Good Zeal - What is it? Where to find it?

 

What is good zeal? The question comes to me, not just me but my cousin Rusty. My search for an answer took me back through some prior work I completed almost 10 years ago. 

This is what I said then: 

Making some allowances for the harsh language of ancient times, RB 72 suggests that Benedict is essentially urging against lukewarm discipleship. That may still leave the modern Christian living in a secularized world wondering what good zeal looks like? What's the point of its exercise? How do we foster it in our own relationships? The first question has to be how we spark the flame of zeal in our spiritual lives to begin with. OSB. Rule of Benedict : Text, English, Apr/May Aug Dec 3/3

I myself have been drawn to the monastic impulse for more than a decade: the vision for the Christian life, the sense of rhythm and structure, and the idea that a community can be built upon the footings of common commitment amongst all Christians and not only within the boundaries of a closely defined group like single church or monastery.  The notion of good zeal holds these elements together. I understand good zeal to mean the intention to continually turn toward Christ and exercise my gifts in increasing alignment with the calling of God. That calling inevitably leads to service. For someone like me who prefers the simplicity of silence and solitude, this is not a comfortable understanding. I would rather pray another Psalm or write another reflection than enter into the chaos of others to do as God would want me to do.

And yet, as central as the notion of zeal might be, it sometimes proves the weakest link. I don't always feel it. I don't always have great clarity about God's call, nor do I always have an overflowing reservoir of vigor and enthusiasm so great that I am unaffected by the real challenges of living with human frailty and the disappointments that come from seeing the ways we treat one another in community. I think of Saint Mother Teresa who famously wrote in her diary is after her order was well established she could no longer hear the voice of God so she simply followed the dictates of faith and hope for the rest of her life. If she, a saint, had to do all the good she did with getting nothing back from God but the chirping of crickets, what can I, a rather pedestrian sinner expect? I have to ask, isn't the purpose for zeal to motivate us with joy, and happiness like the pleasant emotions that come from Labrador puppies and Grandma's suet pudding?      

I come to RB 72 with curiosity and hope. How can the notion of good zeal help me hold to the vision of a Christ-centered life might look like--a life of community, simplicity, and service rooted in the Word? I want the sense of good zeal to inspire my hope that God's grace and God's possibilities are present in the midst of human frailty even when I cannot see them, even when I'm not "feeling it". Thomas Merton wrote, "Courage comes and goes . . . Hold on for the next supply" (location unknown). If the same might be said of good zeal, then I am curious about its coming and hopeful that we are afforded a little room to experience its occasional absence and practice holding on for the next supply!

What's the point of good zeal?

It's easy enough to recognize good zeal in action and to accept, in principle, that it is something that might be cultivated, but is it worth the lifelong effort? Let's briefly explore some possible motivations behind Benedict's punch line. What makes zeal important? Indispensable?  What's the purpose of zeal that makes it worthy of our practicing toward it? Scripture and the Prologue to the Rule offer some clues.

For example, in Colossians 3:12-17 Colossians, CHAPTER 3 | USCCB we hear a biblical call to the kind of life in a community that resembles the spirit of RB 72: "Put on therefore, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, a heart of compassion, kindness, lowliness, humility, and perseverance; 13 bearing with one another, and forgiving each other, if any man has a complaint against any; even as Christ forgave you, so you also do. 14 Above all these things, walk in love, which is the bond of perfection." Good zeal points toward loving and compassionate action in the community.

Similarly, Philippians 2:1 - 8  Philippians, CHAPTER 2 | USCCB describes an exercise of mutual service which reflects the model of Christ: "5 Have this in your mind, which was also in Christ Jesus, 6 who, existing in the form of God, didn’t consider equality with God a thing to be grasped, 7 but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being made in the likeness of men. 8 And being found in human form, he humbled himself, becoming obedient to the point of death, yes, the death of the cross." The fulfillment of good zeal in Christ resembles selfless service in the community.

