Grace
I've been pondering grace a lot lately. I'm not really sure I know exactly what that is. As a theological concept, it seems tougher to grasp than, say, faith, hope, or charity. Grace. Hm.
As I was pondering grace recently, a thought popped into my mind: when will I be ready to accept God's grace? It seems as if God's grace is always there, extended to me; I'm the one who won't receive it. When will I be ready? What am I waiting for? This thought revisits me again and again like a gentle nudge.
I attended an Advent half-day silent retreat last weekend with the centering prayer group in our area, held at the Episcopal church I've been attending. I found it very beneficial. We had two centering prayer sessions, then Lectio Divina, then a period for personal reflection, then another session of centering prayer, then lunch. The "sacred word" I chose to focus on during centering prayer as I tried to clear my mind was grace.
The scripture we meditated on during Lectio Divina was Isaiah 40:3-5:
A voice cries out: "in the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord. Make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places plain. Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken."
During the period of personal reflection, we had the opportunity to walk a labyrinth that had been set up in the parish hall. I had not thought I wanted to participate in that; it sounded boring, and it was supposed to take 30-40 minutes to do. Bah, too long. But with the reading about making straight a path for the Lord, and realizing I don't have opportunities to walk a labyrinth every day, I decided to give it a try.
The labyrinth was painted on a large canvas cloth that covered about a third of the large parish hall floor. It was surrounded by candles, and a woman played a harp beside it--lovely. The labyrinth was a replica of what I now know is the labyrinth on the floor of Chartres, pictured here:
When I came into the parish hall, I was still undecided on whether I would do the labyrinth or not, but the harpist was playing "I Love You, Lord," which struck me as being personally significant because of some reference I made to it in my teenage diary and reread recently. That ended up being the only piece she played that was familiar to me at all, but it seemed like a good "sign." So I took off my shoes and approached a music stand that sat next to the entrance and had a sheet explaining how to do the labyrinth.
The instructions explained that the labyrinth contained one path, which led to the center, and once you reach the center, you exit out the way you came. I didn't realize that about it. You make a choice to enter the labyrinth, to begin a journey, and as you walk, you meditate. You let go on anxieties and leave them behind. When you reach the center, you can pause to pray. When you leave, you go out the way you came, and you pray to hold onto whatever peace or insight you gained on the journey in.
So I watched the individuals who had started the walk ahead of me. There were several, and varying points on the labyrinth, on the journey. Then I chose to begin the journey as well.
As I walked, I thought about the path, how it was anything but straight, but some portions were much more winding than others. The whole path is already laid out, from start to finish, and all you have to do to get to the center is persist. Along the walk, you find yourself at varying degrees of distance from the center; sometimes you are right next to it but not yet there. At a certain point, you are right back by the start of the whole thing, and it appears you are no closer to the destination than you were at the beginning. And then, just a few steps later, you are rounding the bend and reaching the center.
I have spent a lot of time feeling as if I am stuck at a starting point, unable to get anywhere, and making no progress. So those moments in the labyrinth when I noticed with some despair that I was back at the beginning of the maze, then realized that in fact I was only moments from the apex... got my attention.
In the labyrinth, I thought about grace. When will I be ready? What am I waiting for?
I found myself asking, "Is this okay? Is this okay?" It seemed that it was. I thought about God saying, "Come on. Just come. Come to me." And I thought, "Okay. Is that okay? Is this really okay?"
I really liked the labyrinth.
After that, I also went to "pray through an icon," one of the Archangel Gabriel, which was set up in the chapel. There were little handouts available about how to pray through an icon. One of the points of preparation suggested, "pray that you might release whatever distances you from your desire to be nearer to God." In a heartbeat, I thought, "fear." Fear is what distances me from my desire to be nearer to God. I prayed to release that.
The final centering prayer session was a bit of a wash, I'll admit. By that time, I was a little meditated out, and I wound up opening my eyes and looking at everyone else, all with eyes closed. But I felt good and at peace. I felt like I was ready, or I wanted to be ready, to accept God's grace. And maybe that meant that also I could be ready to join the Episcopalians.
That night, as I lay in bed and looked at my phone, I browsed labyrinth-themed jewelry on ebay (scrolling past a surprising number of David Bowie themed items). Then I went to sleep.
Of course, my subconscious could not allow me to get through the night feeling peaceful. I dreamed that my old boss, Pam, was telling me sternly that I must not leave Catholicism. She chided me that I knew better, that I promised never to leave. I woke up in the middle of the night after that dream and felt uneasy. When I went back to sleep, I think I dreamed of more people representing Catholicism, warning me against any intentions I might have of leaving the Church.
