O Love that will not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.
O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
From "The Person as Gift" by Anthony Esolen
What you do
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I'd have yo do it ever; when you sing,
I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms,
Pay so; and for the ordering of your affairs,
To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o'th'sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that--move still, still so,
And own not other function. Each your doings,
So singular in each particular,
Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.
It is, I believe, one of the profoundest expressions of love in all of literature, and not because it focuses upon the feelings of the lover, or upon the stripped body of the beloved. As mysterious as a wave of the sea, so mysterious and lovely are the movements of Perdita when she dances. Florizel whimsically imagines Perdita singing as she does the most mundane things, because when she sings, that is all he ever wants her to do. But his words cause us to see adn hear Perdita doing just that, as if, when she buys and sells, when she gives alms to a begger, or orders some groceries, she does sing, though only the lover can hear the melody. One cannot generalize from Perdita. There are no abstract laws that will account for her actions and dispel the mystery. What she does is "singular in each particular," and it is that never-to-be-replicated singularity, the beauty of the existence of this particular woman, that reveals her to the eyes of her lover, and causes him to exclaim that all her acts are queens. He knows Perdita, and he cannot ever come to an end of knowing her. Even a sunset or a tree, as Von Balthasar says, is always more than itself not less; and that is all the more true of the beauty of a virtuous woman, beheld by a virtuous man.
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I'd have yo do it ever; when you sing,
I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms,
Pay so; and for the ordering of your affairs,
To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o'th'sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that--move still, still so,
And own not other function. Each your doings,
So singular in each particular,
Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.
It is, I believe, one of the profoundest expressions of love in all of literature, and not because it focuses upon the feelings of the lover, or upon the stripped body of the beloved. As mysterious as a wave of the sea, so mysterious and lovely are the movements of Perdita when she dances. Florizel whimsically imagines Perdita singing as she does the most mundane things, because when she sings, that is all he ever wants her to do. But his words cause us to see adn hear Perdita doing just that, as if, when she buys and sells, when she gives alms to a begger, or orders some groceries, she does sing, though only the lover can hear the melody. One cannot generalize from Perdita. There are no abstract laws that will account for her actions and dispel the mystery. What she does is "singular in each particular," and it is that never-to-be-replicated singularity, the beauty of the existence of this particular woman, that reveals her to the eyes of her lover, and causes him to exclaim that all her acts are queens. He knows Perdita, and he cannot ever come to an end of knowing her. Even a sunset or a tree, as Von Balthasar says, is always more than itself not less; and that is all the more true of the beauty of a virtuous woman, beheld by a virtuous man.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
More from "To Dance with God"--Carnival and Lent
Certainly it is our propensity as humans to fly off into playing at God. Who am I? And if I am called to an important vocation, then it is only right that I have some special privileges, recognition, acclaim, approval, all of which would help me to fulfill my vocation. Arrogance and pride blind us in that moment and we fail to see that vocation demands and emptying of ourselves. The primal sin of Adam was the same temptation. "No, you will not die! God knows in fact that on the day you eat it your eyes will be opened and you will be like gods, knowing good and evil." To be as gods, knowing good and evil is to function alone and independently, the relative trying to be absolute, man committing God.
The "fall" is always a fall upward: pride. The sin is putting the ego at the center of the personality instead of God. The result is isolation, loneliness, a separation from intimacy with the other, a hell that is not so much the punishment for sin but the result of sin. It is that dislocation, that ugliness and strife that indicate our being at odds with ourselves, because in our will to power we have lost love. And indeed we no longer know who we are and what we are about. Beyond our ego-identity is the vocation and calling that is "to do the will of him who sent me." Adam's gift of free will is, at its best, the call to carry out willingly God's will by the power of love. We empty ourselves of pride, power and influence, the gifts and the good things given can be used for God's will, but the inclination is to cling to these gifts as though they were a personal right and proceed to do a loveless and poor imitation of God.
What we cling to is the ego, protecting it, licking wounds, locking ourselves away in a splendid isolation. Paul tells us about this clinging and tells us that we "must be the same as Christ Jesus: his state was divine, yet he did not cling to his equality with God but emptied himself to assume the condition of a slave, and became as men are; and being as all men are, he was humbler yet, even to accepting death, death on a cross." Only when we have accepted a great task and are open to the whole spectrum of our calling do we suddenly know also our weakness and human inadequacy, our selfishness, our conditional loves. Christ's temptations or questions, like our own, are not just tests, but revelations necessary to self-knowledge and to an understanding of our calling. They tell use who we really are and not just who we'd like to think we are.
