The Gift of the Moon
December 01, 2008
One of his disciples, whom Jesus loved,
was at the table, leaning against Jesus'
breast. Gospel of John
To pray is to take notice of the wonder,
to regain a sense of the mystery that
animates all beings, the divine margin in all
attainments. Prayer is our humble answer to
the inconceivable surprise of living. It is
all we can offer in return for the mystery by
which we live. Rabbi Abraham Heschel
Ryoken, a Zen master, lived the simplest kind
of life in a little hut at the foot of a
mountain. One evening a thief
visited the hut, only to discover there was
nothing in it to steal. Ryoken returned and
caught him in the act.
"You may have come a long way to visit me," he told the disillusioned prowler, "and you should not return empty-handed. Please take my clothes as a gift."
The thief was bewildered. But he took the clothes and slunk away.
Ryoken sat naked, watching the moon, "Poor fellow," he mused. "I wish I could have given him this beautiful moon."
Sometimes I feel like that thief. Standing--in my own home, or in front of an audience, or in a crowd, or all alone--I am looking for something, for whatever ails me or creates a hole or emptiness; but, like that thief, not finding it. "What am I missing?" I ask myself. What am I wanting, yearning for, that I find myself in such a pell-mell-hurry, hoping to fix it, or find it, or mend it. So I run and race and call on God, or the sky, or roll the dice with some prayer from my childhood. This will solve it. But the more I push, the more I ask, the more I beseech, the further I move from the center.
Here's the deal: In my state of distraction, I cannot see that the core of my identity, the place where I stand in this moment (even at times without clarity, or stability, or faith, or answers), I stand smack dab in the center of an awesome and illogical grace. Smack dab in the center of the sacred present.
If I do have the permission to see that place, I know that I am grounded.
I am now able to breathe in
and out,
and rest in this acceptance.
A week ago (with my family headed for the airport) we leave our house, pre-dawn. I walk ahead of the car pulling our garbage container the quarter-mile walk down our drive to the main road. Outside our driveway's entry gate, I happen to glance up to eastern sky, where the moon, a slivered crescent hangs on a deep-royal-blue sky. It is momentary, but visceral, arresting, piercing. And for whatever reason, reassuring. I stop. Literally. My legs quit moving. Now this snapshot is imprinted, and I know in my heart that it is in some way vital, essential, indispensable. I accept this gift of the moon, even though I don't yet know why.
And I think of the question a friend asked me, "What holds you?"
What sustains you?
What carries you gently through your days (especially in these days when we are bombarded by the need for speed and the compulsion to add to our lives the newest or trendiest)?
As the day welcomes dawn, the sky on this morning is an enchanting pageant. The cloud cover is layered, like some sinfully rich and dense marbled-cake. In other places, I see billowed fabric, with an occasional rent in the cloth, revealing the softest blue of morning sky. As the backlighting increases, the cloud formations become more substantial, as if a permanent, marbled sculpture. And the band of light just above the Cascade Mountain range changes to a deep tangerine.
Yes, this scene is a tonic. There is something about these moments that carry significance. Because they are reminders, and they are sacraments. Partial, yes, but containing the full sustenance of grace.
Just before his death on the island of Iona, St. Columba said, "There is no wall between. All is brightness there - clarity beyond belief- and now at last, no longer any feeling of separation from the Kingdom! Now at last, within the sight of Eternity, I have known what it is to rest upon the breast of Peace."
The picture that Columba brings to mind is that from the Last Supper, when John the beloved disciple rested on the breast of Jesus.
But remember this. Although it was a haven for John, that breast upon which he lay and the heart that beat within it, was far from peaceful. Even so, faced with foreseeable suffering and distress, that breast remained a cushion of peace for John. Because Jesus could see beyond the trials. He could see no wall between. He could see peace, and therefore rest, within the present moment.
What holds us?
How do we let it in?
Christmas tree lots are busy. Stores have begun their advertising for the perfect gift. (If you have a hankering, and money to spend, buy me an ugly tie and we'll call it good.)
In the church, we are about to begin the season of Advent. Advent is Latin for 'a coming or arrival.' A season of waiting, for the arrival of.
But this is modern life, with the modern version of Advent: stay very busy while we wait. Dizzying. Even in church we have morphed into a jitterbug of activity. Advent schedules at a church offer 3 or 4 events per week. Even with so much to choose from, we feel, oddly, like that thief, empty-handed.
I wonder, what would happen if we made this announcement at church, "There are many activities this Advent. Because of that, we recommend you choose just one."
What are you doing this advent?
I'm going to sit this one out.
Really.
Well Advent is about waiting. As in sitting still. Attentiveness.
Oooh. Is there another kind of waiting, some kind that generates a little excitement?
I don't know what to tell you to do, exactly. However, thinking of my pre-dawn moment, I wish I could give you the gift of that crescent moon.
I do know that there is a direct correlation to openness: I need to give up my need to protect stuff, reputation, resume, accoutrements.
The disciple John laid down his defenses, worry, fear, in order to receive rest.
And when I laid down my preoccupation and worry, I was gifted the moon.
Be still and rest in the Lord; wait for Him and patiently lean yourself upon Him. The Psalmist
"You may have come a long way to visit me," he told the disillusioned prowler, "and you should not return empty-handed. Please take my clothes as a gift."
The thief was bewildered. But he took the clothes and slunk away.
Ryoken sat naked, watching the moon, "Poor fellow," he mused. "I wish I could have given him this beautiful moon."
