Remember That You Are But Dust

I saw the sign!!

No, seriously. I was wondering where the heck I was going to go for imposition of ashes, and on Shrove Tuesday, while I was walking to school to go get library books, I saw that little red-digital-sign (what are those things called anyway?) in front of Christ Church Cathedral telling me what time their service was. So anyone out there who’s ever doubted the efficacy of those sign thingies has now been proven wrong.

I love Ash Wednesday, which I guess is a little bit odd, since it’s a solemn day, the beginning of the longest forty (-six) days of the year. But I like the opportunity to give my faith-life a swift kick in the pants. For me, it’s a chance to get back on track, get back to God, get back to some serious, serious prayer. Normally, I would have gone to confession either in the morning or the day before – never good to start out Lent under a looming cloud of guilt and sin. But, as we have seen (yes, I know, I am a bit repetitive), the sacrament of reconciliation is currently problematic. Specifically, my access to it is restricted, so…yeah. Restricted, as in non-existent. The Lent-without-confession is a little jarring and disjointed.

I’d never been to the Cathedral before because it is intimidating. Church buildings scare me sometimes. Will I be struck by lightning? I’m not good enough to be here – everyone will know I don’t belong. How will I deal with the unknown location of things? Luckily, I coerced someone into going with me: *phew*. It was a lot smaller than I had imagined, somehow. No big giant echoing smallness.

I like that the sacramental ashes are made from the previous year’s palm leaves. It’s touching and important to recall that Jesus’ triumphal entry into the city was greeted with great joy, that was then proceeded, or course, by His crucifixion. That joy, too, was symbolically burned away by our own guilt, soon to become our reconciliation. Like that Opus Dei guy said, we each and every one of us daily crucify Jesus with our sins. But the admission of our guilt, and our belief in the Good News, is – through the ultimate and only Sacrifice – our gateway to salvation. I like how the origin of the ashes links the beginning of Lenten repentance to the joy of encountering Jesus entering the city, itself embedded in the narrative of His Passion, Resurrection and Ascension. The liturgical year in miniature, encapsulated in one day: the ever-flowing cycle of guilt, repentance, sorrow and joy, ever reminding me that at the end of the path there is Life, giving me the courage to follow it through to the end – as well as the knowledge that joy, too, will fade into the ordinary as I forget to keep my life centered fully on God, moving through the days imperfectly, and that the cycle of guilt, repentance, sorrow and joy will be the pattern of my imperfect, human life.

The Gospel reading from Matthew, of course, lambasts the hypocrite praying in the temple and bids us to pray in secret for our Father Who knows in secret, that He will give us our reward. I began to think about what that means in a world where we go around smudging ashes on our foreheads – a thinking process I was actually sort of coerced into.
Well, I thought about it. In one sense, it’s actually more pious-looking to hold back from doing it, since then you totally stand out. But that in itself is not so bad. It’s the question of public piety in general that is disturbing. We are, after all, a confessing Church. If it is hypocritical to be a minority people going out into the city streets with black crosses writing our Christianity on us, is it hypocritical that the martyrs gave their lives in witness to the faith? Undoubtedly, what they did as a minority stands out quite a bit more than ashes. Does this mean it is hypocritical piety to proclaim our identity as Christians, to wear crosses and religious medallions, to walk into a church? It is hard to understand what Jesus meant by hypocrisy.

Seen by others, loving to be seen by others, is a disposition of the heart, perceived only by God. Luke, I think makes it easier to understand, because his hypocrite’s prayer consists of giving thanks that he is not like the other sinners, predominantly because he fasts and gives alms. In this case, both the visible pieties and the glorification of the self are combined. Surely the problem is not that others see you, but that you do it to be seen; surely it is that your heart is self-satisfied, that you believe in self-justification instead of supplication, that your heart is storing up riches that will pass away. It is the heart that is ultimately the place where you pray in secret; the heart is the room with the closed door beyond which no person can see. The prayer of the heart, and the longings of the heart, its motivations and joys, are the secret known only to God, and therefore given to Him alone, and it is this prayer – this secret heart – that will, at the end, be made known.

I admit that I love being part of a tradition, that I love being among people experiencing the same rituals as I am. It reminds me that I am part of a family, an unbroken, unbreakable family gathered around the promise of Christ. I love the corporeality, the bodily feeling of ashes, sacramentals, peace, Sacraments. It makes me feel alive and connected and, sometimes, an almost unbearable swelling of love, the vulnerability of feeling that I have been opened up and joined together with the whole congregation of the saints. I love that we feel and touch and taste, that we kneel, face Eastward, sing and speak and praise. This is exactly what experiencing Christianity is for me, the reality that I can’t be a Christian by myself, without a community. Ah, Tradition! How I do (mostly) love thee!

