PSALM 130 Out of the depths I call to you, LORD; Lord, hear my cry! May your ears be attentive to my cry for mercy. If you, LORD, keep account of sins, who can stand? But with you, Lord, is forgiveness and so you are revered.

2nd Corinthians 4:16-18

Therefore, we are not discouraged; rather, although our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this momentary light affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison,l18as we look not to what is seen but to what is unseen; for what is seen is transitory, but what is unseen is eternal.

 

Christ the King 9:30 AM 6/19/2024

 

What am I hearing and seeing as I survey the church this morning? People who are familiar but whose names I do not know. Other people whom I do know, many of whom I consider not just friends or acquaintances but brothers and sisters. My love has grown for them incrementally over time as I have been gifted with the responsibility of service to them and from my ability to allow them to be of service to me. I am home here in a way that transcends other churches I have called home, even the Cathedral. This is the place where my adult faith began, and after 5 decades, my journey continues. From here, I sense that this may be where my journey to this side of the veil will be completed. If I could choose based on what I know now, I would choose this to be a place where death becomes resurrection. I have a place here and a purpose, and I offer those gifts to others to return to me for their own glory to God. I watch Lori greet others coming into the worship space, and her groundedness and purpose are loudly stated and plainly visible.

 

I love where I live. I would not choose to ever call another place home in the way I embrace it now. The birds at the feeders, the rustling of the wind through the cottonwoods, the shadows of eagles, hawks and ospreys all demand I accept them as part of the fabric of my life. The grosbeaks, hummingbirds and finches that sit on the back of the chair outside my desk window look back at me. They see me and expect that I see them and that we might connect in a way they might understand, but I do not. I don’t control destiny or outcomes, but for now, today, tomorrow and the day after that, this is where I call home, the place I return to when the need for home seeps in over my senses, leaving me searching for that place of clay and water that anchor my wandering soul.

 

Lori is grounded here. She has made her place, and the place is now of, and for her, it responds to her touch and her wishes. My connection to her has grown as my roots have grown deep into the soil she tends. A gift from the creator that we seek to regift with enhanced beauty and function. I don’t know where we might go or for how long we might be gone, but if we traveled by ship, this would be home port, the place to drop anchor when we have crossed over the last bar that separates home from away.

 

I see Jo and Liz with their children and grandchildren celebrating the liturgy together as a family, as we are called to do by the church. I wish to see their spouses, but that is not a concern for today, and it should be a concern for me if it is for them. I pray that all is well and that it is as intended for them. I grieve I will not likely ever share a pew with my children, and my granddaughter is being raised outside the knowledge of God. I grieve Brian has not returned as we have prayed, either. I have prayed for so long and so hard, and all that remains is for me to give the battle over to God and keep hope. I daily ask for forgiveness for whatever part I might have played in their abandonment of faith and I know I have been forgiven. Still, I acknowledge I may have played a part, and by asking forgiveness, I am also asking for the knowledge of what I might do to make healing amends.

 

I envy that Jo, Liz, and many others seated around me are a daily part of their families' lives. I am also aware that there are others here who share my sorrow of strained relationships and children who have wandered away. I pause to pray for them, for us and for all like us….

 

2nd Corinthians 4:16 prays, “Therefore, we are not discouraged; rather, although our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.

 

This popped up in the readings today. I did not stumble over it either when I previewed the readings or when the lector spoke the words. It was to Lori to see them and call them out to me even though she could not have known was shaking my foundation today. I have been so discouraged so profoundly, and for so long about the damage between our children and us that I scarcely have the strength to consider for more the length of time it takes me to escape the bitter hold it has on me. I see how it has wasted me, wasted us and others in the family with a clarity that makes me wonder if it is something that belongs in a painting or photograph of some other family.

 

I know my inner self is being renewed because I have prayed for renewal every day, and so many others have prayed with and for me. Like the fly on the wall, I can’t see the color of the world yet. I need to back away and rely on faith and trust in God to reveal what I need to know—not what I want but what I need to be my true self for the sake of every other soul I am expected to help into heaven.

