let it be

This year, for the week I turned 32, I decided to head for the hills.  I had booked four nights at the Hermitage at St. Mary's Sewanee.  I was feeling emotionally drained, tense, anxious, not eating much, and had suffered some significant personal stresses lately.  I left the number for the center with Jeff, kissed my kids good-bye, asked a neighbor to feed the chickens, packed some clothes and books, turned off my phone, and retreated into the silence.  I was both excited and terrified.  Would my mind be too loud?  What if I got lonesome?  Wouldn't I get bored?

I made the 1.5 hour drive, threw down my bags, observed a breathtaking misty sunset over the bluff, and set off to find something to eat.  I turned the wrong way out of the center and drove to Alabama before turning around and coming back.  Life with no phones - how did we survive?

As I was scaling back up the mountain, "Let It Be" seeped into my ears from the stereo.  "When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me . . . there will be an answer:  let it be."

Let it be.

I scampered into a little burger joint in Sewanee just before the kitchen closed.  I ordered a cheeseburger and a beer.  I finally felt hungry - for the first time in months.  I drove back to the Hermitage and drank some wine and drifted off.  I had troubling dreams.  But I did sleep for hours and hours.

I don't remember much about the next day.  I did some hiking and a lot of reading.  I did my prayers in the morning.  After I made a big steak and Brussels sprouts for dinner, I sat down in a chair and cried and cried.  There is someone I miss cooking for, and I don't think I will ever cook for this person again.  Food is love for me.  Making it and sharing it.  Knowing just how someone likes things.  Kneading the dough that will rise into the bread that will become the French toast.  Stirring the milk that will be pressed into the paneer that will get mixed with spinach and yogurt.  Perhaps I have been avoiding eating because it reminds me of these meals that will go unshared?

I slept with the windows open that night; that's a tradition I've been keeping on the night before my birthday for at least 20 years.

On my birthday, I went into town and read for awhile after I hiked some of the backtrails on campus.  I went to evening prayers at St. Mary Convent, and met a community of women who immediately became special soul friends.  Also one man (a priest), who is dedicated to their Benedictine way of life, but lives nearby with his wife.  A huge storm blew up during prayers.  The sky had that greenish cast that all Kansas schoolchildren fear, because it means one thing:  tornado.  The poor little convent dog, Penny, cowered under the kneelers.  I waited out the storm and walked home.

The next morning the air was fresh and the ground was spongy.  My prayers had a theme of peacemaking and reconciliation.  Ouch.  It can't be forced, can it?  One of the appointed readings was 2 Corinthians 5:18-19:  "All this is from God, who reconciled himself to us through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people's sins against them.  And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation."

All day long I pondered:  how does it all fit together?  Peacemaking, forgiving, forgiveness, reconciliation?  Is there an order to it?  How do I know that I have forgiven someone?   I went to the noon office, and - surprise - 2 Corinthians 5:18-19 was the reading from the Office.  Am I getting the message?

I went into town to read at the coffee shop again.  Over the speaker:  "There will be an answer:  let it be."  Ah.  Ask forgiveness, and there will be an answer.  Let it be.

That afternoon, I went to hike the Perimeter Trail around the edge of the Sewanee University property.  I got about five miles in and realized I had completely lost the trail.  The daylight was fading.  No phone, no map, no compass, no flashlight, no water.  Why did I think this wasn't going to be a big deal!?  It wasn't too cold, and I wasn't too panicky - yet.  I found a gravel road that I was sure must lead somewhere.  Followed it about a mile.  Then, I was rescued by an Episcopal priest and her husband, out for an evening jog.  They were the first people I had seen in miles.  I realized that I don't have time to waste in asking forgiveness.  I got home, showered, got the feeling back into my hands, went into town, and tore into a huge order of fish and chips.

The next day, my last day, I went for morning Eucharist at the convent and shared spiritual conversation with the sisters (and father) over breakfast.  Sister Hannah gave me the literature about becoming an oblate.  Either they felt the same thing I did, or they just really need some more oblates.  Either way, the place already feels like home.

As I drove home that morning, I felt fresh and alive.  It felt as if it had been winter in my soul when I left, and that spring had come into my heart in those few days.  I did get lonesome, and bored, and my mind was too loud.  But I think that was the point.  Only once I learned to endure through those sensations, did I receive any insights.

an advent prayer

You know it's still Advent, right?  The season of waiting and preparation.  And, depending on your tradition of numbering days, it will remain Advent until either sundown tonight, or midnight tomorrow morning.  Each year, my mentors, dear friends, and incredibly special people Blair and Doug Meeks send an Advent Prayer that Blair writes.  She is a talented liturgist who spent years writing and editing liturgies.  Dr. Meeks was my professor and a huge champion of mine at seminary.  I'm thrilled to be spending more time with him as I dive into a doctoral program next month (more on that later!).  Blair and Doug send her Advent Prayer out to all his students, present and former, and their friends.  I've posted it here below because it spoke to me powerfully this morning.  I hope it can bless you as you culminate your time of waiting this evening.  

Prayer for Healing and Peace

God of all creation, you sent your Word to live among us.

This same Word was with you at the beginning:

and all things came into being through him.