Then, of course, there was the celebration of the Eucharist. Of course, I didn’t go up and receive. Foolish little girl, longing to run up, longing to be…complete. Fullfilled. Full to overflowing. When will God make me ready? When will I permit myself to be ready, prepared? I am afraid. I am a sinner, longing for forgiveness, and I am afraid. I hate being there and not receiving Eucharist – a relatively common occurrence for me even when I was still a Roman Catholic going to Roman Catholic churches. Nearness to tears, such sadness and despair, and yet constrained, held almost forcibly back, but with such pain, it is a feeling that is hard to describe and even harder to contain. It always, always hurts unbearably.

And I feel so alone.

Angelus

Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariæ.

The angel of the Lord declared unto Mary. I imagine what it must have been like for her: such a young girl, such an overwhelming apparition. In our own lives – in my life – so much that has been overwhelming is negative. I think of ‘overwhelming’ and I do not think of the miraculous, the angelic or the blessed. But, of course, that is where I go wrong.

Hail Mary, full of grace! But we, too, are also called, also called to be full of grace. I remember, as a child. Finding so much sheer joy and pleasure in God. I still do, really, when I take the time to stand still and listen. Oh, the radiant light of God! I wonder if that was what she felt like, lit up from the inside out, as if the whole world had fallen into place and she felt like she would burst from joy. It is such a sweetness, and so overwhelming sometimes, that I don’t know what to do with it. Mary, my guiding star, help me to be steadfast in the presence of overwhelming grace and forgiveness, and to remember that what is awesome often feels overwhelming and terrifying.

Et concepit de Spiritu Sancto.

And she conceived by the Holy Ghost. To bear a child in a sense not your own but also fully your own; a child in itself an overwhelming gift. Imagine doing so at the request of God! Redemption for the world…

The Lord is with thee! I had felt once, when I was much younger, that bearing a child and giving birth could be redemptive. A baby, after all, is someone’s miracle: so many people wanting so desperately to cherish that fragile life. For a time, I had hoped desperately that my sorrow – though by no means so great as hers – might be so redeemed. Although this did not, ultimately, come to pass as I had believed, in the hope itself I learned a great deal about myself: that responding in the love of God to challenges is a deep source of strength. I understand that the Lord is with me especially in the moments that seem anything but miraculous.

Ecce Ancilla Domini.

Behold the handmaid of the Lord. To follow God and to serve Him: what more could any of us want! There is so much pleasure and gladness in finding a way to serve. It is like coming home, like finding yourself. It’s like prayer: God didn’t give us prayer because it would make Him happy – what does He need us for, when the whole earth is His? – but because it helps us to be what we are created to be. In serving and honoring God, we fulfill the deepest longing of our humanity.

Blessed art thou among women! Oh, to be Mary! This, again, reminds me that blessedness does not always feel happy or easy; sometimes, it is found in sorrow, in travail, even in doubt. I, too, long to be blessed. God is with us as we seek to be as selfless as Mary.

Fiat mihi secundum Verbum tuum.

Be it done unto me according to your Word. I pray the devotion to the Seven Sorrows of Mary on Saturday. I love praying it: it’s not at all depressing. Simeon’s prophesy; the flight into Egypt; Jesus lost in the temple; meeting Jesus carrying His cross; the crucifixion; Jesus being taken down from the cross; Jesus being laid in the tomb. It is uplifting for me.

And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus! Two lives, so deeply intertwined! How can there be blessedness without sorrow? I long to reframe my life through her eyes, to re-envision anything bad through this light. I have, actually, been really blessed in my suffering, though of course that’s impossible to see at the time. All my seemingly worst experiences allowed me to engage in a sort-of ministry: not a ministry, exactly, so much as a precious gift. If I had not been where I have been, and felt what I have felt, so many wonderful people I have met, when they were at difficult times in their own lives, would have always been strangers, and I would have been granted nothing to give them. Really – REALLY – I have been so blessed!

Et Verbum caro factum est.

And the Word was made flesh. I still remember my first communion…the little white dress my mother sewed for me (I think it’s still in my closet), the little white gloves and the little white purse. Also, I wanted white tappy shoes soooooo bad, but couldn’t find any in the stores that fit me. I think my shoes were shiny. It’s funny: you wait so long and expect something so big and, in most ways, it’s so incredibly…normal.

Holy Mary, Mother of God! How did it feel to hold Him in your arms? So small and fragile, so beautiful and human, so incredible and normal. We’ve turned you into this almost mystical figure, but really you’re also Jesus’ mom. You took care of him when he cried all night, when he was sick and had a fever, and was tired and cranky. I like thinking of you that way because it gives me another window through which to see Jesus. Instead of a celestial, unreachable King, He is right beside me, wanting to play.