Sometimes I feel like that thief. Standing--in my own home, or in front of an audience, or in a crowd, or all alone--I am looking for something, for whatever ails me or creates a hole or emptiness; but, like that thief, not finding it. "What am I missing?" I ask myself. What am I wanting, yearning for, that I find myself in such a pell-mell-hurry, hoping to fix it, or find it, or mend it. So I run and race and call on God, or the sky, or roll the dice with some prayer from my childhood. This will solve it. But the more I push, the more I ask, the more I beseech, the further I move from the center.
Here's the deal: In my state of distraction, I cannot see that the core of my identity, the place where I stand in this moment (even at times without clarity, or stability, or faith, or answers), I stand smack dab in the center of an awesome and illogical grace. Smack dab in the center of the sacred present.
If I do have the permission to see that place, I know that I am grounded.
I am now able to breathe in
and out,
and rest in this acceptance.
A week ago (with my family headed for the airport) we leave our house, pre-dawn. I walk ahead of the car pulling our garbage container the quarter-mile walk down our drive to the main road. Outside our driveway's entry gate, I happen to glance up to eastern sky, where the moon, a slivered crescent hangs on a deep-royal-blue sky. It is momentary, but visceral, arresting, piercing. And for whatever reason, reassuring. I stop. Literally. My legs quit moving. Now this snapshot is imprinted, and I know in my heart that it is in some way vital, essential, indispensable. I accept this gift of the moon, even though I don't yet know why.
And I think of the question a friend asked me, "What holds you?"
What sustains you?
What carries you gently through your days (especially in these days when we are bombarded by the need for speed and the compulsion to add to our lives the newest or trendiest)?
As the day welcomes dawn, the sky on this morning is an enchanting pageant. The cloud cover is layered, like some sinfully rich and dense marbled-cake. In other places, I see billowed fabric, with an occasional rent in the cloth, revealing the softest blue of morning sky. As the backlighting increases, the cloud formations become more substantial, as if a permanent, marbled sculpture. And the band of light just above the Cascade Mountain range changes to a deep tangerine.
Yes, this scene is a tonic. There is something about these moments that carry significance. Because they are reminders, and they are sacraments. Partial, yes, but containing the full sustenance of grace.
Just before his death on the island of Iona, St. Columba said, "There is no wall between. All is brightness there - clarity beyond belief- and now at last, no longer any feeling of separation from the Kingdom! Now at last, within the sight of Eternity, I have known what it is to rest upon the breast of Peace."
The picture that Columba brings to mind is that from the Last Supper, when John the beloved disciple rested on the breast of Jesus.
But remember this. Although it was a haven for John, that breast upon which he lay and the heart that beat within it, was far from peaceful. Even so, faced with foreseeable suffering and distress, that breast remained a cushion of peace for John. Because Jesus could see beyond the trials. He could see no wall between. He could see peace, and therefore rest, within the present moment.
What holds us?
How do we let it in?
Christmas tree lots are busy. Stores have begun their advertising for the perfect gift. (If you have a hankering, and money to spend, buy me an ugly tie and we'll call it good.)
In the church, we are about to begin the season of Advent. Advent is Latin for 'a coming or arrival.' A season of waiting, for the arrival of.
But this is modern life, with the modern version of Advent: stay very busy while we wait. Dizzying. Even in church we have morphed into a jitterbug of activity. Advent schedules at a church offer 3 or 4 events per week. Even with so much to choose from, we feel, oddly, like that thief, empty-handed.
I wonder, what would happen if we made this announcement at church, "There are many activities this Advent. Because of that, we recommend you choose just one."
What are you doing this advent?
I'm going to sit this one out.
Really.
Well Advent is about waiting. As in sitting still. Attentiveness.
Oooh. Is there another kind of waiting, some kind that generates a little excitement?
I don't know what to tell you to do, exactly. However, thinking of my pre-dawn moment, I wish I could give you the gift of that crescent moon.
I do know that there is a direct correlation to openness: I need to give up my need to protect stuff, reputation, resume, accoutrements.
The disciple John laid down his defenses, worry, fear, in order to receive rest.
And when I laid down my preoccupation and worry, I was gifted the moon.
Be still and rest in the Lord; wait for Him and patiently lean yourself upon Him. The Psalmist
Poems / Prayers
I have no desire, I have no ability, to proclaim anything except the innumerable prolongations of your incarnate Being in the world of matter; I can preach only the mystery of your flesh, you're the Soul shining forth through all that surrounds us. Teilhard de Chardin
Snowed In
It's mid-March, and the first real snow is falling.
I have learned to make a good fire since he left,
Though I'm unsure how I'll pay all the rent.
Still this life is beautiful right down to the dog.
My daughter's a pearl reflecting
All manner of light.
Flute player, meadow walker,
She disappears for days
Into big blue gooks. Today in the sun
We kept busy with seeds, feeding all the little birds
In our gusty corner of the valley
It was Finch TV till sunset.
One red-breasted specimen crashed
Into our window at noon.
I brought him inside, held him two-handed
As his spirit landed back
In his brown body, and I
Imagined carton stars
Whirling in a halo round his trembling head.
He shat twice in my hand, blinking.
Back outside, he flew away audibly
And at a tilt toward some scattered seeds,
Like a tiny, feathered jet plane.
O Creator of snowflakes, finches, and pearls,
I surrender. I wish to drift again
In your grace as a feather does: useful and light.
Part of a miraculous wing.
If only I could pry out the pain and skip it,
Frozen, across a dark lake
Like a stone.
Megan Buchanan
Loving God,
I sense that all is your creation
and everything, and all of us,
are being drawn back toward your loving heart.
Help me to be a person of peace,
To speak about it in an uneasy world,
And to live it among the people
you have put into my life every day.
Light in me a desire to prepare for your coming to stand in the darkness, waiting, eager and filled with joy.
Amen.
(creighton.edu)
Peace,
Terry Hershey
