July 15th will mark the first anniversary of the day we got the keys to our house. That evening, we walked around, giddy with the newness of it all, giggling to ourselves and at each other, and pulling back carpets to see what surprises lay underneath. (What shape were the carpets in, you ask? Well, 18 hours later, all but one of them were pulled up and taken to the dump. Nuff said?) The nicest surprise was the original oak flooring in the entryway and living-dining room -- and in pretty good shape, too. Months later, I would spend many hours carefully pulling up and replacing damaged boards, and with help from the intrepid Gary Moniz, we were to spend hours more refinishing the floors -- and we couldn't be happier with the results. But in one spot near the front of the room, what we found that first night was an area where there was probably a hearth: replaced with plywood when the carpet was installed, the area was framed by a nicely inlaid pattern of the same oak. Ultimately, we ended up making a labyrinth pattern with leftovers from the board-replacing process, and Karen installed a tile mosaic in the center.
End result: what was once a hearth, quite literally the focus (Latin: hearth) of the room, later covered over, was now reclaimed as a focus, a focal point, again.
Now this got me thinking of ancient Rome (because, as Joss Whedon once admitted about a reference that reminded him of the Millennium Falcon, "most things do"). Thinking of ancient Roman religion may conjure up images of temples dedicated to this or that god or goddess, with offerings made in hopes of an answer to prayers for healing, say, or for a patron god to protect their home city. But Roman religious life was based in the home; based around the table and the hearth; around showing proper thankfulness to, and care for, the household gods. These were the lares and penates (lar-ays, pen-ah-tays; more here) -- small statues and mementos representing hero-ancestors and guardians of the home, hearth and storerooms. (Doctor Who fans may remember a lovely reference to them in a 2008 episode set in Pompeii.)
This history lesson has a point: as we continue to set up our home, what "household gods" are in evidence around our beautiful new focus, the former-and-now-repurposed hearth? It's tempting to think of "hearth and home" as outmoded, when so many of us have homes without fireplaces (or truly functional ones, at least). But I think it's still a vital question. What place does a TV -- or other means of visual entertainment -- have vis-a-vis other focal points in our homes? (It's not for nothing that I've recently placed a Playmobil figure of a Roman centurion atop our TV, as a reminder about this issue before picking up the remote.)
What about our smartphones? Our games? Our knickknacks and other pretty things that we devote, perhaps, just a little more attention to than they deserve? And more broadly, what might our practices and habits -- both within our homes and without -- tell us about where our hearts are, well, focused? Certainly there are good, life-giving answers to these questions; but there are also answers that are good because they reveal tiny little idolatries that we hadn't seen or copped to before.
For where your treasure is, there your heart(h) will be also.
As noted in several of my "more recent" posts, I've been struggling quite a lot with the transition out of the home-renovation stage -- more than eight months of intensive work, almost exclusively on our house (save for a few conference presentations and one teaching opportunity), which I had no time or spare energy to blog about so had to content myself with posting pics on Facebook -- and into the next chapter, In Which I Find Work That Results in a Paycheck. I have applied to everything from university presses, sessional teaching jobs and nonprofits on the one hand, to CostCo, Rona, Lowe's and local coffee shops on the other. I still believe I will find work, soon, possibly even work that utilizes some of my best vocational skills. And I haven't exactly been idle in the interim, either: I've done lots more little things for the house and assembled a book proposal, too. But the Waiting remains frustrating.
Not that the Father of the heavenly lights hasn't continued to give good gifts (James 1:17) along the way. Just yesterday, as I explained Karen's and my vision and purpose for the house at the request of a friend and colleague who will be blogging about us soon, one of his questions nudged me in such a way as to consider this Waiting in a slightly different way. Now, Karen and I have been careful to acknowledge that the founding of a house for spiritual direction and retreat doesn't mean that we've mastered related disciplines like silence, solitude, or sabbath-keeping; far from it! No, we've insisted, opening this house will require us to grow in these things in order to model and teach them to our guests. But even once we'd acknowledged that, it took Jim's questions yesterday to make me realize anew that those who would claim to model disciplines must often first be disciplined, both in the active sense (self-discipline) and the passive (being chastened -- but let's not digress here into a full discussion of what that looks like in the biblical tradition!). That is, it's almost as if God has us going through a time of re-learning certain disciplines -- in addition to the two years of similar experience, leading up to the envisioning of Lectio House -- before (not just at the same time as) we model them for others.