Et habitavit in nobis.

And dwelt among us. I try to see Jesus in everyone I meet. And I’ve been so lucky to have met Him in so many ways! The priest who founded the parish I used to belong to, Fr. Sullivan, was an amazing example. He got the church built with a free-standing altar before Vatican II in a stunning feat of prescience, and then just had to relocate the tabernacle to a side altar. Classical architecture, and a LOT of abstract stained glass. It’s a beautiful building. But it’s what he did for the people. He was always so incredible funny and friendly and warm; even after he’d been moved away to another church, he always came back for important occasions, always made sure to be there. He was a fantastic priest: you could look at him and know that it was really his vocation, that he was good at it and loved doing it. I mean, how many people would take so well to being handed a surprise parish to create that had been formed without your knowledge, having discovered what was going on only after being summoned by the Bishop to go there? The new church was built after the old one (which housed what are now two parishes) burnt down. That church had so much promise, was so full of life and growth, attracting a future saint and many good families. He was a fantastic priest, the image of Christ, and – though he had served many congregations – he chose to have his funeral and burial at this one. He is greatly missed.

Pray for us sinners now. I have a pretty strong Marian devotion, which I’m not entirely sure people are aware of. Of course, I pray the Seven Sorrows, which is I guess a little strange since most people don’t know there’s a whole separate kind of rosary to pray it with. But I also pray the rosary, and sing lots of Marian hymns, and try to pray what’s called a ‘worker’s rosary’ before Mass. I keep a decade in my bag just in case. Also, as may or may not be obvious, I am fond of the Angelus, though I admit I don’t wake up at 6:00 AM to say it. Asking for Mary’s intercessions has become comforting, and the rosary a way of entering into meditation. (I don’t normally meditate on its mysteries though; I prefer to focus on the prayers.)

Ora pro nobis, Sancta Dei Genetrix.
Ut digni efficiamur promissionibus Christi.

Pray for us, Holy Mother of God,
That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ. You remind me that even though we are all fallen, all sinners, all imperfect human beings, God has chosen to dwell inside us, in the Holy Spirit, counting us worthy to stand in His presence to serve Him, choosing us as vessels of His good work. You are the ultimate sign of hope, and of courage. I long to live up to your example. For though we are but humble servants, in our very mortality God has created a place among us for His saving love.

And at the hour of our death. When I was in sinful despair, and couldn’t feel the presence of God, or bear to reach out to Him with my unclean hands, Mary was always there. Always within grasp. God is always in reach, too, but somehow your lesser blessedness was easier to understand. I had not prayed the rosary for many years. When I was twenty-three, I was very sick, and I was afraid I might die. In panic and fear of death, one night I reached out for an old rosary impulsively and prayed for deliverance, that you would ask God to save my life. Through you, Jesus granted me a miracle and, against all reason and appearance, I lived. My Marian devotional practice grew up from that moment, and I am forever grateful.

Gratiam tuam quæsumus, Domine, mentibus nostris infunde; ut qui, angelo nuntiante, Christi Filii tui Incarnationem cognovimus, per passionem eius et crucem, ad resurrectionis gloriam perducamur. Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum.

Pour forth, we beseech Thee, O Lord, Thy grace into our hearts, that we, to whom the Incarnation of Christ Thy Son was made known by the message of an angel, may by His Passion and Cross be brought to the glory of His Resurrection. Through the same Christ our Lord.

Amen.

Trembling Before God

“work out your own salvation with fear and trembling” (Phil 2:12).

This is one of my favorite passages in the Bible: I once wrote an entire paper about the Christ Hymn in Philippians so that I could use it. But I digress.

What is this fear? What is this trembling? Is it the fear of the Lord worship? Or are we actually supposed to be afraid? Well, we are supposed to fear eternal damnation…perhaps the trembling is from the knowledge that “it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure” (2:13).

Well, I confess that I feel a lot of fear. Unfortunately, I am absolutely sure that the fear is NOT a sign of God working in me, or me doing God’s work, or whatever. It’s not hell I’m afraid of – I don’t believe joining a new church community is some kind of dreadful sin. No: what I’m afraid of is illogical, unconnected to sacramental reality, a trembling and terror that lives secretly in my heart. Is it possible that the desire of my heart is fear?

So, the journey into a new church community has been stalled for a little while. Since October 4th. Which is actually quite long when you think about it. Here I am, frozen: without a confessor, a church family, sacraments or a spiritual director. Also, surprisingly, without friends who are able to help me make the transition; you can’t ask someone who already has church responsibilities to come with you as you parish-shop, and going to their church is weird because they’re members of the community and you’re, well, not.