Give us grace to honor all that you have created,

to live wisely and manage well what you have made.

Open our eyes to the carelessness that threatens the earth;

let us hear the sighs of creation for your saving grace.

Teach us to care for all living things,

as you care for us and make us your children.

Grant to the earth healing and peace.

God in your mercy,

Hear our prayer.

God of the little ones, you sent your Son to be born as a baby,

the Holy child of Bethlehem: Hear the cries of your children everywhere,

the homeless, the orphans, the sick, the hungry, and those in constant danger.

Hear the cry of Rachel weeping, grieving with mothers in all places

whose children have no chance at life.

Give us courage to share the abundance of your good gifts.

Grant to the suffering healing and peace.

God in your mercy,

Hear our prayer.

God of the oppressed,

Jesus, your Son, comes to release the captives

defend the needy, and crush the oppressor:
As you showed the magi Herod’s treachery, open our eyes to powers of death.

Make us agents of your life-giving power.

Teach us to speak truth and live with grace in the name of Jesus, lover of life.

Grant to the hopeless healing and peace.

God in your mercy,

Hear our prayer.

God of the peacemakers,

Your son was born in a country at war, and yet he is Prince of Peace.

Help us to see his star, the light of life, the light of hope and joy.

Free us from foolish pride and empty dreams

and lead us to find our hope in you alone.

We give you thanks that we have seen Jesus,

whose love will destroy the power of death.

Keep us faithful as we wait for his coming again.

Grant to the world healing and peace.

God in your mercy,

Hear our prayer.

Amen.

(copyright Blair Meeks 2014)

guest post: ordinary time

My friends, welcome to the stage Jacquie Hauth.  Jacquie and I met when we started together at Vanderbilt Divinity School four years ago.  I have always been impressed with the precision and depth of her thought.  She also blogs over at Constant Conversion.  I asked if she would write a little bit for us on what "ordinary time" means for her.  For those who are not living and breathing the church calendar, ordinary time represents two LONG stretches from Pentecost until Advent, and then from Epiphany until Lent.  It eats up well over half of the year, as you can see:

Church leaders sometime struggle with what to do in ordinary time.  Do you stretch out Pentecost and Epiphany and act like they are seasons, rather than just days?  What do you emphasize?  In what direction do you drive the life of the church, or your own personal spiritual pursuit?  Here are Jacquie's reflections.

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Ordinary Time

Does the church year really mimic the academic year, or has my experience lead me to that conclusion?

For nineteen years of my life, I have had my seasons dictated by the school calendar.  It is hard to suddenly think of the 
year beginning in November instead of late August (or for that matter, January).  But this isn't meant to be a reflection on 
the start of the year, but the middle.  Or rather, the first long stretch.

The Christian year begins with Advent, and then comes Christmas and Epiphany.  Soon after, Lent arrives to mark the road 
to Easter.  Easter comes and goes, then begins the even longer season of Ordinary Time.  Unlike Lent, Ordinary Time is 
not marked by a sense of anticipation or special longing.  It is the first long stretch of time in the church year when there is 
nothing hovering just along the horizon.

In my academic career, Ordinary Time has always coincided with summer--vacations and blissful forgetting of all the lessons 
learned the previous year.  When I was growing up, this was a season of low attendance at my church.  No one said it aloud, 
but I got the impression that it was acceptable to miss some church in the summertime because nothing really "important" 
was happening.  Jesus wasn't being born, baptized or executed, nor was he rising.  Mary wasn't waiting patiently, and we 
weren't fasting or feasting.  Instead, it was a time for parables and summer reading lists.  Not terribly exciting.

But now that I have been outside of the academic pattern for over a year--and I haven't had the ending and beginning of a 
school year to approximate Ordinary Time--it's starting to sink in just how odd this understanding of this season really is.  
Ordinary Time is by no means unexciting (as a time devoid of other more thrilling things) but this popular perception fails to 
recognize just how exceptionally ordinary the rest of the year is, too.  This is the first season of Ordinary Time in which I'm 
not gearing up for some new beginning: I've just been chugging along in my life at the intersection of love, worry, work, and 
food.

How much of my life really is wrapped up in those four things: love, worry, work, and food--even and especially in those 
other more exciting seasons of the church (even in those other more exciting semesters of schooling).  And now that I don't 
have a new semester or a new thrill to look forward to, I'm beginning to fully realize it.

So perhaps this is more a reflection on how much my life's seasons have been dictated by the school year rather than the 
church year.  Or perhaps this was a chance to muse over how much I love Ordinary Time's insistence that the everyday 
matters just as much as the exceptional (otherwise, why devote a whole season to it)?  I rejoice in the ebb and flow of daily 
life... in the knowledge that this first long stretch of the church year is in many ways more like our everyday lives than the 
other seasons: the long quiet stretches when we get to practice life without glamour or pretense or any other "event" to 
make life meaningful.  It just is.  And that's the wonder of it.

In a way, this is a season for me to regret all the past seasons of Ordinary Time that were nothing more than filler between 
things that I thought were more exciting.  It is a time to give thanks that--despite all the imbued glamour we give to other 
seasons of the church--life itself is fantastically (miraculously) ordinary.