25 September 2015

Edified by silence – 25 September 2015


Here is one of the classic episodes from the Sayings of the Desert Fathers:  Abba Theophilus the archbishop came to Scetis one day.  The brethren who were assembled said to Abba Pambo, “Say something to the archbishop so that he may be edified.”  The old man said to them, “If he is not edified by my silence, he will not be edified by my speech.” 

Well you might think that’s a little hard on the archbishop.  Abba Pambo is not going to make even a polite and brief speech of welcome.  Imagine that on a marae.  It would be seen as rude and neglectful.  But in general, bishops were only marginally welcome out in the desert.  Bishops, church leaders, organisers, inspirational motivators, were one part of what the Desert Fathers and Mothers of the 3rd and 4th centuries had escaped.  Indeed, there were Desert Fathers who had been themselves bishops, once upon a time.  They fled to the desert to save their faith.  What do you think is the modern equivalent?  Anyway, Abba Pambo is altogether too unimpressed and underwhelmed to be in raptures at the episcopal presence.  Abba Pambo chooses silence.

Contemplatives have their own set of clichés about silence.  Silence is the language of God… for instance.  Or the injunction, Don’t speak unless you can improve the silence…  But these sayings, however clever, are only more or less true.  What is true is that once you have made friends with silence, so that you look forward to it, and are certainly not afraid of a time of stillness, silence, even solitude, there is often a developing impatience with nice speeches and all the warbling on most of us have had to do at times, as we thought it appropriate.  The other end of the spectrum from chosen silence may be seen at Hanmer Springs, the lovely alpine town surrounded by mountains and replete with giant trees – and yet it is thought necessary there, at the height of the tourist seasons, to provide bars, casinos, eating places everywhere with deafening amplified music, lest anyone feel bored or unentertained. 

The archbishop, poor old Theophilus, no doubt had something he wanted to say.  Abba Pambo thinks the archbishop should learn silence, and that in this regard he might be edified by the silence of Pambo and his brothers and sisters at Scetis.   In his book Silence and Honeycakes, Rowan Williams, another perhaps better informed archbishop, writes at length about the Desert tradition – and in one place he contrasts Abba Arsenius, who sat with the Holy Spirit of God in complete silence, with Abba Moses (Moses the Black, he was called, evidently an Ethiopian, and he was famous for having been at one time a highwayman).  Abba Moses was found out in a boat on the Nile with the angels of God and they were all eating honey cakes.  But Abba Moses was part of the same contemplative tradition as Abba Arsenius.  Perhaps on the boat they ate honey cakes silently, but I doubt it.  We have all types, and in contemplative life we have come to cherish the difference between discernment, which is understanding, and discrimination, which divides. 

Silence is more and more, in our kind of world, an essential part of Christian discipline -- for Abbas Arsenius, as equally for Abba Moses.  Silence is something to be learned and practised, and befriended.  Rowan Williams wrote (and he wrote this in the midst of huge turmoil in the Anglican Communion: A church without some quite demanding forms of long-term spiritual discipline – whether in traditional monastic life or not – is a frustrating place to live.  That was a heartfelt comment from a beleaguered archbishop.  He himself knew where the silent springs are to be found, but he grieved for all others, inside the church or not, as we do, who think differences are solved and healed on the level of who wins in argument or conflict.  It is not so.  It is in our hearts, and it is there we are changed and brought to silence. 

18 September 2015

The shelter of the Most High – 18 September 2015


Those who dwell in the shelter of the Most High

and abide in the shade of the Almighty

say to the Lord, “My refuge,

my stronghold, my God in whom I trust!”

Now that we have generally toured the Psalms for four Fridays, it seemed to me that we might have another look at one of the best-known and loved Psalms, 91.  In the first two lines we have words that could well alert any contemplative… dwell, abide.   Part of this Psalm is about dwelling, abiding, and another part is about journeying, moving on.  Whether we stay, or whether we go, it is under the wings, the shade, the protection, of the Most High. 

It is God who will free you from the snare of the fowler who seeks to destroy you;

God will conceal you with his pinions, and under his wings you will find refuge.

You will not fear the terror of the night nor the arrow that flies by day,

Nor the plague that prowls in the darkness nor the scourge that lays waste at noon.

A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right,

You, it will never approach; God’s faithfulness is a buckler and shield…

Upon you no evil shall fall, no plague approach where you dwell.

For you God has commanded the angels to keep you in all your ways.

They shall bear you upon their hands lest you strike your foot against a stone.

On the lion and the viper you will tread and trample the young lion and the dragon…

…it is a torrent of reassurance.  Of course in many senses life and the world are simply not so.  Good people do get wounded and struck down, really bad people often thrive.  And yet for anyone of quiet faith and prayer there is an important reality here.  The poet, the Psalmist, is not singing of some dream world, some convenient Never-Neverland in which nothing bad ever happens.  The Psalmist knows very well, probably in his own life and family and tribe, that you can never ensure the future, you can never assume you are safe from adversity.  For many people the lion and the viper, so to speak, are old friends – to say nothing of the terror of the night or the scourge that lays waste at midday.  But there is a part of us that is outside the reach of evil and adversity.  The contemplative task is very much to bring us into touch with that central spring, even if only in glimpses.  The Hebrew poet who wrote the Book of Job has Job saying, Though he slay me, yet will I trust him [Job 13:15]. 

I don’t write about any of this lightly or glibly, I hope.  There remains plenty of mystery.  I have no idea what to say about the affliction of senility and the onset of confusion, of which we are hearing more and more – except to observe that it compels us to care for each other.  And there is something about children being made to suffer, especially from other people’s neglect, stupidity and violence, which fills me with incoherent fury and dismay. 