When I was a child, the words Vacare Deo hung in the kitchen over the sink each Lenten season and though I was told it meant to vacate--indeed to empty oneself--to God, it was not until very much later, when my developmental task to create an ego-identity was only just coming to a head, that I began to get a glimmer of the painful truth. As children it is our task--and it is right and necessary for our ability to love--to develop a love of self. That love of self must not die; what needs to die is self-love. Hardly have we established a sense of self, an ego, and the task of love asks us to go a step further and give it up. We love, to a degree, but we fear that if we don't keep back the inner, secret place of the self, we will lose ourselves. If we let God have it all, there will be nothing left for us.
What needs to die is not the real self, but the false one, the self that thinks it is whole and complete when, in fact, it is all in pieces. Identity and calling are the first great uncertainties we question as we come to the deserts of our life.
Our fall began earlier in life with the scrambling of the self to a place of autonomy, and is now followed by the dissolution of the personality into questions and confusion. And so it must be or we are not willing to be "led by the spirit" into a place of self-revelation. The opposites come forth to meet us and demand a balance. The simplified good and evil that we knew earlier no longer holds. Playing at God can no longer be our defense against growing and changing. We must love God, which is easy as an abstraction, but what is more we must love our neighbors with the sort of self-love we have indulged ourselves in for years. Furthermore, we must love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us. We must take seriously the well-being of every person, even those who for years we excluded from our responsibility as being in the wrong camp, who vote for the other part, our spouse, when we know he or she "is simply wrong," the person at work who is constantly in competition with us.
Suddenly we meet a situation at our most vulnerable place and we know this is the test. We head into the downhill side of our life and are aware of our death. On the road we die a hundred little deaths. We die when we reach out to others, and there is no hope of recognition or repayment. We give up our control of others and we give them the life they are meant to live. Our children are not our creations. We forgive and ask forgiveness. We realize and accept that our marriage may never be the fantasy dream we planned out for ourselves. It has its own reality and its own fate which we can only commit ourselves to with a renewed vigor. We give up the dreams of "in loveness," the love we "fell into," and take up the hard work of loving which has nothing to do with romantic ego-demands: it is the love we make. This love is stronger than death. This love is the only solution where we fail to be trusting, where we disappoint. Love overrides the imperfections of this world. There are no more simple excuses or judgments. This love is not the sort that fulfills and completes us. Rather, it is so centered on the other that our own ego is pulled apart.
Restoration must reverse the process of the fall. Only after we have gone to the depths of self-knowledge and known the hell we have fashioned for ourselves, only when we can love with an identification with the other, can we begin to rise again. Perhaps wearing ashes as we launch our Lent is not so much a statement that we are "nothing but" ashes, as it is the gesture that brings us "down to earth." The fall of Adam, his awareness of death, allows a new consciousness. Consciousness always seems to bring us back to earth.
The "fall" is always a fall upward: pride. The sin is putting the ego at the center of the personality instead of God. The result is isolation, loneliness, a separation from intimacy with the other, a hell that is not so much the punishment for sin but the result of sin. It is that dislocation, that ugliness and strife that indicate our being at odds with ourselves, because in our will to power we have lost love. And indeed we no longer know who we are and what we are about. Beyond our ego-identity is the vocation and calling that is "to do the will of him who sent me." Adam's gift of free will is, at its best, the call to carry out willingly God's will by the power of love. We empty ourselves of pride, power and influence, the gifts and the good things given can be used for God's will, but the inclination is to cling to these gifts as though they were a personal right and proceed to do a loveless and poor imitation of God.
What we cling to is the ego, protecting it, licking wounds, locking ourselves away in a splendid isolation. Paul tells us about this clinging and tells us that we "must be the same as Christ Jesus: his state was divine, yet he did not cling to his equality with God but emptied himself to assume the condition of a slave, and became as men are; and being as all men are, he was humbler yet, even to accepting death, death on a cross." Only when we have accepted a great task and are open to the whole spectrum of our calling do we suddenly know also our weakness and human inadequacy, our selfishness, our conditional loves. Christ's temptations or questions, like our own, are not just tests, but revelations necessary to self-knowledge and to an understanding of our calling. They tell use who we really are and not just who we'd like to think we are.
When I was a child, the words Vacare Deo hung in the kitchen over the sink each Lenten season and though I was told it meant to vacate--indeed to empty oneself--to God, it was not until very much later, when my developmental task to create an ego-identity was only just coming to a head, that I began to get a glimmer of the painful truth. As children it is our task--and it is right and necessary for our ability to love--to develop a love of self. That love of self must not die; what needs to die is self-love. Hardly have we established a sense of self, an ego, and the task of love asks us to go a step further and give it up. We love, to a degree, but we fear that if we don't keep back the inner, secret place of the self, we will lose ourselves. If we let God have it all, there will be nothing left for us.
