O God, you are my God; eagerly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my flesh faints for you, as in a barren and dry land where there is no water. Psalm 63:1
The Commission on Ministry once had a discussion as to whether it was advisable for a contemplative to seek Holy Orders. The general feeling was no; the life of a parish priest is not conducive to a contemplative life. (No one mentioned George Herbert.) I’ve often thought of that conversation, because I find myself in precisely that position.
It’s not just parish life that is inimical to contemplation, however. It’s being “in the world” at all. That’s why people fled to the desert in the fourth century; it’s why there are monasteries today. The inner life is easily distracted. Yet even monks will tell you that constant attention is required for their own progress in prayer.
When I taught full-time I had long work days interspersed with periods of leisure. That life was no more conducive to contemplation than what I do now. In fact, it may have been less so. At least now I have more motivation, because this parish, like any parish, needs a priest who is centered in God. Like the people of Israel wandering in the wilderness, we all need to drink from the spiritual rock that is Christ, and someone has to lead people to that Rock.
Recently I bought a copy of The Essential Writings of Christian Mysticism edited by Bernard McGinn. In it I found a lot of old friends and met some new ones. It’s perfect bedtime reading: each selection is a few pages at most, and one goes to sleep prayerfully rather than fitfully. It slakes the dry land’s thirst. And it opens my heart to Scripture once again.
I’m struck by how Moses did not encounter God until he had led his flock through the wilderness. God did not speak until Moses turned aside to see the burning bush. (How different the history of the world would be if Moses had kept on walking!) Only then does God earnestly call out “Mosheh Mosheh!” to which Moses gives the simple response of faith, “Here I am.” Moses may not have seen himself as a contemplative – although Gregory of Nyssa did – yet it is to Moses that God reveals the ineffable, untranslatable name, the name that was so holy that it still is never pronounced in a synagogue. I had Jewish friends in high school who even wrote G-d, something to think about when substituting “God” for every “he.”
McGinn has restored my hope that I can still drink deep from the well even when church concerns fill my day. It’s pretty simple, really, just a matter of getting out of God’s way, of quieting down enough to hear the Voice that is always speaking within. That, and being willing to walk with the flock through the wilderness.
Lent 3: Exodus 3:1-15; Psalm 63:1-8; 1 Corinthians 10:1-13; Luke 13:1-9.
Monday, March 1, 2010
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You probably see the parish newsletter from up our way. I wrote there about silence in music, liturgy and prayer, and perhaps it is applicable here. More and more, I suspect that the "little" silences matter a great deal. It is not only the quiet days, or even a lifetime of silence (as among Cistercians), it is the small moment of silence here and there -- the sixteenth rest, if you will. The music can only exist when it speaks from (and into) silence, and it depends for its life on silence and breath within its compass.
Another analogy is the concept of "inhibition" from the Alexander Technique; there is (or should be) a moment of recollection and centering before any motion, any action. It can be a very tiny moment, but if one rushes headlong into the next thing on the list, one generally does it badly.
In liturgical terms, the "sixteenth rest" is the silence at the asterisk in the Psalms, and the silence after the Lessons, among others; the silence at the Fraction of the Eucharist is another. In the Offices, I repeatedly get in a rush to move on -- especially at Matins with a day's work ahead, clamoring for attention -- and neglect these little moments. I do so to my own detriment, for even these little spaces have the potential to re-connect me with the contemplation of the Mystery.
On a larger scale, for me the Daily Office is crucial. Even though it is more about speech and song than it is about silence, it is the way that my voice is blended with the prayers of Holy Mother Church and Israel, my entryway into the "cathedral built of time" which is the sanctification of the day.
And beyond that, the Sabbath. I continue to struggle with this, and find it every bit as difficult as the other Nine Commandments. But I find that when I do a decent job of "remembering the Sabbath," I sometimes manage to connect with it during the next week by way of the "sixteenth rests" (and quarter rests, and whole rests -- it isn't just the tiniest silences that matter; the larger ones do, too). If I neglect or profane the Sabbath, it is much more difficult.
I love your closing thoughts about Moses and his journey -- with his flock -- to the "backside of the desert," as the KJV puts it. Until you said it, I had never thought about the relation of this to the Pastor, who, like Moses, does not go to the Mount of God alone, but can get there only when he brings others. This is true of church musicians, too: we cannot sing the Song by ourselves.
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