 

For the very first time, when I pray to learn what I am supposed to learn from this tragedy that begins again every day, the notion of freedom washes over me not as a gift of its own but as a consolation for what has been taken away. If I am not to have a daily role, I can see myself as I am, someone with a more distant place, and that place does not have to be here.

 

I have for the past couple of years, at least, struggled with the urge to travel, to see things and experience things I have thought about all of my life but for whatever reason did not embrace or, if I have, I want to embrace them again to see places through new glasses and filter the experience through a renewed and remade heart. At first, the urge had to be called an urge to escape, to fly away from the place of constant exposure to the sandpapered relationships between us. I know that, but I also sensed there was something deeper that lay under longings. I traveled enough last year and so far this year to know that the urge to travel remains. It does not just travel for the sake of travel but peregrination, the need to seek places where there is an outpouring of the spirit meant to transform me and keep me moving along the path of discovery. To be a pilgrim might be where I am led. No, becoming a pilgrim is where I have been led.

 

As a Benedictine, I have learned to importance of the balance between stability, the first vow and peregrinatio, a journey of conversion. Both are places of the heart and in the spirit, but also, they are places of the earth and of time. Here I have stability. A grounded wife, a place that calls to me from the depths of the ancient rocks to the depths of my wounded heart, a faith community, friends who are calling me down a life centered in love of the created world and people who miss me when I am gone. I miss them as well, and not just my cat. Because of the stability I have been graced with, I can step into the freedom I did not wish for but will accept that it is indeed what is being presented to me through intense prayer, guidance and patience.

 

So what does this all mean? I am still not sure yet. As it says in the book, more shall be revealed. I believe I have been gifted with charisms that I have only partially opened up. I have spent 10 years writing, reading, praying, reflecting, meditating and contemplating, and I sense I have honed the ability to observe and share what I have encountered. In the past year I have been exposed to nature journaling that allows me to dig deeply into the world around me and to illustrate the connections that surround me as if I were a meatball in a bowl of spaghetti.

 

I sit here today as the middle of the recent and future generations of my family. The story of humanity runs through my bloodlines: the graces and blessings of God, the sorrows and hurts of dysfunction and tragedy. They all exist in me, and I am called to, in some unfocused way, give a voice to them so that they and the places they lived will not be completely lost to the dust of history. I don’t know what all that means, but I suspect more will come.

 

None of this would be possible if I did not come to believe and to have complete trust in what comes to me regardless of what it might reveal is coming from God and he is inviting me to do his way. He is calling me out to live where healing, forgiveness, and reconciliation all await. I finally believe I can step into the unknown thresholds and pass through with God’s grace, but there will always be safe passage back to places I belong and the people to whom I belong.

 

There is more. I can’t continue to remain in place, trapped by belongings and material things that have always been my fool’s gold. Every day more and more that I possess seems to be less and less important, and they stand in the way of my relationship with myself, God and Lori. This is difficult, but this is a time I have to do the hard thing, in many ways, the same as when I jumped into the pool of recovery and found myself carried over the falls into a maelstrom that settled into a promising new life. Addiction in any form cannot be tolerated. There can be no saving something back in case I need it someday. I have what I need. I have more than I need, and when it comes time to accept that I need something more, the clarity of the need will be evident. I long to laugh at the candy and pastries I see as I wander through the store to fruit and vegetables.

 

The words here are mine in that they came from inside me through my fingers to the screen, where they will be seen before being stored away to be reflected on another time and by other people. The ideas, concepts, descriptions and observations did not originate from inside me. They came through the grace of the Holy Spirit that came to me when invited, but in ways I never ever would have expected. I am just now beginning to see how the spirit has been moving in me for over a year - even longer. Perhaps for my lifetime. I won’t go down that rabbit hole today.

 

In truth, I think I would prefer to have things come the easy way. I would like to just sit on my deck on a pleasant day and do whatever strikes me as being fun that day. I know that without struggle and investment, joy cannot be encountered. I trust that others with whom I share this and what else is to come will provide me with the experience of knowing what is of the spirit and what is from my untrustworthy self I pray for the ability to accept, embrace and be grateful for everything that is to come my way.

 

Come, Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of Thy faithful and kindle in them the fire of Thy love. Send forth Thy Spirit and they shall be created. And Thou shalt renew the face of the earth. Let us pray.

