · 9 Comments

Ibby's Butterfly Garden, Washington University in St. Louis. SJG Photo.

“If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts.” Psalm 95:7-8

If any of us were to hear the voice of God — really and truly hear it and know for sure what was being said and who was saying it — who among us could harden our hearts against it? Even an atheist would have a hard time resisting the pull and call of such a certain God.

But hearing the voice of God is, unfortunately, not so simple. Hearing the voice of God demands listening for the voice of God, an act of active contemplation that demands silence, attention and a willingness and openness to receive the divine. That in itself is an act of faith. We will never hear the voice of God until we get it in our heads and hearts what God might sound like — and not sound like. God is never the voice of anger, telling us to hate or kill in his name. God is not the voice telling us to judge others, to segregate and separate, to give privilege and abundance to some and allow disadvantage and poverty to others. The voice of God is much more challenging than that.

The voice of God is the voice that tells us to love beyond all else. It is the voice that calls us to union with itself and communion with all those around us. The voice of God tells us we have meaning and purpose, that we can be forgiven regardless of the sin and that we should forgive others over and over again, even if we cannot forget or accept what they have done. God’s voice calls out into the wilderness of our lives (and, yes, we all live in the wilderness…just watch the news): “There is a better way. There is more than all this. Come to me. Follow me.”

When you hear this today — and you will hear it in a dozen different ways if you will only listen — open your heart to it. Take it in like a breath of fresh air on a crisp fall morning and let it fill your life with a new message of love, hope, grace and peace.

Ask yourself in silence: What’s keeping me from hearing the voice of God?

Today’s Word: Fallow

Steve · June 22, 2014 · 13 Comments

Yesterday I shared with my spiritual direction peer supervision group that the last month or so I have experienced a lack of energy to do the things I really want to do. Following a period of intense prayer and productivity (I just finished a nine-month Ignatian 19^th annotation retreat and a graduate program in spiritual direction) I was experiencing difficulty and dryness in both prayer and writing.

At that point, one of my wise colleagues pointed out the need to “remain fallow” once in a while, to step back from even the best of things in order to replenish ourselves. When I looked up the definition of fallow, I was amazed at how well it matched my own situation:

Fallow: Plowed and harrowed but left unsown for a period in order to restore its fertility as part of a crop rotation or to avoid surplus production.

The truth is, I all too often equate my spiritual health with what I am “doing.” How many blog posts? How many pages in my journal? How’s that book project coming along? The planning for next fall’s retreat? These are all important things that need to get done, but they need to flow from my “down time” with God. They are the result of silence and prayer, not the source.

What I’ve come to realize is that it’s okay to not be productive for a while (and that’s a tough one for me). It’s okay to simply sit “fallow” with God in prayer, without agenda or even words, knowing that God is plowing and harrowing me, leaving me unsown in order to restore my fruitfulness at the time only God controls. God’s work, God’s time.

Ask yourself in silence: Do I need to make some time to just “be” with God?

Between the Lines: Holy Week, washing feet.

Steve · April 17, 2014 · Leave a Comment

St. Louis Cathedral Basilica. SJG photo.

In John 13:1-20, Jesus teaches his disciples a new way of living their lives, in service to others. No doubt he catches them off guard with both the subject and the way he teaches it. Supper’s over and they’re wondering, “what next?” Perhaps a story, he’s good at that. Perhaps a little more wine. Perhaps a song. But no, Jesus has something else in mind to end their evening together:

“Fully aware that the Father had put everything into his power and that he had come from God and was returning to God,he rose from supper and took off his outer garments. He took a towel and tied it around his waist. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feetand dry them with the towel around his waist.” (John 13:3-5).

And we wonder, what are you thinking, Jesus? In the midst of all this talk of body and blood and sacred meals you start washing feet…

What I was trying to teach them I am still trying to teach. Some people get it, some refuse to hear what I’m saying because it’s not convenient and falls outside of their understanding of what faith in me means. But the lesson is this: You don’t become like me by belonging to some exclusive inner circle, some elite club, nor by having the correct political views. To become like me, you must learn to strip down your lives to what is essential and give your self in service to others. You must do the jobs others don’t want to do, must risk getting dirty and involved in things you would rather ignore.

You should have seen the looks on their faces as I came around with a towel around my waist and carrying a basin of water. They had no idea — could not comprehend at first — what I was trying to teach them. And even when they figured it, they wanted nothing to do with it. “No, no,” Peter said, “Let me do it to you.” His time would come, but this was my time.

