Prayer

Today’s Word: Peace

Steve · September 20, 2013 · 1 Comment

Such an overused, overworked word is peace. Whether between nations, between individuals or within us, peace does not come easy, quickly or simply. Peace, William Butler Yeats wrote in his poem, The Lake Isle of Innisfree, “comes dropping slow, dropping from the veils of morning to where the cricket sings.” The peace of mind, soul and heart that we seek within ourselves takes its time and comes, not upon demand like so much else in our lives, but when we slowly and deliberately open ourselves to its possibility as a gift. It is a treasured commodity, a gift of highest worth, and so we must seek and work for peace. We must apply ourselves to peace. We must leave ourselves open and wait for peace.

Peace, like God, is ours for the taking, for the acceptance, for the willingness on our part to seek it out and find it. For most of us, that means seeking time in silence, whether in the quiet of a small room or chapel or in the hush of nature. Yeats sought this peace on his beloved Irish island, where he knew it would be quiet enough to “hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore…in the heart’s deep core.” We need to get away, to hear the water lapping, to listen to the quiet voice that whispers in our heart’s deep core. For we cannot be fully ourselves, cannot be fully aware of all that is present in our lives, without this peace that comes by abandoning ourselves to the silence of prayer and time alone with God.

Ask yourself in silence: When and where will I make time today to listen to my heart’s deep core?

Today’s Word: Labyrinth

Steve · September 15, 2013 · 8 Comments

Yesterday, while at an ecumenical day of reflection for spiritual directors, I had the opportunity to walk a labyrinth at Mercy Center in St. Louis. I’ve heard and read about labyrinths, but this was my first time experiencing one. Unlike an English garden maze, which I have experienced (and it was frustrating and a little scary…) a labyrinth offers only one path and it’s not out to trick you or get you lost. There are no high hedges to hem you in, only parallel rows of white rocks and a mulched walkway. There’s only one way in and one way out. So setting my own pace and simply following the path, I was moved — however rambling — toward the labyrinth’s peaceful center under a tree.

There’s nothing inherently mystical or sacred about a labyrinth, for it’s the intention and attention of the walker that makes the path holy. But I found it to be a gentle, guiding tool for meditation on the movement of God in my life, a meaningful melding of the spiritual and the physical.

labyrinth1 — Labyrinth at Mercy Center, St. Louis. SJG photo

It is, of course, an apt metaphor for our spiritual journey, for only by continuing to walk and trusting the path we are on and its Creator can we reach the center where God waits for us, patient as a friend and lover. And like the labyrinth, God is not out to trick us or set traps for us, for when following the way of Christ (“I am the way, the truth and the life…”) we do not need to worry about which way to turn, as long as we keep to the path. The call of the labyrinth, like the call of God, is to quiet our minds, to trust our steps and to move ever forward to the center, the unmoving mover of all.

Ask yourself in silence: Do I trust the path I am walking? If not, am I on the wrong path?

Today’s Word: Night

Steve · September 12, 2013 · 2 Comments

Last night I spent the night as the only person in the Ignatius House Jesuit Retreat Center outside of Atlanta. I arrived in the evening so I would be ready to present a retreat today to a group of (what turned out to be) inspiring, incredibly open and courageous cancer patients, along with their supportive family and friends and some dedicated and equally inspiring caregivers and pastoral care workers. More on that tomorrow. But last night I found myself all alone in the big ole rambling place. “Sounds creepy,” said Sue and our daughter Jenny on the phone. But it was just the kind of silence and darkness that I needed. Night — especially a dark and quiet night out in the country — often gives focus to my prayer and pulls my thoughts to God more intensely because the dark and the silence block out the noise and light of the world. So I was not feeling creepy but, rather, deeply.

I wandered the halls a little. I sat in the small chapel for an hour and a half reading, praying and working on the next day’s talks. I sat out on a balcony and watched a spider spin a web. Midnight was approaching and I could have stayed up much later; would have if not for the knowledge that I had to get up early to begin my day. I reluctantly turned in, but not before offering a prayer to the Creator of the night — the artist of darkness and the composer of exquisite silence.

A Night Prayer

Under the veil of dark
I turn to you, Lord
To illuminate the night
To lighten my mind
To enlighten my soul
To recall my day
To find your movements
To begin to begin again
To anticipate tomorrow
To live in hope.

Ask yourself in silence: Do you find God in the darkness and quiet of the night? Do you take the time to review your day in the evening and prepare for the next day?

Today’s Word: Rain

Steve · September 8, 2013 · 2 Comments

Today’s word is rain because, well, it’s raining. I’m up early this morning after a late night out with my band, and I’m sitting in my favorite chair next to an open door. The early morning breeze is cool and a gentle rain has been falling for the past hour or so. Off in the distance thunder rumbles. This rain, hitting off the deck outside the door and splashing noiselessly into the thirsty earth, today speaks to me of prayer and the presence of God.

St. Ignatius once described our interaction with the Spirit as “lightly and gently, like a drop of water that enters into a sponge.” Think of the gentleness of that; it’s barely noticeable until we are filled. Without the Spirit, we are an empty shell of being, dry and useless, just taking up space. But when we open ourselves to the Spirit, when we set ourselves out in the rain, so to speak, we can be filled, inundated, inebriated even by the gentle yet powerful presence of God. Then we become more that we could ever become on our own, filled with joy and purpose and ready to serve others.

Ask yourself in silence: Do I make time to “set myself out in the rain?” Am I willing to empty myself of my own desires in order to be filled by the Spirit of God?

Today’s Word: Astonished

Steve · September 3, 2013 · 4 Comments

sunset2 — Sunset lesson on Captiva. SJG photo (As always, click on photo for a larger view...)

A few nights ago, watching the sunset on Captiva Island in southwest Florida, I witnessed a young mother teaching her son a most important lesson. As the sun was near setting, she drew the three- or four-year-old close and helped him be still long enough to see what was going on. While he is too young to understand that the sun is not actually sinking into the ocean, the beauty and awe of the moment was not lost on him. The lesson was not in vain because he couldn’t understand the science. He stood perfectly still next to her and didn’t move until the sun was gone. Her effort was worthwhile and may be remembered for many years to come. If nothing else, this young man may grow up to remember that his mother loved sunsets and first showed them to him.

But more importantly, he may grow up to be a man who knows that it’s important and okay to slow down, to stand still and to watch the sun slide into the ocean. It’s appropriate to gasp in exhileration when the world explodes in beauty before you. It’s right and just to fall on your knees and acknowledge that the Creator of everything likes to show off a little every night and paint the sky for our enjoyment. He may grow to be a man who was taught by his mother to look outside himself to find the real meaning in life. He may learn to see God in the beauty of a Florida sunset.

May we all remember what it’s like to be amazed by something we don’t fully understand. May we all pray the words of the New England poet Mary Oliver:

Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.

Ask yourself in silence: When was I last astonished?