When I was 19, I was experimenting with different theological concepts (I had been a dissatisfied Roman Catholic long, long before now). Specifically, I was playing around with process theology. I think it’s process theology…oh, I’m sure one of my theology professors would kill me if they found out I got this wrong. Basically, it’s that God is in the process of growing and learning alongside us and the universe. Well, anyway, that was the gist of what I was playing at.

Theological inquiry turned out to be a dangerous, dangerous game.

In the midst of my self-absorbed religious angst, I totally stopped listening to the God-voice telling me things. Lost track of my world-compass, allowed compassion, confusion and sheer stupidity get in the way of actually listening to the Voice. I was foolish, absorbed in struggling with new ideas, uncareful of my life. Alienated from God, or anyway the right understanding of God. I get lost a lot: He’s difficult to keep track of without a travel buddy. Turning away from the Voice to explore something else, I fell; a professor harmed me in an intimate way. It am complicit in sin, because I had not been paying attention to God, because I thought I could fix something I couldn’t, because I put myself in a dangerous situation, because I was a stupid flighty ditzy girl who couldn’t see anything ahead, and didn’t bother looking.

“be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind” (2:2).

A few years later, I followed God to theology school (a good joke would be ‘never ask the Holy Spirit for the charism of knowledge, or you might find yourself dropped off outside the gates of a seminary’). It was great and lovely and among the best experiences of my life. At first. My friend invited me to come worship with the Anglicans at their weekly Eucharist, which I’m sure I’ll say more about some other time. Unhappy with my roman church, I decided to give Anglican church a shot. I found a church I liked and went there for a whole summer and into the fall. I also brought friends there with me, because I like sharing things that I enjoy. I was in a place where I thought I was finally ready to leave the roman church. One of the people I brought there was a co-worker who was more highly placed than I was, though he had no direct authority over me. On the day that I brought him, after Mass, he became very inappropriate. Because I had trusted him, again I had not seen danger. Again, I did stupid things, things that ended up making it worse, because it did not make him stop like I thought it would. I felt as though he had poisoned a space that was important to me, and I have never been back to that church.

“Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit” (2:3).

Once again, I backed away, back into the shadows of the roman congregation and out of the bright sunlight of joyful experimentation, discovery and trust. I even got myself a position there, so that my ties couldn’t be easily severed. I was trying to use my childhood congregation as a buoy, I think, holding onto its rope tightly in the hope I wouldn’t drown.

Irrationally, the fear and pain coming from these experiences became attached to my forays into religious newness and churchy goodness. Mmmmm….churchy goodness. So sweet, like honey, like Eucharist. Ooops: tangent: watch out for the corners.

Irrationally. Exactly the right way to describe it. And I know it’s irrational (well, at least, I’m pretty sure), and that they are not actually connected. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it easier to stop the fear. This fear is not a working toward my own salvation. Not even to my own happiness. But I have no idea how to get out from under it. Perhaps if I confess my own sin in it, which I have failed to do…

Of course, I have no confessor: part of being excommunicate from the roman church is that I can’t receive the sacrament of reconciliation. Yeah, didn’t think of that.

“that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, in which you shine like stars in the world” (2:15).

The Road More Travelled

So, I suppose the thing to do if you want to know where a person is going is to figure out where they’re coming from. Well, I’m coming from lots of places, really, but some are a little more relevant than others. I apologize in advance for any details I may have changed or left out – I have a feeling that sometimes I’ll end up restructuring my account in order to preserve people’s privacy and, to some extent, my own. In case anyone is wondering why I’m going to re-tell my own life story, with which I am already quite familiar, it’s mostly because I process information better when I’ve written it down.

Since this is a ‘religious’ journal, the place I’m ‘coming from’ is the Roman Catholic church. Born and raised, as they say; all grown up and moved away. My mother attended church sporadically with us when we were children, until I asked her if we could go every Sunday. So I was a church-freak from the beginning. The rest of my family consists of non-observant cultural Catholics, with a few vehement atheists thrown in for good measure. Therefore, none of this can be blamed on someone else’s excessive fervor. Oh darn, and here I thought I might have found a scapegoat!

Growing up, I didn’t ‘want’ to be a priest; I thought I was ‘going’ to be one, that this was my life and God’s plan and that somehow the church was going to catch up between then and now. It wasn’t until I was about fourteen that I realized my idea was, almost certainly, impossible. The thing is, I have breasts. Therefore, even though I’m not well endowed enough to make vestments hang ‘funny,’ it turns out that I was supposed to back away meekly into the shadows anyway. From thence, I began the painful and ultimately doomed process of attempting to get God to tell me to go be a nun instead. For future reference, God seems rather hard to convince: cajoling, begging, threatening and bargain-making do not appear to be a part of His vocabulary. Neither does the current state of reality, apparently.