 

Be with me, oh Holy Spirit, connect me to the power, love and grace of the Father and the son.

5/31/2024 Crossing the Bar

We stayed in a condo 20 feet from the sand on Siletz Bay. At high tide, the bay filled up right to the edge of the beach, but at low tide, most of the bay was exposed to the deep channels of the Siletz River and Schoonover Creek. 

I had walked the short distance from the condo to Siletz Beach, facing the open ocean, stretching out from the bar between bay and sea for miles to the north. I planned to catch the sunset, my favorite time of day, to pray evening prayer and be lucky enough to see some natural colors to inspire me as I wander the path of Watercolor art. I was rewarded with a typically incredible view of the sun as it settled into the marine layer, lying far out on the horizon. No colors are as vibrant as those radiating from the Pacific Ocean sunset. 

When the colors faded from brilliant to mostly drop, I walked back to the end of the water on the bayside of the bar. Blue-gray dominated the landscape; the only natural variations were in the shades left when the white light was gone. It was just after slack high tide, and the tide ran out hard. I guessed the current speed to be 5-6 miles per hour because I could walk quickly enough to keep up with flotsam headed out to the bar, but it was a pace faster than I like to keep. 

This stretch of water is called Crab Alley because even at low tide, the water was deep enough that the bottom was out of sight despite the clear water in the channel. The bay is very narrow here, and the water runs in and out, maybe 100 feet. I guessed I could throw a rock from my side of the channel and have it land in the sand on the spit across from me. 

Even while the tide was running hard, it was running head-on into the incoming surf that was rolling at a height of 4-5 feet. The collision of the tide and the surf created chaos for the 100-yard length of the entrance channel. While the outgoing water flowed strongly down the center of the channel, the incoming surf pushed back against it. The surf will always win because the outgoing tide will eventually lose its strength, while the surf will always be driven by the flood tide and the prevailing wind. Tongues of current pushed into the bay along each of the channels. The water's surface was confused and chaotic, but it still had a result in mind. The outgoing waters would rush into the surf, where they would be snuffed out by the rolling waves of the open ocean. 

While not as formidable as the one across the Columbia, the bar formed by the exit of Siletz Bay still commanded respect. Its unpredictable nature and hidden dangers reminded us of the need for caution and guidance when attempting to cross it without prior knowledge. 

Since we first took to the sea in boats, we know it makes sense to sail out on an ebb tide and sail in on a flood tide. Even non-sailors know this if they have ever watched a movie or read a book about taking to the water. Those of us who have never sailed don't understand the importance of running with or before the tide to cross the bar from one side. Crossing the bar, either coming in or going out, is easy and straightforward. It is simple and easy. I sat on a drift log and watched the tide for a few minutes, and I realized crossing the bar was a metaphor for life itself. We want to let the current carry us, but if we raise the oars and let go of the rudder, the current will drive us into chaos where we might be lost if we don't set the course for the V-shaped opening that leads us from one side of the bar to another. 

Ancient Irish spirituality informs that life is about thresholds, the crossing over from one side of a place to another. We long to live in a quiet time after crossing over one threshold, but before we are challenged by the next threshold, awaiting us around the corner down the path. Those quiet times don't define us; they don't challenge us to become more of what we are called to be. From where I sat, I could see through the threshold flooded into the water by the bar, but only so far. The falling darkness of night and the misting of the night fog obscured my vision just a few yards to the west. It struck me that I might travel hundreds or even thousands of miles in open water before reencountering land. Sometimes, what lies beyond the threshold of life is equally obscure and hidden. I am still determining, sometimes, what to expect when I cross over. It is then that faith comes to my aid, faith that whatever lies beyond is meant for me to reach and that I am not alone in my travels. My boat will always be enough to carry me through; the navigator will always guide me safely. I don't want to drop sail and try to wait out the tide. It would not work even if I tried to heave and wait. Wait for what? I don't know. All I know is that the ebb tide will take me across the bar. I best get ready and rely on the help there for the asking. 

