Discovering the Divine in the Ordinary Lanscape of Life
Living long, a long Wye,
roots exposed by tide,
limbs held out wide.
A reservoir of memories,
rings to mark the grieving,
the budding, the leaving.
And the years lean over,
gather weight and force,
longing to return to source.
Down in the Spring waters,
Raised up after Fall,
Split open for all.
Ah, smell the Red Oak!
Now fully open in the sun,
see ingrained a life well run.
My friends the fronds
they sweep my heart away
as I listen to what they say.
Soft tails, gold and copper,
wave like souls set free.
My frondy friends wrap their arms around me,
whisper in my ear, if only I could hear.
I love theses wild grasses,
how they thrive in fierce fields,
with arms outstretched, hailing me with hope.
light streams
through stained glass
longings lit
colors flash
upon wood
onto stone
the interface
spirit and matter
shadow and light
sorrow and joy
on the Altar of sacrifice
we give thanks!
Written for my Irish friends
Like streams on the Mourne slopes, we merge round rock and turf, and descend together into still waters.
Like migratory birds we return to this table of friendship, to tell our stories, to remind ourselves of who we are. We are hard-wired to feast in this field together.
Time stills itself at the table of friendship as we bless our abundance and lift the cup our life. We chew and swallow the presence that inhabits the space between laughter, joy and sorrow.
The lime dressing soaks into our green leaves and beetroots, as spirit is drawn into matter. We are tossed together, refreshed by a foretaste of the merging feast that is our destiny.
We have come to a table where sacrifice lifts a glass to gratitude and sorrow reaches out to grasp the plate of joy.
We come to a table where our ego-shells resolve into porous membranes that we might pass beyond mere language into real presence.
And for all this feasting, still, only a glimpse of that broad heart-land that we are learning to make our homeland.
Does God really need us to remind him of how great he is?
Is God an ego maniac that hungers and thirsts for our worship in order to slake His cosmic thirst?
Is God absent minded such that He often forgets our needs and will not answer us unless we constantly remind him with our petitions?
Of course these are silly rhetorical questions, and yet this is how we often relate to prayer and why many end up abandoning the practice.
What if we think of prayer as a divine tuning fork? A time to calibrate the strings of our humanity to the divine, universal notes? A time to come into resonance with the Holy Spirit.
Prayer and worship is not for placating God or attempting to manipulate God. It is a time for tuning our heart to His. God does not “need” our prayer, we need it, in order to be transformed into his likeness and become attentive to His voice.
We are often drawn to prayer from a place desperation and despair, seeking a healing or an answer to a petition, but if we take the time to just sit in God’s presence and allow His love to envelop us, we can discover a deeper level of security that is rooted in His being, and not in the circumstances of our life. In this kind of “tuning” prayer our whole perspective changes. This is the miracle of detaching with love that takes place in the divine encounter. It leads us out of our ego narrative traps, our deep irrational fears, and the narrow constricted places we get caught. This kind of prayer leads us out into a wide open space, a deep interior freedom. We may still want that healing or petition answered, but often not in the same way or in desperation because we have found a new resonance in Christ, in the living incarnate Word. With Him and in Him we can say to the Father: I love your will, may it be done. Glorify your name in me.
What about liturgical and sacramental prayer? We return over and over again to these ancient forms and we are tempted at times to say they feel like empty practices. But once we realize that worship is not about me or about getting my emotional needs met, but about finding that resonance with all of creation by entering into Christ’s own priestly offering to the Father, then we begin to allow the liturgy to “tune” our instrument to join in the orchestra, the one that sings in unison a response to God’s Love. This resonance can carry us when we feel empty, just by our showing up and being present. It can drawn us out of our isolation and into communion.
The four last things: heaven, hell, judgement, and death are to be reflected upon with love, not fear.
How can we do this?
Heaven is the easy one, the ultimate expression of God’s love is that he desires to spend eternity with us.
Hell is ultimately about our refusal to accept God’s love. God never rejects his own, so its up to us, we are free to enter into his loving embrace or not.
Judgement is perfect mercy and perfect justice coming together. We can’t conceive how this is possible except to look upon the Cross of Christ. Imagine the eternal Father seeing you in and through his own Son and smiling with delight.
