A difficult journey

With Divine encounters all along the way

Marc Chagall, Le Songe de Jacob “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it.”

I still have not seen Christopher Nolan’s film adaptation of The Odyssey, but I am looking forward to it. I love The Odyssey, and while literary scholars and film critics argue about the movie, I’m pondering it on the simplest level. The story of trying to find our way home and encountering all sorts of obstacles along the way resonates. It feels like the story of humanity—that sense we all have, at times profoundly, that we are far from home, far from our true life, longing for Eden, and resolving time and again to do what we can to return.

It’s the story of Jesus’ parable of the prodigal son who “comes to himself” in a pigsty and longs for home. The prodigal son knows he’s made choices that have made a mess of his life. He knows he can’t undo his mistakes, but he hopes he can find his way home and begin again, if only as a servant, no longer worthy to be called a son. His surprise at being so warmly and lovingly embraced by his father is a sign of Jesus’ “Good News,” the hope we treasure in our hearts.

Time and again the Bible asserts that our wayward wanderings—our sins and failures—only attract God love and mercy. Our shortcomings are just opportunities to learn more about God’s love. God isn’t surprised by our failures any more than a parent is surprised when a toddler spills a cup of milk. Our journey is one of growing and learning, under the tutelage of God’s love and mercy.

But one thing that makes the journey so painful is that our failures occupy so much of our thoughts and feelings, sometimes with paralyzing shame or regret. The promise of the warm embrace at the end, on the other hand, is a kind of hidden hope in the recesses of our soul. Strangely, that hidden hope within seems to be what nudges us to waken or “come to ourselves” now and again, so that we can renew the difficult journey. “Our souls are restless until they rest in God,” as Augustine memorably describes this divinely implanted homing impulse.

And along the way, we sometimes have the strange sensation that our journey is not only full of trials but is also brimming with divine encounters. A complete stranger treats us kindly and encouragingly, as if sincerely desiring to help us along our way. In a quiet moment of stillness, we become aware of birdsong, a gentle rustling of leaves, or the lapping of waves; and for the life of us, it feels as if someone or something is reaching out to us—we are being visited and gently enfolded by a sense of belonging and inspiration.

And if that sounds a little woo woo, consider what the esteemed professor of physics from Amherst College, Arthur Zajonc, has to say about nature “not as a physical mechanism but as a moral and spiritual agent”:

While science will protest that we are merely projecting our moral inclinations onto nature, we can inwardly sense the emptiness of that assertion. Every civilization except ours has understood that we are not the only moral agents in the universe. Our survival depends on setting aside such self-centeredness and acknowledging the agential or “being” character of the world around us.

Meditation as Contemplative Inquiry, p. 56

Almost anything could be the catalyst for this ineffable feeling that there is much more to this world and this life than we normally imagine. As the literature of Homer and Virgil might put it in mythological terms, it’s as if the gods are periodically visiting us, making an appearance under the guise of friend or stranger, in the rhythms of the natural world, or even in the affection of our pets.

We can write these off as mere psychological projections, and our self-centeredness dictates that we often will. But something faint, ethereal, and graceful often lingers after such experiences, a sense that there is a deeper reality at work, something more than fantasy or wishful thinking. And although we are not inclined to describe it or name it, this Other now and then reaches out, seeking to reassure and nurture us in our best and most hopeful selves.

This might point to one of my experiences of contemplative gatherings like those that will begin again on August 19. We are not trying to make something happen; rather, we simply seek to attune and give ourselves more completely to something that is always happening. A voice that speaks in the storm and chaos of our life, “Peace. Be still.” A Love that nudges us to waken calls us home to Itself, reminding us, “I am here. I am with you.”

Could it be that we are already home, and the difficult journey is coming to that awareness?

In this spirit, I invite all who might wish to join us in weekly gatherings of Contemplative Chapel to click here for more information and how to register for the Zoom link.

And I offer you a little gift: the video of a beautiful, inspiring, and deeply moving song by Will Todd, “The Call of Wisdom,” written for Queen Elizabeth’s “Diamond Jubilee” in 2012, celebrating her 60^thanniversary on the British throne.

The video always moves me (thank you, Inza), especially the children’s angelic faces and voices, as well as the picture of Queen Elizabeth (at about the 2:25 mark) holding the order of service in her hands, but clearly transfixed by an otherworldly beckoning:

I am here, I am with you
I have called, do you hear me?
I am here, I am here
I am with you

You might recognize it as the very same voice you’ve heard now and then in your own journey, as you’ve struggled to find your way home.

The full, beautiful lyrics are here. I especially love the line, spoken like a loving parent, “Those who know me know my love” (not my blame or anger!).

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A bonus: after you’ve let the above sink in … enjoy this favorite song by Steve Winwood, “Can’t find my way home.” It’s not ethereal like the above, but it’s mighty soulful. Written for Blind Faith in 1969, sung here with Eric Clapton in Madison Square Garden in 2008. Odysseus, the prodigal son, Queen Elizabeth, Steve Winwood … it’s a universal, human thing.