And if we want to search out Benedict's motivations as he comes to the end of the Rule and speaks of good zeal, we need to look no further than his beginning. Already from the RB Prologue, Benedict describes a "school for the Lord's service" in which disciples are progressing, running the path, delighting in love, faithfully observing God's teachings, exercising patience and sharing in the sufferings of Christ. That is what Benedict means by good zeal--loving action in the community, eyes fixed upon Christ, and participating in the kingdom of God.

How do we cultivate good zeal in our own lives?

It might be tempting to let notions of good zeal slip into the nether or to pretend we're always waiting for the next supply. Benedict urges us instead to find grounding in the actual exercise of life in the community. Everyday women and men like you and me are called to cultivate good zeal and to support one another in that process of discipleship. 

When I first compiled this material several years ago, I intended to use it as a means of helping others uncover zeal and incorporate it into daily life. I never dreamed I would be talking to my future self but I am. I discovered recently zeal seems to have vanished from my life. I long for a powerful encounter with the Holy Spirit that kindles a white light experience that energizes and motivates me to get out there and be of good service wherever my peculiar charisms are needed.  I understand now good zeal is just like any other gift of the spirit. Each and every gift we ever receive comes through the power of grace flowing in and out of us with the breath of the Holy Spirit sent to us by our creator and savior. 

Good zeal is a grace to ask for in prayer and then to build through service. I will begin to ask for zeal and to just do the good work asked of me. I want to be confident that in asking I will receive the bright light I crave but it is as likely God will choose to enter into my struggle that I might learn what lessons I need to learn simply as a matter of exercise of faith and a response to my baptismal vows of obligation and gratitude. 

God, grant me the desire to always seek good zeal.

Be Tatanka

    When I got rolling yesterday morning, I saw a smidge of wet frosting like snow had fallen overnight, but the snowfall had ended. The skies were a heavy gray that clipped off the tops of the eastern mountains giving promise that the forecast for another inch of snow predicted to fall later in the morning would prove accurate. I had an early appointment in town that had me on the road to town just after 8 AM. Light snow began to fall as I pulled out of the driveway. I was surprised by the need to shift into the all-wheel drive to navigate the streets up to the highway. The light flurry ginned up into a full-throated snow squall by the time Highway 93, where I turned north to drive into the town. The giant flag flying at the bank was stretched out so tightly that it looked to have been nailed to an invisible wall. Only the trailing edges of the flag flickered a bit with the breeze. The old sailor in me pegged the wind to have gusted up to the 15-20 mph range with brief gusts up to 30. Driven by the wind, the snow blew horizontally across the road from my left to my right. Visibility dropped dramatically in a blink.

    There is a herd of buffalo living on a ranch along the Bitterroot River between Lolo and Missoula. I find their presence a daily gift whenever I drive by. Unless I am distracted, I always look to see where the Buffalo are located and what they are doing as I pass by. They usually hang around doing buffalo things like grazing, standing around or even just lying down. There is an implicit dignity and strength to buffalo that belies the reality that this herd is captive, surrounded by so-called buffalo-proof and is managed as a meat herd. There is no expectation this herd could be turned loose on an open range to live as fully wild critters. As I passed by this morning, I looked at the herd and was startled to see they were all facing the highway and were either standing or walking directly into the wind. All of them. Every single one, from the yearling calves to the most massive bulls, was united in their resolve to conquer the storm. 

    Snow squalls this time of year don't have the same teeth as squalls occurring earlier in the winter. Even a storm as intense as yesterday did not feel threatening or evoke a sense of doom, as do storms in December or January. It was 30 degrees already, and temperatures into the high 30s were coming later in the day. Still, the buffalo remind me of their instinct to face adversity head-on with strength.

    Thousands of years of life on the great plains were great winter storms, and smashing summer thousand storms were a regular and routine experience. Buffalo gained an instinctive awareness that walking into the wind would bring them out of the storm quicker than trying to escape by heading downwind. Some of the buffalo had reached the fence on the west side of the feel and stood motionless, facing the snow. They travel no further. If they were in their natural environment, they would have just continued across the highway and up the side of the foothills until some obstacles halted them. 

