The Other Book of God
July 28, 2008
My book is the nature of created things,
and as often as I have a mind to read the
words of God, they are at my hand.
St. Anthony the Great (251-356 AD)
Absolute unmixed attention is prayer.
Simone Weil
Each pond with its blazing lilies
Is a prayer heard and answered.
Morning Prayer Mary Oliver
Abandon astonishment and you are left with
meaningless piety. Mike Yaconelli
Six-year-old Johnny wanted to try out for a
part in the school play. His mother knew
that he had set his heart on it, but she
feared he would not be chosen. On the day
the parts were assigned, Johnny, back from
school, rushed into his mother's arms
bursting with pride and excitement.
"Mother," he shouted, "guess what! I got the best part! I've been chosen to clap and cheer."
Borrowing from Barbara Brown Taylor, that which draws me to faith is not the believing parts, but the beholding parts. In other words, awe always precedes faith.
A woman stands at the window and stares. We are on the morning commuter ferry, from my island to Seattle. A snow-covered Mount Ranier dominates the panorama. It stands prominent, imperial in the dawn light. (It is true. Here in the Northwest, the first time you see Mount Ranier, you do a double take. Some Divine-sleight-of-hand. Where'd that mountain come from?)
The woman is wide-eyed, as if she is surprised by the mountain. As if she is seeing it for the first time. All of the other early morning commuters (and there are many) go about their business. Reading the newspaper. Drinking coffee. Paying bills. Talking with friends. Napping on benches.
"Look," she announces loudly, "we can see the mountain."
She has the demeanor of a person "not all there." You know what I mean. She is clearly one of those people who embarrass us. (Or realistically, one of those people we choose to ignore.) As other commuters walk by, they (we) knowingly smile at one another and roll our eyes. She's not normal, we tell one another in code.
"Look," she says again, pointing this time, almost reverential, "the mountain."
I look out the window toward the place she is pointing. The rising sun is resting on the Cascade Mountain ridgeline. As our ferry travels east, toward the sun, the shaft of light from the sun glistens and dances across the water, a pathway from the ferry to the sky. Ranier, venerable in this morning light, appears etched in pencil. The water of the Puget Sound is a gun-metal-grey, and calm. This scene is serene, and comforting. Above the Cascade Mountains, a blue-tinted-sky. High above Ranier hangs a crescent moon. Fog lingers in Tacoma Harbor. I put down my newspaper, absorbing the pageant, and my worries recede.
A morning vista as sacrament-a dose of grace, a brew, fortifying, settling.
"Look," the woman is talking again. "The mountain. Look everyone, the mountain."
To exit the ferry, we walk by the woman (still standing, still pointing, still talking), wondering, I suppose, what went wrong in her life, what finally snapped, and what made her leave her senses. How sad for her. We walk hurriedly, you know, in order to take care of those more important obligations awaiting us in our day. However. On this morning, the "crazy woman" is my sage. My seer, my rabbi, my priest, my pastor. She is my reminder. She sees, without the extra layers of defense. She sees without a need for justification, skepticism, evaluation, or any motivation to impress. "Look how beautiful," she says, "the mountain."
Here's my take: To see (life in its mysterious and extravagant fullness) begins with an inner disarmament. Sooner or later we need to remove pieces of the armor we wear that keep us from allowing life in.
Most of the time, I prefer the armor.
My armor keeps me safe. But it also keeps me from seeing. From feeling. From paying attention. But, hey, it's a small price to pay. At least I'm not crazy.
It is no secret that we drug ourselves. And it's all too easy to point the finger at those whose drug comes in pill or needle form. Trouble is, I have found that anger, resentment, fear, apathy, self-pity, being a victim and shame are just as effective. They all serve the same purpose: censor. Each one, numbing us, keeps wonder (ecstasy, awe, amazement and grace) at bay.