Anyway, I persisted under the feeling of what I was compelled to do with my life, possibly because I had no other visible alternative or, more likely, out of an enduring sense of loyalty to the places where I had come to know God. I lived in hope, hope that somehow the Roman church could change, hope that I might see it or maybe even be a part of it. I had a lot of unfounded hope, which I guess is more or less in line with the Gospel message – you know, blessed are they who do not see and yet believe.

When I was nineteen, I incurred a permanent impediment which meant that, under the canon laws of the church, I could not be ordained even if I was a man. I was, and am, well aware of this fact. The pertinent question then becomes: why in the name of all things did I still engage in my persistent whining about the ordination of women? The simple answer is, as in a platitude, hope (again). The hope thing is a problem. Anyway, I refused to believe that my experiences were false, void of promise, or that God – for indiscernible reasons – had been lying. So, I really had no choice but to ‘keep on trucking’ in my annoyingly persistent attempts to speak what I see as the truth.

Then his holiness Benedict XVI, bishop of Rome, was installed in the office of the Papacy, having gained a promotion from his previous position as head of the Holy Inquisition. The hope faltered. Then it turned around and looked at me in disbelief as I urged it on. Then it fell off a cliff because it wasn’t looking where it was going because it was confused about why I was urging it onwards, and so was still looking back at me. Oh well. It was a remarkably long fall before it reached the bottom. Though splattered (and so messy to clean up), it was still mostly in one piece (except for its extremities); nevertheless, I decided to leave it at the bottom since I suspected it wouldn’t survive the climb back up. And if it fell off again, it wouldn’t be so lucky.

So, I took my splattered and mostly-intact hope and started walking. Well, I guess not so much ‘walking’ as staring up in bewilderment at the giant cliff I’d decided not to scale in a vague attempt to remain standing in one spot without actually going back up. This is where I currently am. So me and my slowly recovering hope are hanging out in the nowhere-space of an identity derived from falling off a cliff I have no desire to re-climb and the actual process of picking it up and carrying it somewhere else – ideally, a place with some kind of hope-hospital.

The thing is, I don’t actually hate the Roman church: my entire formation, in fact, belongs to it, and I remain who I am. I still love that church – from a distance, but strongly nonetheless. I suspect, however, that I’ll never manage to get far enough away that my hope doesn’t get a little forlorn and bedraggled when I see her stumbling backwards, away from the places I had thought she was going.

There you have it. I am excommunicated (automatically under the law) for apostasy, and I have no desire to go back. I also suspect that if I were tried for heresy I’d be found guilty, but that’s neither here nor there. I should point out that, contrary to popular belief, my decision not to climb back up has nothing to do with holy orders: remember, I am forevermore not suitable, which I fully expect to hold in any place I find myself. It has more to do with the fact that I feel bad for my poor exhausted, crushed and somewhat crippled hope, and I desperately don’t want it to die. Therefore, I have to find it water somewhere and it’s damn well not going to be back at the top of that cliff. So. The Roman church can’t sustain my hope for a variety of reasons, some of which are deeply self-centered and personal and some of which are more objective, like the fact that the doctrine of Papal Infallibility is the most dangerous heresy ever promulgated in the western Church.

My God, you have fallen on me like rain.
You are gentle and cool,
caressing my fragile skin.
Your heat sears through me,
and your touch has lit my very soul on fire.
You pound me, forcefully, into the ground,
coercing me to strength;
Your awesome power is the home of my longing.
When I look up to you from the depths,
you fall on me like rain, my God,
like my own tears fall,
a mingling of joy and sorrow.

Like a river, my God,
you have enveloped me.
You are soft, but dangerous beyond words.
You have swept me up, carried me far away,
leaving me on strange banks,
on shores I do not know.
God, like a river you carry me aloft
and in your calm you have ravished me.
You have overfilled me
like a river in spring.

An ocean sometimes seems between us;
take hold of the waters, my God!
As wide as the sea is your love,
and its depths cannot be searched.
Fathomless are the secrets
you hold deep within you.
Like ocean salt, you cleanse my wounds.
I step into you like a river;
confessing your Name I am sanctified.
Your voice, O God, falls on me like rain.


My Lord,
you whispered softly in my ear,
your words like caresses on tender skin:
Come, follow me.

My heart became taut,
anticipation like a chill
rushing through my soul.
I called to you,
and you answered me.