    If I had passed by a herd of Angus, there would have been no unity of response. Some cows would be hoofing it to shelter the cottonwoods along the river. Others would just be standing in place facing all directions. I suspect those facing into the teeth of the storm would be doing so only by happenstance. 

    It occurred to me that we have four pieces of artwork featuring buffalo hanging in our home. There is no art featuring cattle. My favorite painting is named Titonka Challenges the Wind. It is a watercolor print from a Canadian artist whose day job was that of a large animal vet in rural Alberta. There is no coincidence that the piece looks down on me as I write this reflection.

    Continuing my trip into town, I considered the differences between cattle and buffalo. That led to me looking at how I have been living my life recently and wondering if I had been responding to life like a buffalo or herd bull. 

    It is a sad truth that I have endured one of the most significant storms I have experienced. The storm came on with a sudden fury and with absolutely no warning. It was the kind of storm I had never dreamed I would experience, but suddenly, there was a double-barreled shotgun pointed directly at my face, and I heard the first and second hammers being pulled back and clicked into place. I expected the blast might come at any moment, so I kept my eyes closed because I could not look at the shotgun or, even more horrifying, accept the reality of who was pointing the weapon at me.  

    Now that storm has passed, I see is the fading grayness of the towering clouds disappearing to the east. A few lightning flashes pierce the sky, and sometimes, a quiet thunderclap comes to me. Now it is time to look around and see what remains to use for reconstructing. 

    Thinking of the differences between cattle and buffalo, I ask myself how I reacted to the storm. Was I a buffalo or was I a Hereford? The answer is both. Sometimes I was buffalo, or I would not have passed through the storm. Still, there were far too many times when I turned my back against the wind as if I  could hide from it all and still survive. Was it fatigue? Cowardice? Hopelessness? A sense of being abandoned or forgotten? Yes, yes, yes to all these challenges and more. Still, consciously or not, I turned into the storm with the strength of faith and courage from the creator, just enough to be here and grateful.

   The name of the storm is not essential although it is normal to be curious about what happened. It is never necessary because to give storm the name robs me, robs us, of the ability to have compassion for others and the storms they face of their own regardless of whether the storm landed on them or if they blew the bumps and bruises of life into a cyclone of sorrow. 

    Today I am choosing to follow the path of Tatanka. I hope others will challenge the storm with me. Redemption and salvation are just ahead. 

    I offer this piece to my new friend and writing companion Paul Olson. It was comforting to see someone else cut from the same bolt of cloth as I. Thank you for your service, your vocation, and for sharing your faith with a stranger. Oh yes, one more thing…. Welcome home. I hope we meet again. I will buy a cup.  

Talitha Koum

Week 20 Day 3 - SEEL

Mark 5:21-43

Jairus’s Daughter and the Woman with a Hemorrhage.

When Jesus had crossed again [in the boat] to the other side, a large crowd gathered around him, and he stayed close to the sea. One of the synagogue officials, named Jairus, came forward. Seeing him he fell at his feet and pleaded earnestly with him, saying, “My daughter is at the point of death. Please, come lay your hands on her that she may get well and live.” He went off with him, and a large crowd followed him and pressed upon him. There was a woman afflicted with hemorrhages for twelve years. She had suffered greatly at the hands of many doctors and had spent all that she had. Yet she was not helped but only grew worse. She had heard about Jesus and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak.  She said, “If I but touch his clothes, I shall be cured.” Immediately her flow of blood dried up. She felt in her body that she was healed of her affliction. Jesus, aware at once that power had gone out from him, turned around in the crowd and asked, “Who has touched my clothes?” But his disciples said to him, “You see how the crowd is pressing upon you, and yet you ask, ‘Who touched me?’” And he looked around to see who had done it. The woman, realizing what had happened to her, approached in fear and trembling. She fell down before Jesus and told him the whole truth.