And lastly, death is the great release from the pain and limitations of the body. It can also be a fearful letting go of all that is beautiful in this physical world. It is the final frontier of our journey. We should not think of Death as an ending but as part of life itself, and the two are really one, one cycle, one journey of learning to let go, and allowing ourselves to become one with God.
It is Love, not fear that beckons us to contemplate these last things.
My dear ones keep departing and taking pieces of me with them and I remain torn, tossed, foot unsteady in their vacuous wake.
How can a person be so animated in body, with eyes so radiant, and so connected to me, and then just blown out like the flame of a candle?
In my bones there is a sure knowing, that this love never ends and that all God has made belongs, and returns to source. But this ground of certainty also has its limits as I face my own plunge into unknowing.
Strangely, I have begun to love this precipice. It whispers gentle and often: “let go, trust the edge of love and its vast unfathomable depths”.
Can death be such a friend, and approaching bride groom? What will happen to all my present boundaries and my sense of self? Do they just fall away like a robe from a naked body?
And what about my loved ones who have crossed over, will we know and be known again? Are they the gravitational pull, the summoning whisper I feel, that grows by the day?
The landscape here is by far the most beautiful in all my travels.
Steep rocky cliffs, broad sandy beaches, thick tufts of spongy green turf, wild flowers-blue, yellow, violet. The streams are flowing from field, over rock paths and out to the sea. Sitting by the cliff edge there is a grand silence cut only by sound of sea birds and the water lapping against rock far below.
Natures beauty is so intense and vibrant it has the power to touch the soul and awaken it to God’s presence.
This experience of beauty is enriched by connection with loved ones, family and dearest of friends. Such beauty can’t be absorbed fully unless it is shared. I think that is because material beauty is really just a pointer, an invitation into communion, and union.
We left Bangor at 9AM.
Our first stop: The Grey Abby. Founded in 1149. Gothic arches, roofless ruins, sculptured memorials to men who gave entire lives to prayer.
On the road down the Ards peninsula toward Portaferry The mud flats at low tide in the lough are shimmering in the sun like glazing on pastry.
On the ferry to Strangford, the wind is whipping, eyes watering, the sound of gulls screeching, and the metal clanging as the cars roll of the ramp.
A stop in the wee cake shop for tea and scone with butter, cream, and jam.
Then on our way to Kiloghlea just like Van’s song. We can see in the distance the humped backs of the Mourns, black against silver sky and sliding into the sea.
Wising by the car window are
Heather-clumped fields of grass, wind-gnarled bushes,
Yellow-lichened rock shores and Stone-crumbled walls.
In Ardglass harbor sits two red-rusted tugs leaning over in the mud at low-tide. Around the point are manicured greens with eighteen flags whipping in the wind.
We stop at Dundrum Bay to hike through Dunes and out to the strand. The Dunes are covered in thick brown grasses and sit in clumps like a pride of wild cats.
A ring of burnt logs lays on the rough cobblestone strand. Dark clouds are making the sea turn black.
We return by pasture, passing brinded cows chewing patiently among the bluebells.
We reach Eniskinen House next to Tulleymore forrest, just under the Morn foothills. We hike the enchanted path down to the river past ancient trees.
On the way back we stop at Scrabo Tower built on a steep hill and overlooking the entire Ards peninsula. Strangford loch forms a vast shimmering water-plain below.
Back to Bangor, Onslow Gardens, where the air thin like the evening light. Thanks be to God for long Irish days.
When a new baby is announced it is a moment of incredible joy and wonder. We look at the little face and the miniature features and we are in awe. Why?
Perhaps we are in awe of how everything is present in the little bundle, all the genetic material is there for growing into a full adult.
Perhaps we are in awe of the great mystery of life, and that the heart and soul of this new being will be tested, and will suffer much and also experience great joys.
At baptism we are born again as a child of God. We are set on a journey to become Christ in the world. The Holy Spirit fills us and provides all that we need to become a Christ in the world. All the divine genetic material is there, just like a seed planted in in the ground. If we can perceive how the whole tree is potentially present in a tiny seed, then we can glimpse the profound mystery of baptism.
As we behold the vulnerability and potentiality of an infant gazing up at us, let us call to mind the seed of baptism within each of us. Are we protecting, and nurturing this infinite potential, this boundless grace? We look all around us for what we think we need when its already there, planted within us.