For most of the next day, Sunday, these dreams were forgotten to me. Sunday night, I dreamed again. Here is what I wrote to Jason this morning:
You were in my crazy dream again. You and I and Atticus were visiting Greg and Jennifer Willits of the Rosary Army podcast (and, more recently, of a new Catholic sitcom called Mass Confusion). There were many disconnected elements to the dream: my clothes didn't fit, and I realized it was because I was in my resurrected body, so I was taller. I kept having to change clothes in the same room as you while you looked away. Atticus had a poopy diaper, and you changed him. I couldn't keep track of all of our trash all over the Willitses' house, and I left embarrassed because of the mess. You were there with me all the time, mostly keeping off to the side and observing. You were concerned, I could tell. There was a backstory to your concern that my dream self remembered, having to do with the Catholic/Episcopalian stuff, but there was not any sort of overt discussion in the dream, either between you and me or between me and the Willitses. We hung around for a long time, and it was you who finally said it was time to go, and you packed up the car while I said goodbye. You were supposed to grab my iPod on the way out, but I realized you had forgotten it, so I went back in for it. I told Jennifer I was sorry for spilling juice on her floor; she was friendly and gracious, and we parted on a friendly note.
As I was writing that email to Jason, something in the retelling stuck out to me that had not made an impression in my first ruminations: Jason was the one who told me it was time to go.
Jason wrote me back:
Your psyche is continuing the discussion, if only in symbols. I think I may be an abstraction of your own personal Catholicism, whereas the Wilitses represent the external influence of those not intimately connected with you.
Yes. But furthermore, Jason is my originating tie to Catholicism. Whatever it is that he represents--in my dreams, in my subconscious mind--is one of the strongest objectors to my pursuing salvation outside of the Roman Catholic Church. Not actual Jason; that understanding of salvation that is fleshed out so often in dream-Jason. This is why it is significant that he was the one in the dream who got up off the Willitses' couch and said, "It's time to go. I'll pack our stuff. Meet me at the car in 5 minutes." I hadn't been sure when it would be appropriate to leave, and I was glad he initiated the departure. There were no hard feelings.
It's past time for bed. We shall see if the battle will wage on in my dreams tonight.
As I was pondering grace recently, a thought popped into my mind: when will I be ready to accept God's grace? It seems as if God's grace is always there, extended to me; I'm the one who won't receive it. When will I be ready? What am I waiting for? This thought revisits me again and again like a gentle nudge.
I attended an Advent half-day silent retreat last weekend with the centering prayer group in our area, held at the Episcopal church I've been attending. I found it very beneficial. We had two centering prayer sessions, then Lectio Divina, then a period for personal reflection, then another session of centering prayer, then lunch. The "sacred word" I chose to focus on during centering prayer as I tried to clear my mind was grace.
The scripture we meditated on during Lectio Divina was Isaiah 40:3-5:
A voice cries out: "in the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord. Make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places plain. Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken."
During the period of personal reflection, we had the opportunity to walk a labyrinth that had been set up in the parish hall. I had not thought I wanted to participate in that; it sounded boring, and it was supposed to take 30-40 minutes to do. Bah, too long. But with the reading about making straight a path for the Lord, and realizing I don't have opportunities to walk a labyrinth every day, I decided to give it a try.
The labyrinth was painted on a large canvas cloth that covered about a third of the large parish hall floor. It was surrounded by candles, and a woman played a harp beside it--lovely. The labyrinth was a replica of what I now know is the labyrinth on the floor of Chartres, pictured here:
When I came into the parish hall, I was still undecided on whether I would do the labyrinth or not, but the harpist was playing "I Love You, Lord," which struck me as being personally significant because of some reference I made to it in my teenage diary and reread recently. That ended up being the only piece she played that was familiar to me at all, but it seemed like a good "sign." So I took off my shoes and approached a music stand that sat next to the entrance and had a sheet explaining how to do the labyrinth.
The instructions explained that the labyrinth contained one path, which led to the center, and once you reach the center, you exit out the way you came. I didn't realize that about it. You make a choice to enter the labyrinth, to begin a journey, and as you walk, you meditate. You let go on anxieties and leave them behind. When you reach the center, you can pause to pray. When you leave, you go out the way you came, and you pray to hold onto whatever peace or insight you gained on the journey in.