This complex passage is a favorite. It is like a frosted king cake with one color on the surface, but many layers of assorted colors and even assorted flavors are found when the frosting is scraped off.  

The gift inside the readings is not just a little plastic baby Jesus figurine. There are two straightforward lessons so powerful they have defined my life.

The story begins with a man seeking healing for his daughter and Jesus is willing to help him. My wife and I suffered the loss of two children in utero in about the 28th week. When our second baby died, the baby turned out to be a girl with Turner's Syndrome. Only 1% of babies with that genetic defect are carried to term. Knowing this much about how we lost the baby is still like the noise coming from a fluorescent fixture. It is just a droning noise, meaning nothing and after 35 years, knowing why is not necessary anymore. 

Our first baby died for reasons we never understood and looking back on both losses from the perspective of 4 decades, FOUR decades, knowing or not knowing is the same. Loss is loss. The fundamental questions remain. How or why the babies died is no longer necessary knowledge, nor is the question of why Brian, the baby who lived, had CP any more critical. The real question is what I have learned from all three events. 

I am the father. I went to Jesus to beg for help. He responded to my call for help and was traveling toward providing healing for my daughter. Along the way, another desperate person reached out to Jesus, not by directly approaching him directly as I did, but rather, covertly by touching his cloak as he passed by her. She was healed without his even laying eyes on her. She had a desperate faith and her faith was rewarded not just with healing but with something bigger than just a temporal wound; she was rewarded with salvation, a gift for eternity and not just in the moment. 

"Daughter, your faith has saved you," Jesus said to the woman. I was entirely focused on my concerns and worries and missed the whole thing. I was annoyed by the delay and could not care less about the woman or her issues. I had a sick child. At that moment, my worst fears came to pass. The baby died. What point was there in having faith and asking for a successful birth when the answer was, well, no, not for you? There will be no answer you want to hear. Live with it. So I pretended to do just that as I finished the journey back home to face my daughter's loss. 

Deep inside my heart and soul, I knew the real lesson was not that faith had healed a human hurt but that faith would and will heal a wounded soul with a greater reward than logic and reason say is possible. I named the baby Talitha Koum and anointed her with a name and with water hoped to be for baptism and not a benediction. The name expressed our faith that our sleeping daughter arose in heaven to be with God. 

With that done, I turned away, angered at God and remained secretly separated from God because of that anger for decades. Yet today I ache to see the woman healed by touching the garment of Christ, experience her story with her and hear what Jesus said to her because I have come to understand what it means to be saved by faith. 

Jesus, save me. I desire the soul's salvation more than the body's healing.

Postscript

Later in the day, I offered up this reflection, we watched an episode of "Chosen" that centered on
this passage. Why do I still think to use the term "Coincidence" when what is really at work are the graces brought by the "Holy Spirit?" The Holy Spirit at work in us caused us to watch this episode on this day when I had already spent time in the story. The way the story was depicted very nearly duplicated my imaginative immersion in the narrative. Seeing what touched my heart and soul could be brought to life and portrayed so convincingly was a comforting grace. 

Surviving the Crucible

This is actually Day 6 of the prayer week, not Day 2. I have prayed with SEEL less this week than any other week yet. Perhaps I should qualify that the manner of prayer I experienced this week has been quite different than what has become the norm for me. It has also been the most eventful week since 11/20 when the "call" came and my world began to crack and then explode the next day. There is, no surprise my week did not unfold as I planned, but that is not to say prayer and contemplation time did not happen in abundance. It did and the time of preparation has borne fruit today. 

The call was what lead me to step into the innocent-looking pot that I know now was not innocent nor was it just a pot. It was a crucible and it was designed just for me to fit into perfectly. It was not that had a choice, I did not, but the first steps I took, I took willingly because I was led to believe my family was in trouble and I could help out. Of course, I stepped in and discovered there was no way to get back out. I also immediately understood that trying to get out would cause me to be consumed by the inferno fired up to heat the crucible. The real horror was not the heat or being trapped but came from the identity of who started the blaze. It was people I loved enough to have been willing to sacrifice everything and for whom I had already sacrificed much, my son for whom I invested my entire being to adopt as an infant and to raise together with my wife to become a man whom I held much pride. My son and his wife. 