You put yourself into my mouth
like honey.
I am the Living Water;
take and eat, that you shall have
eternal life.

You undid me slowly
as I put my trust in you,
wiping away like fog
my hiding place –
fearful and trembling,
like a deer I stood before you
without a covering.

What am I, Lord,
that you should look on me?
But you took me in your arms,
embraced me,
enveloped me softly in your wings.

Your words fell like gentle strokes
upon my skin.
I tried to absorb you.
I wished that I was bigger,
more than human, that all
eternity might pass
before you had covered all of me.

You instructed me
until a fire grew in me.
No one lights a fire
to hide it under a table.

Our Lord Jesus said, I will take you as my own, but yet I resisted him. Now I am compelled to speak. I am not a prophet, nor do I have authority, nor do I belong to a congregation of the Church; nevertheless, I will proclaim.

I have broken a vow, to follow God as I hear him wherever he leads me, and to give him all my life, because I misunderstood his word, and heard what I wanted to hear. I did not listen with my heart, but with the ears others had given me. Though once I stood in the light, I have run away from the Lord, because I do not understand his ways. I have stood behind a veil like a mist, and felt its light dampness in my hands as I lifted it; but it slips through my fingers just when I think I might be able to see further. I am admonished that thus far I shall see, and no farther: the unseen path is marked by faith. I must step into a cloud to follow him, and wander in a place I cannot see, whose destination I cannot discern.

The Lord led me out into the wilderness, where I have become lost and confused; he has abandoned me here because of my disobedience. He has left me here alone so I might find my own way for myself. I am like the wilderness, desolate; the journey home is difficult, and I do not know the way.

Nevertheless, I cannot refrain from crying out, because the Lord is King over all his people: his love is like a sword piercing my heart. But I am divided, as the world is divided. In pride, I pursue a desire to cling to myself.

People of God, look into your hearts and find him: hear his glory sung on the wind! For as surely as he has claimed us for his own, he will lead us into life if we but follow him.

Honor the Lord with your body, because he has given you breath. As a people, we have forgotten that we do not belong to ourselves. Beneath my feet there comes a powerful trembling, shaking and pressing my body. I asked the Lord what I was being pressed between, and the answer was myself. The treasure of my heart has become my own fear – fear, and not God. Therefore, I am afraid to move. Are we also afraid to move? Where, o people, does the treasure of our hearts lie?

Your will, like iron, O God,
binds me tightly.
Day by day I struggle against you,
but you do not let me escape.

You, my God, do not protect me,
you do not defend me from yourself.

Demanding, you call me,
as if I needed to come,
as if I had gotten away.

You overpower me,
demanding that I give you all of myself;
as if you were not inside me,
as if you did not take all of me.

There is no part of me
that you have not known.
You have forced yourself into me
like a jealous husband.

And yet, my God,
day by day I would bind myself,
day by day I would give myself,
if you did not possess me already.

And so I call you,
I call upon your Name,
invite you to ravage me,
even unto death.

I do not long to be defended
O my God.
I long for you to take me,
restrain me, forever,
like a jealous lover.

I am too concerned with what it looks like to see it for what it is.

Knock, and the door shall be opened; the Lord also has condescended to enter your home. If you have closed the door, can he enter a second time? Yes: if we first return to him, he will show us the way in.

Why does God ask us for things that we cannot give, and promises we cannot keep? The Lord asks us to come to him in humility, to admit our sin, and to call on his help. Then he will enfold us in his embrace until we fall asleep in his arms. Our hearts are filled with the love Jesus poured out for us. Our God lay in death as a man, dies in the stink of blood and flesh as a human being. Therefore let us not be proud. But neither let us believe that we cannot call on him, or that he will not hear.

The guilt of the human heart is heavy, and I cannot carry it. In shame and guilt I shy away from God and his people, in dismay I hide my heart within myself. What is not seen cannot be healed. There is pride in curling in on ourselves that keeps us from going to the Lord. But for our guilt, he would embrace us as little children in the eternal comfort of his love that surrounds us even now, soft and unseen. But the heart that has closed itself is not open to the embrace of forgiveness.

The souls of the saints are hidden in Christ; wherever Christ is in the midst of you, there, too, are they. Therefore let the souls of the living be joined with Christ so as to participate in the communion of all his saints. None of us ever stands alone, for Christ embraces us all in his righteousness. To be in Christ is to be never alone.

There is only one Church, holy, catholic and apostolic, joined with the apostles and all the saints; though there are many visible signs of it that have been built up, which we have separated. This is because of sin. However, this world has not yet passed away, and sin is still among us: the Kingdom of God, then, takes many forms, shining through the visible churches while itself remaining invisible and pure.