Crossing the Bar 

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
Sunset and evening star,
      And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
      When I put out to sea,
   But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
      Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
      Turns again home.
   Twilight and evening bell,
      And after that, the dark!
May there be no sadness of farewell,
      When I embark;
   For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
      The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
      When I have crost the bar.

The Day Between

Today is the day between. Yesterday was Good Friday, a misnomer if there ever was one because it is the day we relive Jesus's trial and brutal crucifixion. Tomorrow is the day we celebrate his resurrection. 

 

Today is filled with uncertainty because we don't know how to feel or understand the meaning of what we are experiencing. We who are in the middle today see how the story ends or continues with the resurrection of Christ. With that event, we embrace the sure and certain knowledge that if we believe, we will never perish. 

 

Knowing what is coming should fill us with joy, anticipating the fulfillment of the promise. Still, I have always experienced mixed feelings because I know that I, along with every other human, living and dead, participated in the death of Jesus because of our sinful and fallen nature. Salvation delivered by death and resurrection is the only hope for me or any of us. We can’t overcome our nature until we are lifted to be with God. 

 

This year, I am particularly vexed today. For reasons that would take too long to explain now, I became aware of the fact I have never been confirmed as Catholic, a decision I made to avoid putting down my Methodist family because of the mistaken impression that being confirmed Catholic only celebrated conversion and acceptance and in no way harms the importance of my earlier confirmation as a Methodist. 

 

I realized a gap in my sacramental reality when I learned I had decided not to be confirmed. Father Kirby said if I felt I was missing something I desired, I should proceed with confirmation. It was only a short time until I wanted confirmation; I needed it. 

 

As I approach confirmation tonight, I understand I am not denying the past. Still, I am confirming the life I have led since the first eucharist after my return to church following my side trip through the seminary is the life I want to live. I confirm that life in the church as a Catholic is the life I want to live, strengthened through grace flowing from the sacrament. 

 

I sense that confirmation will help me feel more complete despite the years of blessings and riches heaped on me through life in the sacraments. 

 

On Holy Thursday, Father Kirby talked about how he has come to understand that all he needs is Jesus. I know that is true for me, too. All I need is Christ. What remains is the journey from knowing I need only Jesus to where all I want is Jesus. I pray for the ability to pursue that state of grace. 

Tomorrow, we will find that the rock has been rolled away from the tomb, and He will have risen from the dead. I am sorrowful now, but tomorrow I will rejoice!

Matthew 16:21-27 Get behind me Satan!

Matthew 16:21-27 

Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and suffer greatly from the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed and on the third day be raised. Then Peter took Jesus aside and began to rebuke him, “God forbid, Lord! No such thing shall ever happen to you.” He turned and said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are an obstacle to me. You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do.” Then Jesus said to his disciples, “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me. For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. What profit would there be for one to gain the whole world and forfeit his life? Or what can one give in exchange for his life? For the Son of Man will come with his angels in his Father’s glory, and then he will repay all according to his conduct.”

I experience a growing sense of sadness as Ash Wednesday approaches each year. The sadness and regret continue to deepen the closer we get to the Passion. The cause of my discomfort? It is the fact Jesus experienced scourging, beatings, belittlement and ridicule right up to where he was forced to drag the cross upon which he would be crucified to Golgotha. There, he was nailed to the cross and left to suffer as difficult a death as humans can conjure up from the depths of unspeakable evil and then inflict on a living person.

I always question why our faith must be rooted in such an awful event. There had to be, must be a better way to bring us to salvation and life after death than the death Jesus endured. I always viewed my dismay at the death of Jesus as being altruistic. As a person intending to consider the best interest of others, my focus was on the experience of Jesus. I thought there must have been a way for God to work his plan without suffering and crucifixion. Who among us would not wish for Jesus to be spared if there was a way to do so? No one, I would dare say. The disconnect, however, was pursuing that line of investigation put me in the shoes of Peter who was the first to attempt to circumvent the imperative of salvation that requires sacrifice and atonement.

By dreaming up ways to get around the death of Jesus even though all we might accomplish was a less painful ordeal, we were acting as though Satan influenced us. That scares me. A genuine desire to prevent the torture of another can’t be evil. Can it? A simple reading of this passage establishes how what seems beneficial on the surface belies an awful truth that lies beneath the obvious.

