Tags
A Sleep of Prisoners, Bartimaeus, breathing, centering prayer, Christopher Fry, Father Thomas Keating, Jesus, letting go, Mark, prayer, presence of God, rest in peace, see, The Sophia Center for Spirituality
I just read the gospel story of the blind man, Bartimaeus. (MK 10: 46-52). My favorite line has Bartimaeus answering the question Jesus had put to him when he called out for attention. Actually both lines of the exchange are crucial. Jesus asks, “What do you want me to do for you?” to which Bartimaeus answers, “Master, I want to see.” Upon reflection one might ask why Jesus needed to pose that question as it must have been obvious that the man was blind. It certainly wasn’t a trivial request. The fact that Jesus asked it, however, might move us to consider some deeper content in our own prayer.
Does our prayer sound like a Christmas list sometimes, asking God to fix things in our lives so that we will be more comfortable than we are? Surely we are called to ask for help to live good lives and have compassion for others but in these troubled times when events and world conditions are now “soul size” (see A Sleep of Prisoners by Christopher Fry) we must be called to new ways of participating in life.
Father Thomas Keating died on Thursday (10/25) at the age of 95 years. Fr. Thomas is known to many as the father of the Centering Prayer movement and a spiritual giant who personified the best of a life of contemplative prayer. I was privileged to encounter Father Thomas twice in person and found him to be delightfully down-to-earth while also shining like the sun from the inside. His deep practice of prayer was evident in the joy with which he lived and in the deeply wise, carefully chosen words he used to speak of spiritual things. It was clear that his way of prayer was deeper than words, however, and leaned in, always listening, to the heartbeat of God.
Centering prayer is like that, Fr. Thomas would say. It consists of sitting down and “consenting to the presence of God,” returning, when we recognize that we are thinking, to just being in the Presence, letting go of everything else. Just like breathing, this kind of prayer gets patterned into us and becomes an anchor for life. Hundreds of thousands of people the world over practice this form of prayer each day and are united now in feelings of happiness and sadness at the same time: sadness to have lost the physical presence of Father Thomas in this realm but, oh so happy to think of his joyful passage into the next! May he truly rest in peace!
There has been a lot of bad news lately – some global, some personal involving people that I love. My typical response to all of it (as maybe for many of us) is to try to make things better. I am lately finding it difficult to trust my ability to do anything and so am shifting to what some people would call “letting God be God.” What that involves sometimes looks like passivity, and it does involve surrender to what is, but it seems more sensible than being against anything which involves resistance and pushing when there is a wall in the way.
Home again this morning in my own space, I first did what is my usual Sunday morning task: checking my calendar for the week to make sure nothing creeps up on me for which I’m not prepared. I was reminded that there is some creative work to be done and that is a good thing for my spirit. That task done but still in waking mode, I turned to Alan Cohen to find the perfect message for this morning. Perhaps you will find it to be so as well.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to go back in time and live in a simpler world with fewer people, a world where Jesus could say to his chosen Twelve: “Take nothing for the journey, neither walking stick, nor sack, nor food, nor money, and let no one take a second tunic.” (One would probably want the power and authority Jesus gave to them over demons and to cure diseases, however, to keep them safe along the way as they preached the word of God.) (LK 9:1-6) When I left home yesterday to come to a meeting 135 miles away, I made sure I had my driver’s license, money, credit card in case of emergency, cell phone, and the food that one of the sisters had bought me at the grocery store for my lunch. Oh, yes, and the car that would get me here in about two and a half hours! Times have certainly changed! The world turns faster, the culture much more complicated – virtually nothing is the same!
Sometimes it’s difficult to know what to say in this complex and over-stimulating world in which we now live. This morning as I was considering the lectionary readings one by one I kept getting interrupted with news flashes. It went something like this:
We know only two things about St. Matthew whose feast we celebrate today. First, we know him as a tax collector and secondly that he responded to the call of Jesus who approached him with the command: “Follow me,” and later was credited with the Gospel that bears his name. In the time of Jesus, tax collectors were not beloved members of society. It seems that, once again, Jesus was trying to make an important point by calling Matthew to be a disciple – a call that Matthew was unlikely to accept in the unquestioning way that he did. He was making some money, after all, and his job was likely secure. But Matthew got up from his customs post and seems to have never questioned the motives of Jesus or his own response. Clearly, others questioned however! “Why does the teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” they boldly said – not thinking of any transgressions they themselves might have committed. Jesus was clear in his response to these queries. “I desire mercy, not sacrifice. I did not come to call the righteous but sinners.”
As we begin another week of reflection we are called by the Scriptures to be alert in two areas, both having to do with outer manifestation but in reality, perhaps, dealing with our inner dispositions.
There is so much to ponder in Luke’s version of the call of the first disciples. (LK 5:1-11) One might first think of Jesus as rather presumptuous. There were two boats by the lake whose owners were washing their nets after a night of fishing when Jesus steps into the one belonging to Simon and asks him to put out a bit from shore – a better vantage point from which to teach the crowds that were pressing in on him. Simon says nothing about being tired or disappointed that they hadn’t caught anything; he just does what Jesus asks. The encounter gets more challenging, however, when Jesus finishes his teaching and says to Simon, “Put out into deep water and lower your nets for a catch.” At that Simon has to speak (“We’ve worked hard all night and have caught nothing.”), but it seems that his heart is already softened to Jesus. (“…but at your command I will lower the nets.”) We all know the end of the story: so great a catch of fish that the nets are tearing and Simon’s regret that he had even hesitated before acquiescing to the request of Jesus. (“Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.”)
The name Jeanne Jugan did not strike a chord of recognition in me, nor did the title Mother Marie of the Cross (Mere Marie de la Croix). I have, however, known since early adulthood of the work of The Little Sisters of the Poor, who had an established house not more than a few miles from my own Motherhouse outside of Albany, New York where I lived. We speak sometimes of “the hidden life” of Jesus – the years during his youth and young adulthood about which we have little or no information. It seems that St. Jeanne, as well as the Sisters who have come after her, lived most of her life in that manner while doing extraordinary work for the elderly poor. (see Saint of the Day at 
From the prophet Elijah to Jesus, today’s readings speak of the importance of eating to keep up our strength for living – both physically and spiritually. We find Elijah journeying into the desert (1 KGS 19:4-8) where, in a moment of desperation, he lies down under a tree and asks God to let him die. Instead, an angel wakes him and orders him – twice – to eat, having provided the food that will keep him alive and strong on his trek through the desert (a forty-day trip) to Horeb, the mountain of God.