So I watched the individuals who had started the walk ahead of me. There were several, and varying points on the labyrinth, on the journey. Then I chose to begin the journey as well.
As I walked, I thought about the path, how it was anything but straight, but some portions were much more winding than others. The whole path is already laid out, from start to finish, and all you have to do to get to the center is persist. Along the walk, you find yourself at varying degrees of distance from the center; sometimes you are right next to it but not yet there. At a certain point, you are right back by the start of the whole thing, and it appears you are no closer to the destination than you were at the beginning. And then, just a few steps later, you are rounding the bend and reaching the center.
I have spent a lot of time feeling as if I am stuck at a starting point, unable to get anywhere, and making no progress. So those moments in the labyrinth when I noticed with some despair that I was back at the beginning of the maze, then realized that in fact I was only moments from the apex... got my attention.
In the labyrinth, I thought about grace. When will I be ready? What am I waiting for?
I found myself asking, "Is this okay? Is this okay?" It seemed that it was. I thought about God saying, "Come on. Just come. Come to me." And I thought, "Okay. Is that okay? Is this really okay?"
I really liked the labyrinth.
After that, I also went to "pray through an icon," one of the Archangel Gabriel, which was set up in the chapel. There were little handouts available about how to pray through an icon. One of the points of preparation suggested, "pray that you might release whatever distances you from your desire to be nearer to God." In a heartbeat, I thought, "fear." Fear is what distances me from my desire to be nearer to God. I prayed to release that.
The final centering prayer session was a bit of a wash, I'll admit. By that time, I was a little meditated out, and I wound up opening my eyes and looking at everyone else, all with eyes closed. But I felt good and at peace. I felt like I was ready, or I wanted to be ready, to accept God's grace. And maybe that meant that also I could be ready to join the Episcopalians.
That night, as I lay in bed and looked at my phone, I browsed labyrinth-themed jewelry on ebay (scrolling past a surprising number of David Bowie themed items). Then I went to sleep.
Of course, my subconscious could not allow me to get through the night feeling peaceful. I dreamed that my old boss, Pam, was telling me sternly that I must not leave Catholicism. She chided me that I knew better, that I promised never to leave. I woke up in the middle of the night after that dream and felt uneasy. When I went back to sleep, I think I dreamed of more people representing Catholicism, warning me against any intentions I might have of leaving the Church.
For most of the next day, Sunday, these dreams were forgotten to me. Sunday night, I dreamed again. Here is what I wrote to Jason this morning:
You were in my crazy dream again. You and I and Atticus were visiting Greg and Jennifer Willits of the Rosary Army podcast (and, more recently, of a new Catholic sitcom called Mass Confusion). There were many disconnected elements to the dream: my clothes didn't fit, and I realized it was because I was in my resurrected body, so I was taller. I kept having to change clothes in the same room as you while you looked away. Atticus had a poopy diaper, and you changed him. I couldn't keep track of all of our trash all over the Willitses' house, and I left embarrassed because of the mess. You were there with me all the time, mostly keeping off to the side and observing. You were concerned, I could tell. There was a backstory to your concern that my dream self remembered, having to do with the Catholic/Episcopalian stuff, but there was not any sort of overt discussion in the dream, either between you and me or between me and the Willitses. We hung around for a long time, and it was you who finally said it was time to go, and you packed up the car while I said goodbye. You were supposed to grab my iPod on the way out, but I realized you had forgotten it, so I went back in for it. I told Jennifer I was sorry for spilling juice on her floor; she was friendly and gracious, and we parted on a friendly note.
As I was writing that email to Jason, something in the retelling stuck out to me that had not made an impression in my first ruminations: Jason was the one who told me it was time to go.
Jason wrote me back:
Your psyche is continuing the discussion, if only in symbols. I think I may be an abstraction of your own personal Catholicism, whereas the Wilitses represent the external influence of those not intimately connected with you.
Yes. But furthermore, Jason is my originating tie to Catholicism. Whatever it is that he represents--in my dreams, in my subconscious mind--is one of the strongest objectors to my pursuing salvation outside of the Roman Catholic Church. Not actual Jason; that understanding of salvation that is fleshed out so often in dream-Jason. This is why it is significant that he was the one in the dream who got up off the Willitses' couch and said, "It's time to go. I'll pack our stuff. Meet me at the car in 5 minutes." I hadn't been sure when it would be appropriate to leave, and I was glad he initiated the departure. There were no hard feelings.
It's past time for bed. We shall see if the battle will wage on in my dreams tonight.