We are all joined by the sacraments, for where Jesus is present there we are united. Do not spurn the sacraments nor glory in righteousness that is not your own. Therefore, do not spurn your brothers and sisters, because you are all one body with Christ, whose Providence is unknowable.

When you fight amongst yourselves, you accomplish nothing but a tearing and rending of the Body of Christ. But this is blasphemy! How, then, could the body stand? Why do you accuse one another of doing the impossible – do you refute the glory of God because of your own impiety and pettiness? Yet, though the body remains united, it is nevertheless pained and wounded.

Jesus has given us a light which was bought at a great price, as we were bought. The light can be shone inwards, illuminating with its harsh light the effects of sin; divisions within ourselves glow brightly in this light, and we are all exposed. But this is a hidden light, a lamp hidden behind and within us, and it cannot shine forth to the world as a beacon of hope, as we are called to do.

The light brings hope to the lost and forsaken, leading them home. Shine forth, then, the love that is God’s that he has given to you. Do not take away from others, but build up! You are a light to the world; do not cover it.

Nevertheless, do not obsess about the purity of the body, because if there is an impurity God himself will purify it. It is not for the hand to know what is right for the heart, but for the secret knowledge of God. Therefore be patient with one another, and rest in the Lord.

Do not on this account be unconcerned about your lives: it is fitting that the Body of Christ be united in purity. Do not presume that you are safe from attack: temptation comes in the back door while you carefully watch the front, and it cannot always be recognized. We are an excessive people living in excessive times. Take care of the body, and do only that which builds up your love for your neighbor.

I have seen many beautiful roads fashioned in dazzling colours, spiraling about in graceful arches, luminescent in impossible hues and brightness, and they have many travelers upon them. They are without doubt beautiful and seductive, appearing harmless. But upon them there are many distortions that are difficult to recognize; they are like human beings taken apart as living objects. Be careful that you do not fragment yourself, so that one part of you is here and another there, being carried along by different creatures whose ever-changing appearance betrays their own lack of substance.

A red spark changes into a beautiful red dragon made of light, and back again. It appears harmless, and I am transfixed. The closer I come, the more vibrant and detailed it is. Only when I myself pull away does it begin to fade into the night. Do not assume that danger is easily recognizable: it lives among us in many forms, some of which are the ones we most long to see. Be watchful that the dragon does not grow, and do not let your pride fool you into thinking you yourself can contain it.

My soul has been ensnared: I had thought that this would wait for death. But the living soul can be captured from you: I did not live out the life and form God has destined for me. In blackness darker than night, the living soul is pulled down and covered; struggling, it desperately longs to escape even while it destroys itself. My sin led me away from the Lord, and with each new sin I felt the growing distance less and less. Yet my soul cried out to me to pull it from the darkness, and I heard its cry. The soul knows what the ear cannot hear, and its whisper is louder than a thousand voices speaking at once.

I have wandered in the wilderness without a church, and I find myself lost and searching for a way home. But home cannot be behind me, only forward. I do not know how long the journey will be, but I’ll never get there without finding the courage to start walking.

I have lain on the hot sands of the desert with nourishment at my side, the promise of life, and with cool waters drenching my feet. But the food is gone, and the water also: my oasis has become my tomb. I can only walk across the burning land toward the sun, or I will surely die. But it is difficult to make the journey with neither sustenance, nor knowledge, nor company. Yet I do not turn and look for others to help me, even though there is a boat just beside me on the sea. It is foolishness and pride to turn inwards, and it will be my condemnation.

You without a home are scattered; exiles and refugees, you have become separated from the people of God. Let us then return home, or set ourselves up in a new home. There are many cities along the way.

People of the churches, do not despair for the one who wanders at the edges of the border, for he must hear the word of the Lord before he enters your city, and he must understand, as far as a mortal can, what God desires for him. He is like a pilgrim searching for the promised land who, upon finding it, is not certain he wishes to enter.

People of God, do not withhold hospitality to the pilgrim or sojourner in your land. Whether they be with you for a day or a lifetime, it is not right to withhold that which God has given you authority to grant. Therefore, do not keep the sacraments jealously locked away; rather, administer them to all who come as a medicine that will bring them closer to God. Do not lead them astray, for their error and sin will then rest upon you. Though they have a claim on all that is yours, be careful not to offer them gifts they cannot accept, for you must be a good host to those who have come into your house.