Public opinion is a powerful thing. I think about how we (on the ferry boat) conspired to agree about the crazy woman. "We're sane, she's crazy," we reassured each other. Is it possible that we need numbers on our side, because deep down, we know that only " crazy" people can see? That the Spirit can madden us, and drive us, literally, out of our senses (or is it fully into our senses?), just like the Psalm which reminds us that " They shall get drunk on the fullness of thy house." (Ps. 37)
Is that what I'm afraid of, intoxication (what Rabbi Heschel called radical amazement) with this life? What if we are here to get lost, to fall in love with life, to give in to the courage to be mad with the wonder of it all, to live and dance on the edge of grace (where we have nothing to show to justify our existence)?
To see is to change.
Seeing allows awe.
And awe gives birth to gratitude.
Which means, in the words of Meister Eckhart, "If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, 'thank you,' that would suffice."
Jewish tradition says that the splitting of the Red Sea was the greatest miracle ever. And yet we have one midrash that mentions two Israelites, Reuven and Shimon, who had a different experience. Apparently the bottom of the sea, though safe to walk on, was not completely dry but a little muddy, like a beach at low tide.
Reuven stepped into it and curled his lip. "What is this muck?"
Shimon scowled, "There's mud all over the place!"
"This is just like the slime pits of Egypt!" replied Reuven.
"What's the difference?" Complained Shimon. "Mud here, mud there; it's all the same."
And so it went for the two of them, grumbling all the way across the bottom of the sea. And, because they never once looked up, they never understood why on the distant shore, everyone else was singing songs of praise. For Reuven and Shimon, the miracle never happened. (Shemot Rabba 24.1)
What did you do today? It was a good day. I clapped and cheered.
I perform admiration. Come with me and do the same. Mary Oliver
The god of dirt
Came up to me many times and said
So many wise and delectable things, I lay
On the grass listening
To his dog voice,
Crow voice,
Frog voice; now,
He said, and now,
And never once mentioned forever.
Mary Oliver
"Mother," he shouted, "guess what! I got the best part! I've been chosen to clap and cheer."
Borrowing from Barbara Brown Taylor, that which draws me to faith is not the believing parts, but the beholding parts. In other words, awe always precedes faith.
A woman stands at the window and stares. We are on the morning commuter ferry, from my island to Seattle. A snow-covered Mount Ranier dominates the panorama. It stands prominent, imperial in the dawn light. (It is true. Here in the Northwest, the first time you see Mount Ranier, you do a double take. Some Divine-sleight-of-hand. Where'd that mountain come from?)
The woman is wide-eyed, as if she is surprised by the mountain. As if she is seeing it for the first time. All of the other early morning commuters (and there are many) go about their business. Reading the newspaper. Drinking coffee. Paying bills. Talking with friends. Napping on benches.
"Look," she announces loudly, "we can see the mountain."
She has the demeanor of a person "not all there." You know what I mean. She is clearly one of those people who embarrass us. (Or realistically, one of those people we choose to ignore.) As other commuters walk by, they (we) knowingly smile at one another and roll our eyes. She's not normal, we tell one another in code.
"Look," she says again, pointing this time, almost reverential, "the mountain."
I look out the window toward the place she is pointing. The rising sun is resting on the Cascade Mountain ridgeline. As our ferry travels east, toward the sun, the shaft of light from the sun glistens and dances across the water, a pathway from the ferry to the sky. Ranier, venerable in this morning light, appears etched in pencil. The water of the Puget Sound is a gun-metal-grey, and calm. This scene is serene, and comforting. Above the Cascade Mountains, a blue-tinted-sky. High above Ranier hangs a crescent moon. Fog lingers in Tacoma Harbor. I put down my newspaper, absorbing the pageant, and my worries recede.
A morning vista as sacrament-a dose of grace, a brew, fortifying, settling.
"Look," the woman is talking again. "The mountain. Look everyone, the mountain."
To exit the ferry, we walk by the woman (still standing, still pointing, still talking), wondering, I suppose, what went wrong in her life, what finally snapped, and what made her leave her senses. How sad for her. We walk hurriedly, you know, in order to take care of those more important obligations awaiting us in our day. However. On this morning, the "crazy woman" is my sage. My seer, my rabbi, my priest, my pastor. She is my reminder. She sees, without the extra layers of defense. She sees without a need for justification, skepticism, evaluation, or any motivation to impress. "Look how beautiful," she says, "the mountain."