At this point, you no doubt wonder about what happened to prompt them to cause me to be led like a lamb led to slaughter into the crucible. Anyone watching a train derail would want to know what caused the derailment. Something juicy, no doubt. It is a remarkably simple fact that the cause of the derailment is unimportant and to describe it might distract from the telling of the story because it would hint at tears in the fabric where no tears exist. Suffice it to say it was awful but it was completely untrue, something that was manufactured in the ether of an uninformed and ungrounded imagination. Eventually, the idea of it will fade into the unknown. I have to let it go. We all must. 

Somewhere around 6,000 BC, ingenious human beings figured out that if they were to construct a vessel made of ceramic, a very fragile and breakable substance, they could heat metal ore to the temperature where it would melt into liquid. Imagine that something so delicate could create iron, copper, brass, steel, silver, and gold ingots. The irony of fragile creating unbreakable is not irony, it is a mystery. There must be, somewhere, a spiritual revelation to connect to the mystery and give it perspective.  

The vessel was called a crucible. The mineral-bearing earth was called ore. The heating process is called smelting. The resulting product was pure but during the smelting, imperfections in the ore burned off or pooled up in molten scum called dross. The dross was scrapped or ladled off, the fire dampened, and the molten contents of the crucible poured into molds and cooled into something special. Iron and steel for swords and shields. Copper for containers. Gold and Silver to be fashioned into precious objects. What survived the crucible was invaluable. What did not was value-less. 

As I look back at my path prior to the "call" that lured me into the crucible, I was struggling spiritually. I had grown utterly defeated trying to achieve a level of spiritual maturity that I managed to frustrate over and over again because I was not completely willing to let go of my character defects. The SEEL of Ignatius promised an opportunity to take a different and fresh approach to spiritual growth and renewal. I plunged into the deep end of the pool and swam with all of my might efforts. Two months in,  the exercises redirected from a surface-level, light examination to a deep-down engagement with the nature of evil and my own sin. I had to take a breath and dive deep to see the face of my enemy. The process caused repeated confrontations with evil and sin which wore down my reluctance to step up and face the unfinished business from my first fourth step in AA when I detailed an inventory of my character defects 13 or so years ago. As I review the 7 deadly sins, I am reminded I, at one time or another, fell into the trap of committing one or more of them frequently. Pride always led the way and created a vacuum for the other 6 to explode into life. 

I came to realize that to be truly innocent, and not just from the horrific allegations, I needed to recommit putting aside my sins, big but not damning and small but harmless, after acknowledging them and seeking forgiveness. Of course, the difference between the 10 commandments and the beatitudes is that the commandments prescribe what we should not do but leaves unstated what we are supposed to do. The beatitudes inspire us to not avoid but seek the blessings out through thought, action, and prayer.  We are also to seek the blessings willingly and with joy. Oh my. 

So it is now. I want to not just avoid sin but to set my direction of sail toward the 7 virtues. I choose to not just be something but I choose to become something. The first deadly sin for me is pride so the first virtue for me to seek is Humility. 

Now for prayer on the Two Standards contemplation, a key part of the SEEL. The first standard, a banner flown by God, is good because it points to the kingdom of God. The second banner represents evil and marks the place of the kingdom of Satan. The narrative asks me to see the face of evil and recognize it for what it is. When examining my own life and the challenges I face, I don't see the face of evil, or more precisely, the face of an evil person. Instead what I see is how evil can hijack the best intentions of someone who aspires to good. I have long observed that morality expressed in the absence of God can easily be perverted without the person who wishes to do good even knowing it. 