What needs to die is not the real self, but the false one, the self that thinks it is whole and complete when, in fact, it is all in pieces. Identity and calling are the first great uncertainties we question as we come to the deserts of our life.
Our fall began earlier in life with the scrambling of the self to a place of autonomy, and is now followed by the dissolution of the personality into questions and confusion. And so it must be or we are not willing to be "led by the spirit" into a place of self-revelation. The opposites come forth to meet us and demand a balance. The simplified good and evil that we knew earlier no longer holds. Playing at God can no longer be our defense against growing and changing. We must love God, which is easy as an abstraction, but what is more we must love our neighbors with the sort of self-love we have indulged ourselves in for years. Furthermore, we must love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us. We must take seriously the well-being of every person, even those who for years we excluded from our responsibility as being in the wrong camp, who vote for the other part, our spouse, when we know he or she "is simply wrong," the person at work who is constantly in competition with us.
Suddenly we meet a situation at our most vulnerable place and we know this is the test. We head into the downhill side of our life and are aware of our death. On the road we die a hundred little deaths. We die when we reach out to others, and there is no hope of recognition or repayment. We give up our control of others and we give them the life they are meant to live. Our children are not our creations. We forgive and ask forgiveness. We realize and accept that our marriage may never be the fantasy dream we planned out for ourselves. It has its own reality and its own fate which we can only commit ourselves to with a renewed vigor. We give up the dreams of "in loveness," the love we "fell into," and take up the hard work of loving which has nothing to do with romantic ego-demands: it is the love we make. This love is stronger than death. This love is the only solution where we fail to be trusting, where we disappoint. Love overrides the imperfections of this world. There are no more simple excuses or judgments. This love is not the sort that fulfills and completes us. Rather, it is so centered on the other that our own ego is pulled apart.
Restoration must reverse the process of the fall. Only after we have gone to the depths of self-knowledge and known the hell we have fashioned for ourselves, only when we can love with an identification with the other, can we begin to rise again. Perhaps wearing ashes as we launch our Lent is not so much a statement that we are "nothing but" ashes, as it is the gesture that brings us "down to earth." The fall of Adam, his awareness of death, allows a new consciousness. Consciousness always seems to bring us back to earth.
Excerpts From "To Dance with God"--Carnival and Lent
Thinking about Lent is not my favorite thing to do. In fact, I rather hate it. Every year, when the subject comes up, I see myself resist. I can think about Advent, about expectancy. It holds some concerns, but to be impregnated with new life is a rather hopeful subject. During Advent we rejoice as we open ourselves to the mysteries of the marriage of heaven to earth. But in Lent we come to know that the only way to our own healing and wholeness comes paradoxically through dismembering--an appallingly painful process which life offers us, ready or not, and which Lent gives us the form and meaning for. We engage dismemberment and atonement so that we may be transformed through the Easter mysteries and arrive at "at-one-ment."
Jonah learns first that trying to avoid suffering by running away seems to serve up suffering anyhow. Far better he stand still and take what God has in mind for him, because he'll get his share either way and it seems to do less damage when you accept it. IN the whale's belly, Jonah learns to accept suffering and death in his own life and recognizes that he can't avoid it. Then he learns that he has to help others effect change. In fact, he can only effect change and influence others after having experienced the "dark night of the soul" himself. That's the thing about prophets: they have to face the agonies of change in themselves before they understand it well enough to affect-to touch-those around them. That's true, too, in the relationships of spouses and lovers and parents and friends. It's true about the prophets and healers who stand before us as priests and leaders. We cannot hope for change in the other until we have changed ourselves. We cannot change without dying.
Conscious engagement of suffering and death forces us to take stock of our gift of life and consider ways of reforming and living our lives more fully and passionately. We have the company of the rest of the family or community to take this pilgrimage with us, because we are, indeed, all in this together. The very least a communal Lent can offer us is the opportunity to understand mortification so that as suffering comes into our lives, we will recognize it for what it is and have some tools to find in this earthly pilgrimage its mysteries and deepest meaning. Our personal Lent may not always coincide with the communal season of Lent. But we will always have our Lenten seasons, one way or another, because we are always called to change.