Here's my take: To see (life in its mysterious and extravagant fullness) begins with an inner disarmament. Sooner or later we need to remove pieces of the armor we wear that keep us from allowing life in.
Most of the time, I prefer the armor.
My armor keeps me safe. But it also keeps me from seeing. From feeling. From paying attention. But, hey, it's a small price to pay. At least I'm not crazy.
It is no secret that we drug ourselves. And it's all too easy to point the finger at those whose drug comes in pill or needle form. Trouble is, I have found that anger, resentment, fear, apathy, self-pity, being a victim and shame are just as effective. They all serve the same purpose: censor. Each one, numbing us, keeps wonder (ecstasy, awe, amazement and grace) at bay.
Public opinion is a powerful thing. I think about how we (on the ferry boat) conspired to agree about the crazy woman. "We're sane, she's crazy," we reassured each other. Is it possible that we need numbers on our side, because deep down, we know that only " crazy" people can see? That the Spirit can madden us, and drive us, literally, out of our senses (or is it fully into our senses?), just like the Psalm which reminds us that " They shall get drunk on the fullness of thy house." (Ps. 37)
Is that what I'm afraid of, intoxication (what Rabbi Heschel called radical amazement) with this life? What if we are here to get lost, to fall in love with life, to give in to the courage to be mad with the wonder of it all, to live and dance on the edge of grace (where we have nothing to show to justify our existence)?
To see is to change.
Seeing allows awe.
And awe gives birth to gratitude.
Which means, in the words of Meister Eckhart, "If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, 'thank you,' that would suffice."
Jewish tradition says that the splitting of the Red Sea was the greatest miracle ever. And yet we have one midrash that mentions two Israelites, Reuven and Shimon, who had a different experience. Apparently the bottom of the sea, though safe to walk on, was not completely dry but a little muddy, like a beach at low tide.
Reuven stepped into it and curled his lip. "What is this muck?"
Shimon scowled, "There's mud all over the place!"
"This is just like the slime pits of Egypt!" replied Reuven.
"What's the difference?" Complained Shimon. "Mud here, mud there; it's all the same."
And so it went for the two of them, grumbling all the way across the bottom of the sea. And, because they never once looked up, they never understood why on the distant shore, everyone else was singing songs of praise. For Reuven and Shimon, the miracle never happened. (Shemot Rabba 24.1)
What did you do today? It was a good day. I clapped and cheered.
I perform admiration. Come with me and do the same. Mary Oliver
The god of dirt
Came up to me many times and said
So many wise and delectable things, I lay
On the grass listening
To his dog voice,
Crow voice,
Frog voice; now,
He said, and now,
And never once mentioned forever.
Mary Oliver
Poems / Prayers
Glory be to God for dappled things-
For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple
Upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced-fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled
(who knows how?)
with swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim
he fathers-forth whose beauty is past change;
Praise him
Gerard Manley Hopkins, S.J.
I need not shout my faith. Thrice eloquent
Are quiet trees and the green listening sod;
Hushed are the stars, whose power is never spent;
the hills are mute: yet how they speak of God!
Charles Hanson Towne
Lord of the Starfields, Ancient of Days
Universe make, Here's a Song in Your Praise
Voice of the Nova, Smile of the Dew
All of our yearning only comes home to You!
Oh Love that fires the sun, keep me burning.
Bruce Cockburn
Days pass and the years vanish, and we walk sightless among miracles.
Lord, fill our eyes with seeing and our minds with knowing;
let there be moments when Your Presence, like lightning, illumines the darkness in which we walk.
Help us to see, wherever we gaze, that the bush burns unconsumed.
And we, clay touched by God, will reach out for holiness, and exclaim in wonder:
How filled with awe is this place, and we did not know it!
Blessed is the Eternal One, the holy God!
Gates of Prayer (Jewish prayer book)
Peace,
Terry Hershey