However, those who journey should accept all that they are offered, never spurning a gift that is given through the love of God. Thus you would remain aliens in an alien land. You who walk among the people of God with scorn or fear born of pride, beware. You cannot worship among a family if you do not eat at their table, just as you cannot give love without first accepting the love of God. Do not be prideful, for it will be you undoing. If you will not become a citizen, at least do not reject the offerings the people have made, because the offerings come first from God. Do you think that God would offer you anything unwholesome, anything not for your benefit? Do not hide yourself because you cannot repay it. Neither be afraid that you will be rejected, because the dust on your feet can be shaken off. Turning aside from the mercy of the Lord is an invitation to find yourself alone.

The stranger who remains with you and yet apart from you is like a man who comes to worship at a temple and remains in the courtyard while others go in to the inner city. Wanderers take heed: the doors of the inner city are open to you, offering asylum; they are sturdy and will aid you. But the doors will be closed at the end of the day. Do not presume to be a part of the Church while remaining outside a community. You will be left outside the gates, because you are not known.

I stand before the Lord and I accuse myself. I have no church, though I have been wandering a long time; I have left my home to follow the Lord, but in my own error I have lost my way. Nor have I accepted the gifts offered me, because I have been afraid; in fear, I have not stretched out my hands. What I have not sought, God has not provided.

Behold, I saw the Lord standing before me, offering a sheaf of wheat to me. Do not be afraid, for I myself will feed you. The Body of Christ is life, and he alone will feed us: we are the hands, and God is the wheat. Open your hands, o people and wanderers, and in joy receive what is freely given. Do not presume that Christ will feed you if you set yourself apart: the gifts of love cannot be taken in solitude. If you find your hands empty, having nothing to give, rather take the hands of your neighbor in your own than hide yourself in shame.

The poor reach out their hands to you, but you turn away; the needy supplicate to you, but you do not answer them. How are we to feed them? We have nothing to spare. But there is plenty – you take too much of it. Will not the Lord provide for you what you lack? Surely the Lord will judge the merit of your works.

Thus says the Lord: I will gather my people from every nation, and they will know my face. For God is Lord of all people, and all of creation belongs to him.

Rise up, o people of God, as the Lord has intended for you! Go forth as a light in the nations. Look on the sick and unclean, and do not turn away. He will give you a great nation, he will build it for you on a hill overlooking a valley.

From the very beginnings, the Church has gathered. Do not drive away sheep from your own fold, for either they will be alone and their lives upon you, or they will find another fold in the flock. But as for you, you will become a more inviting target for the wolves. However, if the sheep leave of their own, do not blame yourselves, nor think you are accountable for them.

The shepherd is not meek, but sends the dogs to nip at the heels of the sheep that are not following. Listen to the dogs, all you who are scattered, lest you become lost among the rocks. But neither is the shepherd cruel, for he will not abandon his own. He will search you out and find you. Do not think that he might not find you already consumed if you wandered too close to the lion’s den.

As for me, I stand before you in the hope that God will strengthen my heart, that I might not remain alone. I do not set myself up, and neither should you. I am like a light turned inward, hidden and unworthy, tarnished with dust. I do not know how to lift it and put it on the table. Perhaps, if I exert myself to burn a little brighter, God will return for me, and lead me onward in my journey.

Prayer is like breathing,
and O, how hard it has been!
Gasping for air on these steep mountains,
I am afraid I will fall asleep,
that all my thoughts will vanish.

But you will breathe for me;
breaths I have not taken you will put in my mouth.
O, how I long for your sweetness,
for the life you restore to me!
In my unanswered longing I die,
but the sound of your voice gives me life.

I am hidden in your heart, my Lord,
in the secret places words cannot contain.
I am hidden there, with your mouth on mine;
I am joined to you in the breath of your love.

You are my Beloved;
it is you alone whom I love.
For you will revive me from the loss of myself,
and remake me to love you anew.

Rejoice with great gladness! The day of the Lord will come with music and dancing; God will relieve your fears and comfort you. God will not abandon you. The Lord’s crown is heavy now, but soon it will become a delight!

A great light will come out of the darkness, and the order of the world will be restored. See, there is a green tree in a green field, brighter than the earth, restored. All that was lost will be given new life. The veins of the grass are too numerous to count, and they are overflowing with life. That which covers over the image of God will be striped away. In the house of the Lord, our humanity is amplified; in the dwelling of God, our humanity is completed.

The light of healing will flow through all people and reveal all things. Those who have been broken will heal, for even the smallest creatures fulfill God’s purposes with praise.

This is our vocation, to live in this meadow! Rejoice, and be glad in it!

I have faith in your goodness, Lord,
for you have made me;
without you I am not what I am.
I love you, Jesus,
for you have saved me;
you have embraced me in weakness and sin.
Spirit, come upon me,
breathe into me true Breath;
your light is my life.

You pour out Living Water
upon the earth, and the world springs forth in adoration.
The world will thirst no longer,
and the hungry heart shall be satisfied.