Every day, if we live passionately and take risk, we are asked to give ourselves up, to break out of our old patterns of behavior, our interpersonal laziness, our habits to control, criticize or put-down, our selfishness, our fears and reticence--to give up our egos for the sake of something bigger--for something better in ourselves, for the sake of someone else. For the Church's offerings send us back to our human experience and lend us the courage to know ourselves more deeply and to fully engage ourselves in the human events, the relationships, the struggles that make up our days. Our suffering, in and with Jesus, is never separate from our daily struggles.
Misunderstandings, losses and failures, separations and loneliness, loving and longing, the fears we know deep down, all cast long shadows across our days because we cannot come to the light unless we are willing to enter into the darkness. Guilt-the sort that demands a change-suffering, death, are not hot items which the citizens of this world seek out. Rather, we have learned a hundred tricks to avoid those issues in our day and we have been told for years that we must avoid what will hurt. And still we know the sufferings which are self-inflicted and the neurosis which does not allow one to examine and understand the change that must be made. We think we have sold our donkey, like Jonah, and have no means of transportation left ot get us to what is unpleasant. We are so clever: we hop a freight going in the opposite direction. There are drugs to mask every pain and sounds to flood out every silence. But wisdom shows us that holding off painful feelings is a pain in its own right. We can hold off suffering only so long.
Death, so contrary to our natural inclination, may seem like some grim mistake of nature, but the very name of this season, Lent, gives the name of the game away. Lent means spring, and we sing during the Easter Vigil service of the fall of Adam, which was the first taste of death, and call it a happy and necessary mistake which merited us Jesus as Redeemer. We yield up, we fall apart, we die, so that we can bloom anew.
Jonah learns first that trying to avoid suffering by running away seems to serve up suffering anyhow. Far better he stand still and take what God has in mind for him, because he'll get his share either way and it seems to do less damage when you accept it. IN the whale's belly, Jonah learns to accept suffering and death in his own life and recognizes that he can't avoid it. Then he learns that he has to help others effect change. In fact, he can only effect change and influence others after having experienced the "dark night of the soul" himself. That's the thing about prophets: they have to face the agonies of change in themselves before they understand it well enough to affect-to touch-those around them. That's true, too, in the relationships of spouses and lovers and parents and friends. It's true about the prophets and healers who stand before us as priests and leaders. We cannot hope for change in the other until we have changed ourselves. We cannot change without dying.
Conscious engagement of suffering and death forces us to take stock of our gift of life and consider ways of reforming and living our lives more fully and passionately. We have the company of the rest of the family or community to take this pilgrimage with us, because we are, indeed, all in this together. The very least a communal Lent can offer us is the opportunity to understand mortification so that as suffering comes into our lives, we will recognize it for what it is and have some tools to find in this earthly pilgrimage its mysteries and deepest meaning. Our personal Lent may not always coincide with the communal season of Lent. But we will always have our Lenten seasons, one way or another, because we are always called to change.
Every day, if we live passionately and take risk, we are asked to give ourselves up, to break out of our old patterns of behavior, our interpersonal laziness, our habits to control, criticize or put-down, our selfishness, our fears and reticence--to give up our egos for the sake of something bigger--for something better in ourselves, for the sake of someone else. For the Church's offerings send us back to our human experience and lend us the courage to know ourselves more deeply and to fully engage ourselves in the human events, the relationships, the struggles that make up our days. Our suffering, in and with Jesus, is never separate from our daily struggles.
Misunderstandings, losses and failures, separations and loneliness, loving and longing, the fears we know deep down, all cast long shadows across our days because we cannot come to the light unless we are willing to enter into the darkness. Guilt-the sort that demands a change-suffering, death, are not hot items which the citizens of this world seek out. Rather, we have learned a hundred tricks to avoid those issues in our day and we have been told for years that we must avoid what will hurt. And still we know the sufferings which are self-inflicted and the neurosis which does not allow one to examine and understand the change that must be made. We think we have sold our donkey, like Jonah, and have no means of transportation left ot get us to what is unpleasant. We are so clever: we hop a freight going in the opposite direction. There are drugs to mask every pain and sounds to flood out every silence. But wisdom shows us that holding off painful feelings is a pain in its own right. We can hold off suffering only so long.
Death, so contrary to our natural inclination, may seem like some grim mistake of nature, but the very name of this season, Lent, gives the name of the game away. Lent means spring, and we sing during the Easter Vigil service of the fall of Adam, which was the first taste of death, and call it a happy and necessary mistake which merited us Jesus as Redeemer. We yield up, we fall apart, we die, so that we can bloom anew.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Proverbs 3
13 Blessed are those who find wisdom,
those who gain understanding,
14 for she is more profitable than silver
and yields better returns than gold.