So the Waiting isn't necessarily any easier. But it's a gift (a small one, he grumbled semi-gratefully) to know that what has felt like the psalmist's valley of the shadow of death will, with enough perspective, be only the shadow of discipline -- a dark place, yes, but one in which the light can still sometimes break through.
For many writers -- certainly including myself, and my sister Chandra, as frequently noted over at her blog -- the hardest part of writing is getting started, and getting started, and getting started again. Yes, writer's block can be paralyzing in the midst of any project, but it's especially so at the beginning, and at each new beginning-over (or "reginning"?) when momentum has been lost, or not yet built up.
I talked a little about this in my very first post, quoting other authors in support of the point; here, I'll do the same with Vincent Lam's words from a July 2012 interview with George Stromboulopoulos. Every book project, Lam said, was akin to "jumping back into an abyss...the work of
fiction is so intense, so personal, so demanding, that you have to be up for
it. You know, it's got to be from you. Otherwise, it's not going to be right." The principal fear, of course, is that it will never be right, that even if you've succeeded in writing before, you won't be able to repeat the feat on demand. At some point in there, other priorities begin to crowd in, like they do, and suddenly your number of blog posts (for example) for a given month, or even a given year, is accusingly small. And it becomes that much harder to start over again. The lesson applies to other areas of life, too, but it's at least as clear in writing as in any other field.
But what can we do but pray, take a deep breath, and then pick ourselves up and start forward again? I've heard and read Philippians 3 many times, but it's only today that I've noticed that the "one thing" Paul claims he does, in the marathon of his life and ministry, is forgetting. Or at least the one thing begins with forgetting: "Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus" (Phil. 3:13b-14).
So, following Paul (as imitating him, as he imitates his Lord, is much of what the rest of that letter is about), I choose to forget, and to strain forward, toward the prize. Right now, as I continue to job-hunt and figure out what my spiritual and compositional rhythms will look like now that our home renovations are "done," the shape that "straining" forward takes may be choosing to go to bed earlier, to get up earlier, to have more time to reflect, read, and write before the demands of each day begin to make themselves known. Probably to blog more consistently, too. (Or at least to try. Again. Have I failed to do so before? ...I forget.)
What is it that you need to forget? And what will your "straining" look like?
On and off for the past several months, I've been slogging through deeply enjoying N. T. Wright's 2013 book, Paul and the Faithfulness of God. On page 1370 (just 150 pages to go!), I came across this:
"To approach the frontier between the human and the divine is also to approach the borders of language. The problem emerges, for instance, when [Paul] talks about 'the divine spirit bearing witness with our spirit' [Rom. 8:16], and the problem is only slightly alleviated when he talks instead about the divine spirit residing in a person's 'heart'. The questions English-language exegetes [interpreters] sometimes ask, as to whether 'spirit' should have a capital letter or not, indicating the divine spirit rather than the human one, shows well enough that there is fluidity of thought at this point."
