Wake up, you sleeping boy

The dayspring arrives and your eyes are but half awakened

Do not spend your moments squinting at what could be yours

Fear not, you trembling boy

For it is not your lot to sort the pieces

Your needs are seen

O, how your needs are known

Be joyful, you somber boy

The Light of Life shines brightly

And beckons you to sit and soak

Get up, you silly boy

You were made for so much more

Yes, so much more than just yourself

Please remember, forgetful boy

That life's made new again today

A day for renewing once again

I love you, fickle boy

Though you find it hard to trust

Never will I forsake you

I am yours, but first you're mine

eyes to see

I am sitting here thinking of what to write for my next blog post. It has been a while since I have written and a certain part of me thinks I am obligated to produce something new. At the the same time, I know I like to write. I have been gifted in words to the point where I find it therapeutic. When I determine for myself that I must put something on paper, I begin to distrust the exercise. I know I do not need another avenue for ego-boost. I could certainly look back on the last few years of my own public writing and combat my former way of thinking. But, then again, I know how I have changed and do not think I need to continually reprove myself in front of others...internal blog wars, if you will. So, I continue to sit here and wonder what to write.

A man was just sitting outside this coffee shop with a copy of a magazine meant to help the homeless of this city. He has kind eyes, though one is lazy to the left. I have seen him a couple of times at the same corner, selling the same magazine. He sports a wrinkly, maroon oxford with black slacks and a cubs ballcap. Chicago tells us not to buy from unlicensed vendors. If I was in charge of those permits I would certainly present one to this rogue peddler. I find his demeanor quite respectful and I have been glad to see a number of passerbys respectfully refuse his offer, looking him right into the lazy eye. Though sales may be low, the interactions have been humanizing on both ends.

A younger man walked by earlier when I was writing about the vendor wearing a t-shirt with the logo of the nearby sex-store written in red across the chest. He looked unsure of himself as he walked down the street, eyes darting from ground to a few feet in front of his stride. I wonder how he got that job? I judge that place and the subsequent solicitors that frequent it every time I go by. But this guy actually works there. That is a whole new level. He sells sex. I find his lifestyle less than worthy of my respect. I think I lumped his humanity in there too.

And here I sit, typing away on a little white computer with a fancy piece of fruit that lights up on the opposite side of the screen. What do people see in my eyes as I glance up to see them stride past? Who is deeming me worthy of their respect? Who is deeming me worthy of their judgment? How much is assumed of my own person in the second or two that I am seen through the glass? I do not like the liberty that I take on piecing together the lives of strangers. I need to be careful of the conclusions I make as well as the prayers I compose of people I do not know.

I am presented with the liberty to love everyone. Beyond that, I am obligated to speak, listen, and understand before I determine. And, I am not sure how much determining I am to do in this life anyway. I will leave that mystery up to Jesus. I must be grateful for my own story, ask for the boldness to share the maker of that story, and trust that I will be given the eyes to see how much He cares for the stories of all others.

Peace and Light

The hour has come. For millennia nature has groaned under its heavy burden. The whole of the created order has limped for far too long.

Glimpses of hope for three years caused wonder. The weeping found solace, the dead brought life, the hungry given bread, the homeless laid down.

From the city of the king came a hope of something greater: an invitation incarnate.

For his works he was despised. For his words he was mocked. For his silence he was beaten.

A crown of twisted shame bore into his brow. Nails of brutality pierced his flesh. Upon a cursed tree hung the morning star of heaven.

"May these wounds bind theirs!" was his cry.

"It has all been done!" was his last.

Light ripped through darkness as a veil from top to bottom... Earth cracked as a bone re-set...Death turned upon its head...All that the broken might be healed.

Dear brothers and sisters, all the beloved of God, here is your hope.

Merton

Thomas Merton, in one of his journal compilations entitled Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander writes a piece describing an experience where he realized the connectedness of humanity. I have found this profoundly moving both in its style and in the nature of the revelation. I hope you enjoy.