I will not use her name, at least not yet, but I will look candidly at her from the perspective of having survived the crucible she unwittingly fired up. I have no doubt she struck the first match and my son had no real choice but to help her kindle the fire.  The two standards speak of money being the great corrupter of humans but there is an even greater and older corrupter that originates with the creation and is brought into creation by the human nature of Eve. She was not tempted by riches or power, at least not directly. She was undercut by the power and attraction of knowledge that would allow humans to be equal to God. 

For her, knowledge became a lens through which the entirety of the universe can be seen. Science offers the ability to look at, analyze and capture the essence of every created thing and process. Modern science allows us to look through the history of the universe all the way back to the moment of creation. Science allows us to understand the function and form of all that has happened since, how the world came to be oxygenated and watered, how the continents shift and change through the eons of time, and even how everything is constructed down to atoms, electrons, and neutrons. 

The ability of science to explain so much has caused many to think science can explain everything but those with faith in God know it cannot. Too many scientists believe that if something cannot be rationally explained, it does not exist but that is false. We mistake the gift of being allowed to observe and understand some of creation to mean we have the capacity to observe and understand everything. We do not. Knowledge always has limits. That is where faith is at it is best. 

She of whom I speak is not evil. She does not aspire to evil in any way. She is motivated to do good and to do the right thing for the right reasons but her comprehension of what is good and what is not is influenced by the true source of what is good, God. Whether you believe God exists or not is not the sole criterion for being atheistic which simply means to act as if the human person is solely and completely capable of choosing between right and wrong without the wisdom that comes only from God. 

Make no mistake, I love her as if she were my own issue. I still do. I pray I always will but the pain caused by those we love is always worse than the hurt that comes from someone unknown. Betrayal always piles on to the underlying painful act to create agony of its own initiative. She had no intention of causing me harm but because she cannot see or chooses to not even try to see beyond the limits of her mind, she cannot truly see the nature of her actions. Intelligence is a gift and a curse. Great intelligence can be a greater curse because it creates space for pride and the conceit to mutilate what is considered to be good. 

By looking at the third element of the second part of the Two Standards contemplation and replacing "money" with "intellect", I can fully understand the lessons to be learned. How does intellect lead to evil? With enough intelligence, a person can come to believe they can explain everything and the knowledge they possess or acquire is more definitive than knowledge possessed by others. They are committed to believing they know "best" and anything they ascertain or determine is the best option. Intelligence means privilege because intelligence earns power and riches when then can corrupt the person and delude them. Intelligence causes knowledge to become sacrosanct with the ability to use wisdom to moderate and guide the use of knowledge. 

Is she evil? Not innately. Does she cause evil? Yes, she causes harm that ranges from hurtful to catastrophic but never sees the consequences because her self-talk convinces her that negative outcomes are never her responsibility because they originate with others who fail to follow her proscriptions. She is absolutely convinced that anything negative that happens and that she cannot effectively project on some other cause, is justified because she had the best intentions. That is the most destructive form of delusion that can come from one who is not evil by definition and truly intends harm. 

As I flesh this all out, her face's image has gradually faded and been replaced by a mirror. What do I see in the mirror? I see myself. I realize I can so clearly construct an accurate construct of her because it is grounded in my own reality. I, too, suffer the same defects. The difference is active alcoholism has given me no option to confront my reality and to seek actively, persistently, and fervently destroy the vanity of knowledge uncontrolled by wisdom. She is an alcoholic by nature but has not become addicted to alcohol so there is nothing to drive her toward the rocks of despair that demand a new direction. Thank you, God, for that change and my ability to see a new way of living. 

  For both she and I, it boils down to control, the need to control life completely and we have the intelligence to control everything perfectly. Anything we can't control, we hate. The effort to control the universe, something completely impossible, has worn me out. I can't easily let go of trying to control but the more I let go of, the easier and better life gets. That is God's promise coming true. 

