How good it was to join with so many of you last Wednesday as we renewed our virtual gatherings in Contemplative Chapel. From time to time, someone will ask me if these gatherings are open to everyone. The answer is yes, and I hope you’ll invite anyone who might find this lovely community of prayer helpful. Just send them this link.
As we prepare to gather tomorrow’s gathering, I have been revisiting an important observation that Martin Laird makes in his acclaimed guide to Christian contemplation, Into the Silent Land. Communion with God, Laird writes, is completely natural for human beings. Just as a rhododendron is made to flower, a baby bird is made to fly, and a child is naturally given to moments of self-forgetful abandon and joy, so every one of us is made to commune with God in the silence and stillness of our hearts.
I know it doesn’t feel that way all the time. Distractions, stress, and worry are regular features of our daily lives. But once we’ve tasted the gentle embrace of wonder and stillness, that sense of ineffable, loving presence that can come over us unexpectedly, we know something of this truth – we are built to commune with the Divine; it is who we are.
But it is helpful to remember that it is possible to try too hard. Our practice is surrendering to something that is always going on, something that is available to us. It is not anything we can summon or bring about by an act of will. Our practice is releasing ourselves to something that already is.
Today in the church calendar Episcopalians commemorate the life of a priest, poet, and beloved pastor, George Herbert (1593-1633). Herbert was born into a distinguished Welsh family, excelled in his studies at Cambridge, and attracted the attention of King James I. But Herbert turned down a prestigious career in Parliament in favor of becoming a beloved country parson where he was noted for his faithful and loving pastoral care, visiting the sick, caring for the poor, and sitting by the bed of the dying. Herbert also wrote poetry that is characterized by grace, gentleness, quietness, and compelling faith.
The psalm appointed to be read in honor of George Herbert is the 23rd, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” a psalm that evokes that beautiful sense that we are attended, we are “companioned” by a loving Presence throughout our lives, even when we walk through the valley of the shadow of death. Such a perfect psalm for George Herbert, a pastor, poet, and priest who evoked that warm sense of Presence in his life’s work.
In our gathering tomorrow, I’d like to join with you in immersing ourselves in this spiritual wonder and presence that attends every one of us all our days. And to help prepare for the experience, I hope you’ll read a short passage from one of my favorite novels, Father Melancholy’s Daughter, by Gail Godwin. (The sequel, Evensong, is another favorite.) Gail Godwin is not only a great novelist, she’s also a faithful Episcopalian and wonderful theologian. I encourage you to read the passage slowly, maybe a couple of times.
First, a little background on this passage: Margaret is the daughter of an Episcopal priest and is now an undergraduate student at the University of Virginia. She rents a room from a very kind lady named Mrs. Dunbar, whose own daughter is harsh and impatient with her mother, often bringing Mrs. Dunbar to tears. Margaret’s own mother died when Margaret was very young, and one senses a sweetness and mutual comfort about Margaret’s and Mrs. Dunbar’s relationship. They regularly have a cup of cocoa together in the evenings, for example, and in the following scene, Margaret has just gotten out the two packets of hot cocoa mix, selected two mugs, and put the kettle on to boil. Mrs. Dunbar has climbed on a high stool to watch. Margaret reflects:
“At times like this, when I was simply going about my business, doing whatever it was that presented itself to be done next (right now, tearing open the packets of cocoa mix and shaking the brown powder into the two mugs without wasting any or spilling it on the counter), a strange sensation sometimes came over me. It was as if another presence were allowing me to become aware of its unwavering attention on my behalf; for it was always there, this larger, luminous, and highly focused consciousness. It registered, ceaselessly, not only what I did and thought and felt, but also all that I was beyond what I knew. This ‘extra-consciousness’ was not something that I could summon through my will or through sheer concentration or desire. On the contrary, its preference seemed to be for simple moments, moments of disinterest. And then suddenly I would be aware of it, aware with it that everything I did counted, and that the thing I was doing right at this moment was part and parcel of what I was going to become.” (Father Melancholy’s Daughter, by Gail Godwin, Perennial paperback, 2002, pp.102-103)
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Those of us who are drawn to contemplation do well to remember that communing with God in the silence of our heart is perfectly natural for human beings. We are always attended by the loving presence of God, and every now and then this presence “comes over us” and makes itself known. But this experience is not something we can summon through our own will or concentration. It is sheer gift, and “its preference seems to be for simple moments,” including perhaps especially those simple moments when we are gently caring for each other, communing with each other.