15 She is more precious than rubies;
nothing you desire can compare with her.
16 Long life is in her right hand;
in her left hand are riches and honor.
17 Her ways are pleasant ways,
and all her paths are peace.
18 She is a tree of life to those who take hold of her;
those who hold her fast will be blessed.
those who gain understanding,
14 for she is more profitable than silver
and yields better returns than gold.
15 She is more precious than rubies;
nothing you desire can compare with her.
16 Long life is in her right hand;
in her left hand are riches and honor.
17 Her ways are pleasant ways,
and all her paths are peace.
18 She is a tree of life to those who take hold of her;
those who hold her fast will be blessed.
Friday, September 5, 2008
From Marie-Jeanne's latest email....
All the resources you will ever want or need are at your fingertips. All you have to do is identify what you want to do with it, and then practice the feeling-place of what it will feel like when that happens. There is nothing you cannot be or do or have. You are blessed Beings; you have come forth into this physical environment to create. There is nothing holding you back, other than your own contradictory thought. And your emotion tells you you're doing that. Life is supposed to be fun—it is supposed to feel good! You are powerful Creators and right on schedule. Savor more; fix less. Laugh more; cry less. Anticipate positively more; anticipate negatively less. Nothing is more important than that you feel good. Just practice that and watch what happens.
I have to disagree with the part "nothing is more important than that you feel good." as I adhere to the believe that selflessness and serving others is supreme to ones own happiness. Yet I appreciate the viewpoint that we have come here to create, through our art, through our lives, and that we are "right on schedule." Good to hear. Also good to hear: savor more, fix less, laugh more, cry less, anticipate positively more, anticipate negatively less." Definitely something I need to hear right now. It speaks to my life.
I have to disagree with the part "nothing is more important than that you feel good." as I adhere to the believe that selflessness and serving others is supreme to ones own happiness. Yet I appreciate the viewpoint that we have come here to create, through our art, through our lives, and that we are "right on schedule." Good to hear. Also good to hear: savor more, fix less, laugh more, cry less, anticipate positively more, anticipate negatively less." Definitely something I need to hear right now. It speaks to my life.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Voyage
O Lord of the Oceans,
My little bark sails on restless sea,
Grant that Jesus may sit at the helm and steer me safely;
Suffer no adverse currents to divert my heavenward course;
Let not my faith be wrecked amid storms and shoals;
Bring me to harbour with flying pennants, hull unbreached, cargo unspoiled.
I ask great things,
expect great things,
shall receive great things.
I venture on thee wholly, fully,
my wind, sunshine, anchor, defence.
The voyage is long, the waves high, the storms pitiless,
but my helm is held steady,
thy Word secures safe passage;
thy grace wafts me onward,
my haven is guaranteed.
This day will bring me nearer home,
Grant me holy consistency in every transaction,
my peace flowing as a running tide,
my righteousness as every chasing wave.
Help me to live circumspectly,
with skill to convert every care into prayer,
Halo my path with gentleness and love,
smooth every asperity of temper;
let me not forget how easy it is to occassion grief;
may I strive to bind up every wound,
and pour oil on all troubled waters.
May the world this day be happier and better because I live.
Let my mast before me be the saviour's cross,
and every oncoming wave the fountain in his side.
Help me, protect me in the moving sea
until I reach the shore of unceasing praise.
from "The Valley of Vision" a collection of Puritan Prayers and Devotions
My little bark sails on restless sea,
Grant that Jesus may sit at the helm and steer me safely;
Suffer no adverse currents to divert my heavenward course;
Let not my faith be wrecked amid storms and shoals;
Bring me to harbour with flying pennants, hull unbreached, cargo unspoiled.
I ask great things,
expect great things,
shall receive great things.
I venture on thee wholly, fully,
my wind, sunshine, anchor, defence.
The voyage is long, the waves high, the storms pitiless,
but my helm is held steady,
thy Word secures safe passage;
thy grace wafts me onward,
my haven is guaranteed.
This day will bring me nearer home,
Grant me holy consistency in every transaction,
my peace flowing as a running tide,
my righteousness as every chasing wave.
Help me to live circumspectly,
with skill to convert every care into prayer,
Halo my path with gentleness and love,
smooth every asperity of temper;
let me not forget how easy it is to occassion grief;
may I strive to bind up every wound,
and pour oil on all troubled waters.
May the world this day be happier and better because I live.
Let my mast before me be the saviour's cross,
and every oncoming wave the fountain in his side.
Help me, protect me in the moving sea
until I reach the shore of unceasing praise.
from "The Valley of Vision" a collection of Puritan Prayers and Devotions
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