But God, says the poet, has commanded his angels  We need to rescue angels from the Sunday school picture books and the great paintings that depict dreamy personages with wings.  The word angels means messengers.  If we become aware of something true and new, something healing and loving, some new light or creative possibility, some hope against hope, we can say that God has commanded his angels.  In Celtic spirituality there is not much doubt about angels – they are part of daily awareness, and they convey God’s love and new creation.

Psalms of New Life – 11 September 2015


The Lord listened and had pity.  The Lord came to my help.

For me you have changed my mourning into dancing,

You removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.

So my soul sings psalms to you unceasingly.

O Lord my God, I will thank you for ever. [Ps 30]

What God does is create in love, always new life and freshness.  We start to become aware of this when we reach a place – perhaps even been driven by our experience in life to a place -- where we finally decide to listen and pay attention.  God intervenes, but it is always with some new creation… not some restoration of the old ruins or patterns.  A new life, it may be a new awareness, a new understanding, a new start, a new person.  It is crucial to understand this… the old stable orientation of faith we once knew becomes consigned to memory.  We don’t encounter with great relief some reinstatement of our old certainties.  We are now free, perhaps timidly, to venture outside the camp.  In Isaiah’s poetry:

I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert… [Isaiah 43:19]

I will praise you, Lord, you have rescued me…

O Lord, I cried to you for help, and you, my God, have healed me.

O Lord, you have raised my soul from the dead, restored me to life…

At night there are tears, but joy comes with the dawn.

I had said to myself in my good fortune: “Nothing will ever disturb me.”

Then you hid your face and I was put to confusion…

For me you have changed my mourning into dancing,

You removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.   [Ps 30]

You who have seen my affliction…

Have not handed me over to the enemy, but set my feet at large. [Ps.31]

 

Set my feet at large…?  What a metaphor.  There may now be familiar things we can’t be bothered with any more.  God has brought us into a place of discovery, and this frightens some people.  It may be that prayer is renewed and rediscovered, and humbly explored.  Things that worried us, we are now setting in perspective and understanding a bit more.  But… this may not be everyone’s experience – I must avoid making patterns where God makes surprise and variety.  At any rate, it is likely that this new life happens, not suddenly and dramatically, so much as gently, inwardly, and at first even imperceptibly.  It is typical of the contemplative life that we become aware of change in retrospect:  “I wouldn’t have done that not so long ago … wouldn’t have thought that… would never have said that...”

I think this new life is marked also by a surprising reduction in anxiety.  This is part of what is meant by the Hebrew word shalom.  Jesus liked to ask people, Why are you afraid?  Love, as St John saw, casts out fear.  We find a freedom to make fresh arrangements with fate and destiny and the future, and the perennial fact that we never know what is going to happen to us or to others, as we say, what is around the corner -- to say nothing of the fact that we are mortal.   So it is, these Psalms invite us to choose life.

04 September 2015

Psalms of struggle – 4 September 2015


Lord, why do you reject me?  Why do you hide your face?

I have borne your trials; I am numb.

Your fury has swept down upon me, your terrors have utterly destroyed me.

Friend and neighbour you have taken away;

my one companion is darkness. [Ps 88]

In these Psalms of struggle we have a somewhat candid dialogue with God – a little too candid for some – neither is it really a dialogue, since a major part of the problem is that God doesn’t have much to say.  The circumstances of life have brought the Psalmist to argue with God about how things are panning out, and even to warn God that God’s reputation may be at stake here:

Will your love be told in the grave, or your faithfulness among the dead?

Will your wonders be known in the dark, or your justice in the land of oblivion?

God had better wake up.  And yet there is something deeper here.  This Psalmist, for all her suffering and pain, and behind all her anger, does not doubt what she calls your faithfulness… your wonders… your justice…  This is the paradox of mature faith.   It is still God with whom we have to deal, in the abyss.  God has not caused the pain.  It is not a punishment from on high, deserved or undeserved.  God has neither made it happen nor prevented it.  It has happened by some virus, or some extreme event, by warfare and human rage, by stupidity or carelessness, by accident…  But the caricature God who is thought to reach down and hurl thunderbolts against people, is an idol, in no way the God Jesus called Father.  The Psalmist too is very doubtful. 

Still, I suppose, the Psalmist feels entitled to ask why God did not at any rate prevent these calamities.  That’s an almost universal reaction.  Why does God not stop bad things happening?  The Psalmist doesn’t know, and I don’t know… except to say that it would be an unrecognisable world in which nothing bad ever happened, unless of course you richly deserved it.  And then, what would be the good of that? 

There is another point here, and it is an important part of the teaching around contemplative life and prayer.  C S Lewis is one of many who have found it – in his bereavement and sorrow he wrote, Surprised by Joy.  Great teachers such as St John of the Cross, Thomas Merton, and many others, discovered in their own crises that pain and loss do not have the final word without our consent.  Once we have come to know and make peace with our own vulnerability and mortality, we are beginning to learn to live beyond fear.  Darkness is still dark, but not hostile, never hopeless.  There is what George Matheson called joy that seekest me through pain.

How long, O Lord, will you forget me?  How long will you hide your face?

How long must I bear grief in my soul, this sorrow in my heart day and night?

Look at me, answer me, Lord my God!  Give light to my eyes lest I fall asleep in death,

Lest my enemy say, “I have prevailed”; lest my foes rejoice to see my fall.

As for me, I trust in your merciful love.  Let my heart rejoice in your saving help.

Let me sing to you Lord for your goodness to me,

Sing psalms to your name, O Lord, Most High. [Ps 13]