Oh, yes, there is still the issue of the crucible. Last week the fire was finally dampened and allowed to burn out. God used his divine love and mercy to have the Holy Spirit ladle out the dross into a pile where I can examine and learn from what remains and what more I need to know. The Holy Spirit will also create a mold for what is left in the crucible to shape the remains into something that is valuable to God, my fellows, and me. I understand the firing in the crucible has created permanent changes in me but the changes are not complete and I must be willing to stoke the fire into an inferno and step into the crucible for greater purification not just once in a while but every day. The good news is complete liquefaction should never be necessary again. That is the rest of God’s promise. If I am willing to start over again each day from the beginning, he will do the rest. 

Week 2 - Day 7 "Messenger"

 “Messenger” by Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here is the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

As keen as I am about lyrical prose, it is a surprise to that many I am not a great lover of poetry, at least not to the extent that I will choose to just grab a book of poetry and dive in headfirst and come out of the other side deeply moved. Yes, of course, I have read and enjoyed poetry over the year but I prefer prose. Some of the poets said to be the best can be as opaque as a new moon night. Some things obvious to others are simply unknowable and beyond my ability to understand. 

The first Mary Oliver poem I remember reading was "Wild Geese." I was impressed and moved but I did not see or experience the depth of emotion and insight so many people have described. The irony comes from the fact that later in the day I read she had died the previous day. How strange that felt. There was e also a sense of loss for me when I first encountered John O'Donohue in March of 2008, less than two months after his passing during the night while in France. 

Since Mary wrote often using the same kind of emotional impact of nature and the world, I have taken the time to read and enjoy much of her work. This poem strikes me in a visceral way. I yearn to step right through the page into the world she illuminated with her words. I shall, in a way do just that. 

"My work is loving the world," she begins. Her beginning and my beginning are the same but I also add that I love the world our creator created for us to love. I start with an acknowledgment of a created world but the point is the same. My response to revelation is to love the world but the love does not start with me. Ancient Celts and the tribes of Judah also love the world and love the creator. Neither specifically name God in the sense we do today but the ancient's psalms referred to a creator they could not name. We begin with love. We might always start with love. 

My view has improved today. I can look out with a sense of wonder at the world. I, too, have sunflowers and hummingbirds in my world. The sunflowers have grown so abundantly they have nearly blocked the back door by growing over and beyond the walk and stair rails. The hummingbirds have dwindled as we slide toward fall and the birds who still visit are passersby from further north who stop at my feeders for a little sip of energy to nourish them for the great migration south. The blue plums are nearly gone but there are still some on the tree waiting to be discovered with patient search. 

Unfortunately, I must take a break from prayer today - I did not get up in time to finish the time I want to devote to prayer and study before leaving for town for an appointment with Luke. 8:15

2:43 I am no longer young, there is not even a smidgen of pretense left, and perfection has long ceased to be an imagined potential. Measurable progress is my best chance of seeing change but measurable regression is still a possibility some days. 

There is not just a sense of change caused by aging in her words but also a declaration of optimism. There is also a sense of ongoing purpose in the poem, aged or not the work is still there to be done. This work we do of standing around and embracing astonishment Is simple but not always easy. Sometimes the world beyond can cloud the eyes, muffle the ears and deaden the aroma of pine after a rain. 

Still, we are figures made of clay, set to dancing by the breath of life, eternal but changing. We are invited, lured into the world to live in wonder, in awe and, yes, astonishment. 

Week 2 - Day 6 Jeremiah 18 1-6

The Potter's Vessel.

This word came to Jeremiah from the LORD: Arise and go down to the potter’s house; there you will hear my word. I went down to the potter’s house and there he was, working at the wheel. Whenever the vessel of clay he was making turned out badly in his hand, he tried again, making another vessel of whatever sort he pleased. Then the word of the LORD came to me: Can I not do to you, house of Israel, as this potter has done?—oracle of the LORD. Indeed, like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand, house of Israel.