This struck me particularly because of two recent items; bear with me, since they take a moment to join together. Item One: a conversation I recently shared with a few colleagues, concerning whether or not God still calls people to be apostles today. Leaving aside the more prickly questions of whether (and how) spiritual gifts like prophecy, healing, and speaking in tongues still function today, we talked about what it was that made Jesus' original apostles, well, apostles: they were commissioned as such, and sent as such; they were first among Jesus' companions and witnesses; empowered by Jesus' commissioning, and later more directly by the Holy Spirit, they did some pretty amazing stuff ("that they might be with him and that he might send them out to preach and to have authority to drive out demons," Mark 3:14-15). But then of course there's somebody like Paul, who gets to define himself as apostle to the Gentiles/nations, talks about himself as the least (and most undeserving) of the apostles, yet also tries to dictate what kind of spheres of authority he and other apostles have. (And, Paul might well add, he also added letter-writing to the apostolic job description!) All of that is to say that if we were to imagine an "apostolic" calling today, there might be considerable variations in what that would look like between those called. To take some of the loaded-ness out of that term, apostolic, maybe we should place it within the current conversation of the mission of God and his people: where those original, capital-A Apostles were commissioned in some sense directly by Jesus himself, today a lowercase-a apostle could be one who is sent on a mission, not unlike a missionary, as part of the larger mission that God has given his people, the mission that reflects and expresses God's own mission to this beautiful but broken world. For the individual, that's a powerful incentive to do the things one is called to do, to live out a commission most faithfully (in some cases probably including, but not limited to, blogging more consistently).
Item two: a nearby Christian TV station has been using the Twitter hashtag "#inspiring" to promote discussion of its programming -- including its reruns of, say, Gilmore Girls and The West Wing. I happily admit that there are plenty of "inspiring" moments in these and other shows, and West Wing more than most. But it's almost always lowercase-i inspiring. Not that anyone can decide firmly where the break should be between capital and lowercase inspiration, much as Wright says about the use of Spirit and spirit above. The most stirring, Capra-esque moment of compassionate politics in Jed Bartlet's White House is still a far cry from the literal in-spiration of the first Pentecost; but who's to say that the Spirit cannot or would not move in and through that former moment, at which point inspiration becomes, arguably, Inspiration?
So: what do you think? What do you make of Wright's point about the limits of human language here, or my reflection on them? How are we supposed to work out these questions of big and little A's and I's (without getting too far into Dr. Seuss's ABCs!) that can make such a big difference in our spiritual formation and mission? Is there a happy medium-sized expression between the two extremes -- and if so, what does it look like?
It's almost the end of the play: King Lear.
The old, stormy-tempered king is dying. And here's one of his remaining friends, Kent: "Break," he cries, "I prithee, break!"
If you've seen the series Slings and Arrows (and if you haven't, you should), you may remember Paul Gross (yes, the Mountie from Due South) whispering this to William Hutt -- but that's beside the point. The point is, Kent hasn't given up on Lear yet. In a moment, he'll see that it's time to let go -- "vex not his ghost" -- but he's not there yet. This Kent still desperately wants Lear to "break" away from his path, from letting his life slip away.
Sometime during the past few weeks, Kent's words became a central part of my prayer life. Yes, I know God's not a flawed, stormy, dying old king. But the urgency of the need is captured there. And yes, there are people praying right this moment whose need is more desperate than mine. Nonetheless, I cry out to God, the God who has a tendency to break into our stories with his own: break (in), I prithee, break (in)! Show up, as you have before and will do again! Bring me meaningful work, and favor for my book proposal, and a return to the health I (think I) had before the renovations -- and those are just the top of the list.
And I hear the echoes of all the Scriptures about waiting on, and/or hoping in, the Lord. So I wait, actively, earnestly. And I pray.
Break, I prithee, break.
Time to sound the retreat.
Why has it been almost 7 months since I last blogged? As all four of my most regular readers well know, the reason is that Karen and I bought a house last June, and took possession and began renovating in July. This is what we call Lectio House: a small, urban centre for spiritual direction and retreat, operating in our home. But in order to make it livable and inviting, we've had to do some major, if largely cosmetic, alterations. I'll probably write more (*surprised gasp*) about the whole process at more length and depth eventually - the idea of "wrighting" a house is pretty appealing - but for now I will let it be enough to say that this has absorbed almost all of my attention and energy for the last half-year, that this will likely continue for another month at least, and that this is in many ways a profoundly good thing: over the past year, Karen and I have discerned that this house is a significant part of what we are called to do together. If recent endeavors of learning to mortise and hang doors, paint wood paneling, and lay bamboo flooring will get us there, then it's all to the good.