In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness, of spurious self-isolation in a special world, the world of renunciation and supposed holiness

The whole illusion of a separate holy existence is a dream. Not that I question the reality of my vocation, or of my monastic life: but the conception of "separation from the world" that we have in the monastery too easily presents itself as a complete illusion: the illusion that by making vows we become a different species of being, pseudo-angels, "spiritual men," men of interior life, what have you.

Certainly these traditional values are very real, but their reality is not of an order outside everyday existence in a contingent world, nor does it entitle one to despise the secular: though "out of the world" we are in the same world as everybody else, the world of the bomb, the world of race hatred, the world of technology, the world of mass media, big business, revolution, and all the rest.

We take a different attitude to all these things, for we belong to God. Yet so does everybody else belong to God. We just happen to be conscious of it, and to make a profession out of this consciousness. But does that entitle us to consider ourselves different, or even better, than others? The whole idea is preposterous.

This sense of liberation from an illusory difference was such a relief and such a joy to me that I almost laughed out loud. And I suppose my happiness could have taken form in the words: "Thank God, thank God I am like other men, that I am only a man among others." To think that for sixteen or seventeen years I have been taking seriously this pure illusion that is implicit in so much of our monastic thinking.

It is a glorious destiny to be a member of the human race, though it is a race dedicated to many absurdities and one which makes many terrible mistakes: yet, with all that, God Himself gloried in becoming a member of the human race. A member of the human race! To think that such a commonplace realization should suddenly seem like news that one holds the winning ticket in a cosmic sweepstake.

I have the immense joy of being man, a member of a race in which God Himself became incarnate. As if the sorrows and stupidities of the human condition could overwhelm me, now I realize what we all are. And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. "There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun."

This changes nothing in the sense and value of my solitude, for it is in face the function of solitude to make one realize such things with a clarity that would be impossible to anyone completely immersed in the other cares, the other illusions, and all the automatisms of a tightly collective existence.

My solitude, however, is not my own, for I see now how much it belongs to them-and that I have a responsibility for it in their regard, not just in my own. It is because I am one with them that I owe it to them to be alone, and when I am alone they are not "they" but my own self. There are no strangers!

Then it was as if I suddenly saw the secret beauty of their hearts, the depths of their hearts where neither sin nor desire nor self-knowledge can reach, the core of their reality, the person that each one is in God's eyes. If only they could all see themselves as they really are.

If only we could see each other that way all the time. There would be no more war, no more hatred, no more cruelty, no more greed...I suppose the big problem would be that we would fall down and worship each other. But this cannot be seen, only believed and "understood" by a peculiar gift.

the still, small one

Just listen...What do you hear?

Filter out the add-ins and you are left with just the ringing of ears, the high pitched leftovers of a fast-paced world. Nothing speaks, no one calls, yet a pace has been set that keeps you from being present. The clanging around of the troubles of soul have been given momentum from the trials of this day. The ricochets of thought set in motion by lack of trust and burden of responsibility echo into the moments when only peace is desired. There does not seem to be enough minutes in the day that will allow the sediment to settle to the bottom, time enough to sift out the lies.

So you work.

You build faster, you push harder, you run longer, you think bigger. It is your job to tame this life, so wild and blood thirsty. It is your purpose to organize, orchestrate, fortify, solidify this future of yours for if you were to let it go, it would simply fade into the silence.

And you are scared of the silence.

What is said when there is none is certainly not from you. Only an outside voice can dissolve a personal surrender to quietude.
And you hold your plans so high.
For you do not trust that another might love you more than you love yourself. Your efforts just might be insufficient.

But you are not without excuse. This life, so wild and blood thirsty, has taken its bites from you. Your flesh is marred and your heart has its memories. You had at one time trusted and been knocked over the head with your naivete.

But never again. You learned that the world was not your friend and that your friends may not be just that. Your life, so beautiful and promising, was no longer what you lived, but what you conquered.

But a hope, a blessed hope, bleeds through the cracks in your stubborn foundation and drips silently into the well of pain. A peace speaks softly to the insecurities just to make its presence known.