Again we experience a parallel between ancient Celtic Spirituality and the Hebrew Testament on creation imagery. The clay begins as dirt moistened and sculpted into shape either on a table or potter's wheel. Whether the creator creates a shape to animate into a living being or throws a pot to serve as a body to serve as the dwelling for a soul, we have a clear understanding we come from dirt and to dirt we shall return. 

The important observation I have about the thrown pot is that while pots can be similar, no two are identical. I was recently at a craft market and observed a collection of clay cups offered for sale by a potter. They were enough like to suggest they were a set of the same kind but when each cup was carefully examined, more and more differences between each cup could but seen. So it is with humans.

We can appear enough like to be identical as in the case of twins but we are all still unique, individually made even if we all come the same lump of clay. 

What runs through my mind now are the words from Psalm 139. We are wonderfully made. We are. Truly. Whether we have handles or not or fluted sides or not we all have the same purpose to know, love and serve our creator. 

Another thought comes from Meister Eckhart. If we have been created to be vessels, what we hold as contents in the pot that represent ourselves defines how we serve him. If we fill the pot with water or fluids of our own choosing, how can we still have room to hold the living water offered by Jesus to the Samaritan Women. Eckhart would have us literally empty ourselves of what we think we are so there would be room to accept what God offers us, to be in union with him. 

Sometimes a pot can become broken so what we have placed inside it will drain away. We can no longer hold either ourselves or God and cannot do so until the potter repairs us. His hands can reshape the clay to where it can again hold life even if we appear differently that we did before being broken. Appearance is of no matter. That we can serve the purpose of the potter does matter. It is everything to the same broad expense defined by God when he tells us to call him "I am." He just is. There is no way to describe the full picture of a painting with no frame.

Week 2 - Day 5 Sunday Psalm 33

 Week 2 - Day 5 Sunday Psalm 33

Our soul waits for the LORD, he is our help and shield. For in him our hearts rejoice; in his holy name we trust. May your mercy, LORD, be upon us; as we put our hope in you.

I am more at peace today, not peaceful, mind you, but more at peace. I am still distracted and on edge. I long for silence, true exterior silence but it is not possible. The scratching of a pen on paper, and the clicking of the mouse and keyboard all seem disruptive and unwarranted. Other noises, sipping coffee, the cat eating and drinking all nudge from reaching a point of contemplation. Quiet has now settled around me but I am still wary, guarded for other sounds that may intrude on solitude.

Moving inside because of the chill in the morning is proving more difficult to adjust to than I would have expected. Natural sounds don't concern me and I can tune out the constant rumble of the distant traffic. Intermittent noises are what cause me issues. I know from reading and experience there is a difference between exterior and interior silence. Being able to immerse in interior silence is a gift that is elusive for me and sometimes completely unobtainable. To experience interior silence is the goal, to be able to accept the invitation to quiet spaces of the depth of being by the holy spirit but the battle between exterior and interior soundlessness renews in me from time to time. 

I ache to be able to be filled with gratitude at the sounds and activities around me. I am grateful for a wife who invites me into her prayer space, delights in sipping coffee in her way,

feeds me and tends to the kitchen, washes my clothes, and offers me her best. I hope for acceptance of the little stuff with no importance that I might offer loving appreciation for all that is done. I desire gratitude for a little cat who also delights in our presence, who is never more content than to be able to eat when we are nearby. There must be a way, there has to be a way to achieve a sense of appreciation of what is around me. Lord help me. 

My soul waits for the gift of tolerance who is my help and shield on this sabbath morning. I look up and away into the light of the sky but I cannot get there. I put on the noise noise-canceling headphones but by now I am rattled enough to not be able to settle in with the presence of birds, the sight of the cottonwood tree leaves fading from dense green to prepare for the coming of winter. 

This battle is not new. It has raged since the beginning of my movement to reflection, contemplation and meditation. It is likely the dark one who stirs up the angst and blocks my concentration. I trust that making the decision to turn toward holiness is the correct one and that slow progress is a hallmark of many spiritual journeys, perhaps all such journeys. My soul waits for you, Lord. In you I trust.