But it eventually came to them, for actions really do speak louder than words. I saw the lights go on in their eyes, like children learning something that is obvious to the rest of us for the first time. They got it: If you love me, serve others and put them first. Do for them what you would really rather not do. Wash their feet. Gently pour water over their hardened soles and get the dirt out from between their toes. Feel their callouses and blisters. Nurse their open wounds. Pat them dry and put their sandals back on so they can continue their journey. This is the kind of servant I need you to be. The first shall be last and the last, first. Be last. And I will draw you to myself in the fullness of time. I will never forget those who forget themselves for the sake of others.

Singer-songwriter Michael Card has a beautiful song about this story called “The Basin and the Towel,” which includes these lines that we should all memorize:

And the call is to community,
The impoverished power that sets the soul free.
In humility, to take the vow,
that day after day we must take up the basin and the towel.

Ask yourself in silence: How am I called to serve others? Where am I holding back because it’s uncomfortable?

Today’s Word: Offering

Steve · February 17, 2014 · 13 Comments

fish3 — Dried fish in Hong Kong market. SJG photo.

(Based on John 6:1-15)

I was sent to the market by my mother with very clear instructions: Buy five small barley loaves and two dried and salted fish. Nothing more. And come right back home. I was only 12 at the time, so I never could have imagined how much my life would change that day…

I was walking home from the market along the shore of the Galilee when I saw a crowd gathering, pointing toward a small boat just then coming ashore. As it beached, a couple of the men in the boat jumped out and hauled it the rest of the way in, away from the tide. They were fisherman, and I could smell the fish in their nets and on their clothes. People just kept coming and coming, running along the shore and from the market square, and I kept hearing one name over and over — Jesus. Jesus is here. The rabbi, the healer, the prophet. I had no idea who this man was, had never heard his name before. But here he was standing in front of me, the one that everyone else deferred to, pointed at, sought to get closer to. And I was right there, a pretty exciting thing for a kid from a small fishing village.

Today’s Word: Seeing

Steve · February 9, 2014 · 2 Comments

And then there was light. That’s all I know. There was light. SJG Photo.

Tell us that story again, Uncle Bartimaeus. Tell us how you were blind and then how you could see. Tell us so that we might believe…

I couldn’t see a thing, had never been able to see the sun or my father’s face. So I sat outside Jericho every day, next to the gate and across from the big tree where everyone gathered, and I awaited alms, prayed for prophets to pass, hoped for healing. I had nothing better to do. Because I am blind, some assumed I was an idiot, too, but I was not, am not. I’d heard of this Jesus, heard stories of him related by passersby who ignored me, listened as they talked of his miracles, of his gentle and healing hand.

So on that day I began to hear the buzz around noon that he was coming to town and might be heading my way. I staked out my place across from the tree. No one told me, of course, because no one paid attention to me at all back then except maybe to throw a mite my way once in a while. But I knew he was coming, knew before everyone else because I heard the crowd before it even turned the corner by the market stalls. I heard and knew — and began to believe — that he might actually pass my way.

When I could tell he was within earshot, I cried out, “Jesus, son of David, have pity on me.” And then a second time, when some were trying to hush me up, “Jesus, son of David, have pity on me.” Then there was just silence, my favorite sound, for in silence I find the real and the holy. For me, sacred always follows silence. I steeled myself, and I could sense all heads turning in my direction, all their cloaks swooshing toward me. I heard sandals shuffling, the dust flying in my face. I held my breath, as I always did, for I was used to life at ground level. Then someone said, “Take courage, he is calling you.”

And I remember thinking: calling me? No one calls me. No one knows my name. And what do you know about courage, anyway? Still, I threw aside my cloak and jumped to my feet, wishing I could see their faces, see how surprised they were to see me moving so quickly and deliberately. As if I was a person who mattered and should be paid attention to. Someone reached out and touched my arm, gently, and led me 15, 16, 17 steps…and we stopped. Silence again.

“What do you want me to do for you?” he asked. And that voice…that voice. What was it about that voice? Such authority and kindness. Eternal, somehow, as if it had always been here. I almost laughed but didn’t. What did he think I wanted?

“I want to see.”

And then there was light. That’s all I know. There was light.

(Mark 10:46-52)

Ask yourself in silence: What do I want from God? What do I need to see?