No shouting, no impatience, simply presence.

And slowly you learn that this life is not so wild and blood thirsty for it has a creator who is good and lovely. And softly you hear someone say they do not want you to do so much as they want you to be.

Be quiet. Be still. Be thankful. Be near.

And the fears of potential and the reminders of sin are not eradicated but superseded. And the past returns from its voyage of demonization. All that you are, all that you have been, and all that you shall be is in the hands of one who has known you long before you realized you had a life to lose.

It is not so much that the promise of ease is given, but the assurance that you are seen...that there is one who weeps with you who weep...there is one who laughs with you who laugh...there is one who will reprove you who scorn.

And you will be taken to that place where you might hear of great love if you only stop and realize that it is not your task to make noise.

Open your ears.

The ringing has stopped, replaced by the sound of a beating heart. You do not command the life to flow through your veins. Whether or not you pay attention, you are sustained. You are cared for. And from there, might you begin this day. From the work that is being done within you and apart from you, might you begin to listen for where you must extend your energies and where you must accept your inabilities.

For My gentle voice may ask you to get up and move or I may tell you to lie down and rest. Will you listen when I speak...

Salt and Sea

An ocean lies within us all.

We are experts at levees and dams to hold back the waves
Waves that toss and turn within us
And we build confidently and assuredly

Torrential winds threaten the soundness of my knowledge
But time is the true teacher and I am but a babe
I have seen suns rise, but never one setting

Fragility is my frame and minute cracks compose my footing
I anxiously wonder where it is, my weakness
Reluctantly I ask to see my complexion

I learn only from these holes
As the sea splashes through my eyes
And salt stains my face

Only in the midst of a flood do I finally see
(or see once again)
that I am known through and through

Distinctive as the salt on my lips
Is my soul before the Almighty

We all have the sea within
But we all taste a little different

And so we see that you know me and I you
But better yet, He knows me and He knows you

And He is the sea that will continually rage
Testing the levees and breaking the dams
Until we stop trying to hold back the waters

And I am the salt that will continually float
Upon the sea that changes you and changes me
Until I no longer fear being taken into the deep

Here am I

O how I wish I had time in my pocket. I could pull it out and adjust accordingly. I could speed it up and alleviate problems or speed along anxiety. I could slow it down and make love linger or extend the stay of peace. I would be the conductor and the executer. I would be the proud and I would be the powerful.

But this is not the case. I am no god. I am the weak and I am the needy. I am the poor in spirit and I am the crying soul.

I am losing seconds because I play the timekeeper. I crank away minutes, hours, and even days. I am losing my life because I wish the future to be now. I want seasons to change quicker than the sun sets. I want life to turn over to the moment that is easy and comfortable.

I find yet again that I cannot bring the future to the present any faster than has been set from the beginning of it all. However, I can blur the present to appear as a fast-forward; I can blur so that tomorrow arrives and I realize I barely saw yesterday. Time went into a vacuum and I am left with the black hole. I turn the calendar but cannot recall the past.

The reality is that the present is where I always reside. I do not deny a hope for the future or dismiss reverence for the past, but I can never leap or return. I am here and here is me.

Jesus met us in the present. From the timeless He stepped into time, and this to show His concern for the now.

How often do I fail to see that, in addition to the trials that are here, all things join that trial as well. Goodness from heaven cannot always be in the future if given from a God that is now. Perfect peace cannot reside only in the past of its prince is here now. The eternal one not only controls time but encompasses it. The only time I can live is now.

I do not wish to wish away the today I do not want. I have to live from today to today for today is all I have.

Each moment is necessary for the next; and this so I might love what is before me, not for what it does to me but for who it makes me. I shall love the moments that make me so that I might be a moment that makes another.

It is this connectedness that brings me joy. It is the communal refinement of a broken people that reveals the importance of me living my today along with all others. May we not inadvertently wish away our sanctification by trying to live what has not yet come or remain in what has already gone. May the grace of God keep us all in our today with a joyful hope for our next.