But for two days, it's time for a retreat of our own. Our friends Peter and Cheryl Tigchelaar have graciously accommodated us at their lovely home so that we can rest tired bodies and worn-out souls. So that soon we can start the ministry of Lectio House, officially, from a good place of restfulness.
So sound the retreat. And then it's back to flooring, with a little grading and editing to keep things fun.
What follows is a brief review of Carl McColman, Answering the Contemplative Call: First Steps on the Mystical Path (Charlottesville, VA: Hampton Roads, 2013; 168 pp.; USD $16.95) for the Speakeasy network.
It's no simple task to present contemplative, even mystical spirituality as palatable and non-threatening to a mixed literary audience; but author/speaker/spiritual director Carl McColman meets the challenge head-on in his latest book. The result isn't quite a home run, but it's certainly a stand-up triple: he strikes and often maintains a careful balance of introducing ideas that would be new to many of his readers, without estranging either the readers or the ideas themselves.
As his subtitle indicates, McColman invests deeply in the motif of the spiritual-contemplative life as a journey, and this motif governs the three-part structure of his book. In part one, "Recognizing the Call," he invites readers to join in the journeying: having gently introduced the thought that the mystical path is (perhaps surprisingly) inclusive, open to anyone, he now unpacks the link between mysticism and the mysteries of life -- and of God. He goes on to acknowledge, quite sensitively, the existential and/or experiential problems that some readers may have with the God of the Bible, but he also responds to such issues with a well-phrased apologetic of human longing as a response to God's own longing love for people (11). He spends much of this section on the need to "wake up," to recognize our longing, the journey it requires, and the fact that God seeks us even more passionately than we seek God. At times McColman's language is wonderfully subversive, as when he writes of submission, "my American allergy to surrendering control may need some recalibration" with respect to the infinite mystery of God (19); while it would have been fascinating to see where such thoughts would lead him, that is not his primary focus. He retells the mystical awakenings of Aquinas, Julian of Norwich, and Thomas Merton as illustrations of epiphany (a term which he helpfully defines, though other words like prevenient and ineffable go unexplained). And, speaking of language, he takes the time to reclaim words that he thinks important for the mystical quest, including beholding as a reflective response to divine mystery.
Parts two and three, "Preparing for the Journey" and "Embarking on the Adventure," map out the path -- to the extent that there is a path at all -- of the calling toward God and a responsive vocation of loving God, others, and self (47; rooted in biblical texts such as Mark 12:28-34). With the chapter "Do Your Research," McColman encourages his readers to explore the tradition(s) of Christian mystical literature, but not at the expense of cultivating their own spiritual growth. He also insists, wisely, that finding a spiritual director (and, beyond that, a supportive community) and pursuing spiritual disciplines are vital priorities; it is unfortunate, however, that his discussion neglects foundational voices like Richard Foster and Dallas Willard, or more recent conversation partners like Ruth Haley Barton. McColman's defense of his preference for explicitly Christian spirituality is, er, spirited, and thoughtfully expressed (though I'm not sure that he's correct that the many biblical stories he names here will seem familiar if the reader has "been attending a Church for more than a year or so" [80], given how widespread biblical illiteracy is...). And his explanations of kataphatic and apophatic approaches to God, of the practice of lectio divina, and of kenosis (self-emptying, as in Philippians 2:5-11) comprise the high points of the book.
McColman excels at making complex and potentially off-putting ideas simple and user-friendly. He shows special skill in recapitulation, whether he restates important concepts himself, or allows the voices of past contemplative greats to facilitate such reviews. There are moments where catering to a mixed audience begins to work against him, as when he says in his discourse on kenosis, "I rather suspect that there is an Angel of Kenosis hovering over each one of us" (137). Statements like these certainly provoke reflection, but also risk distracting readers from his main points. Fortunately, these statements are relatively rare, and detract little from this otherwise helpful book.
Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the author and/or publisher through the Speakeasy blogging book review network. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.