During my pilgrimage through the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius, I uncovered a truth about myself that initially seemed ugly. I was not altruistic about wanting to prevent Jesus from suffering. Instead, my wishes were all about me. Instead of a positive intent, the real intention was to prevent me from contemplating that Jesus's death was as much about me as anyone else at the time of the passion and sense. He died for me and my sins and it is impossible to separate myself from the common and universal fact no one comes to God except through Jesus and there is no way for that to happen other than the way it did.

I have no choice but to accept that he died for me, but rather than feel responsible and ashamed, I should experience profound relief and gratitude. He died for ME. Even if I doubt it for myself, he finds me worthy of his love and salvation just because I exist and because it is how he is. No one deserves salvation. We all bear responsibility for his death, but ultimately, his death was about sacrifice and redemption.

I am curious to see if I can refocus my thoughts this year as Lent progresses to accept the unbelievable gift of love and life.

The Oathing Stone - An Cloch Mhionn

 The ancient Celts did not have a written history or use written documents for even the most important of uses, including treaties, records or contracts. Instead, the spoken word was the only source of agreement or promise.

A tradition developed that honored not only the necessity of keeping promises but stamped an element of significance to the conclusion of the negotiations between people and tribes. It also was drawn from the Celtic belief in the four elements of nature:

1. Fire
2. Water
3. Air
4. Earth

I speak of the Oathing Stone and the tradition of swearing oaths over stone. Imagine I want to make a solemn promise to you and be emphatic that I will keep the contract no matter what challenges threaten my ability to uphold my intention. If I were a Celt, I would want to use something familiar and natural to center my vow, which gives permanence to my promise. 

Fire refers to the sun and all other fires that are a part of life, such as the bonfires of the season, fires in the hearth that warm the body and provide the heat needed for cooking, and fires that bring light to darkness and represent the intensity of feelings. Fire is good. It brings light and heat, but fire is also destructive because it can become uncontrolled and consume things needed and vital for life. All fires but the sun are transient and unpredictable, so they cannot offer the promise of being always present to remind me of the vow made to another. The sun is permanent, but it is not ours to hold and possess in place we can return to when we need to be reminded of our obligations.

Water is what is fluid and liquid in nature. Water moves in streams, rises up into the air, becomes part of the sky, and falls from the sky as rain or snow to refresh the earth. It is the source of our lifeblood and the sap that runs in the trees. A promise made that is centered in water will wash away in the currents of time or dissipate into the vapor of memory. It cannot be held because it simply drains away and is lost. 

A pledge that relies only on the air that carries the words from heart to mouth to ears and heart of another can be lost in the wind that can carry away words and scatter them across the geography. Air has no memory, only a form we cannot see or hold in our hands. When we close our fists on words, nothing remains when we open our hands. 

Next comes the earth, which is made of stone and dust made from stone. Stones are the bottom of our geography, the foundation upon which we stand. Stone is solid; they offer permanence because it can only be intentionally destroyed. Left alone, stones are forever. Stones, unlike fire, water and air, have memory. They cannot fade, float, or be carried away by time alone. Stones represent what is unbreakable and unforgettable in our existence. 

Suppose I want to make a promise of utmost importance, a promise I will keep no matter what the other person might do in the future. In that case, I will ground my commitment in something immutable that will remind me of my oath whenever necessary. I want to ground the covenant exchanged in something permanent. 

I will hold the oathing stone in my hand when I reach out to you to bind an agreement. If you hold fast to my hand with the stone between the palms of our hands, the stone will hear words spoken between us and remember them long after we have gone back to the earth. 

Whenever I witness a marriage commitment, I ask the couple to hold an oathing stone between their palms. Then I place one hand on top and one the other hand below their hands so that the stone will hear them speak from the heart to each other and remember, the stone will listen to my words of solemnization as the witness to their commitment and remember my words. 

Do you wonder if stone may have a memory? When you visit a church made of stone or brick, put your hand on the wall, close your eyes and listen. What you will hear sung back to you by the rocks will amaze you. 

That is why I will hold the rock given to me. It reminds me of how the Holy Spirit moves among the children of God. 

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.