Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Horse Loggers
The Horse Loggers
Some months back when a severe storm hit the Conyers area, we lost a lot of large trees on our property, across Highway 212. We hired a team of horse loggers who came down from southwestern Virginia The horses were housed in our large hay barn and the team stayed here in our retreat house. The horses were magnificent animals – majestic in size and beauty. And the men and one woman who made up the logging team were such warm, friendly people. They were a pleasure to have here and to get to know.
I spent a lot of time at the work area, watching the horses drag out enormous pieces of fallen timber. They know just four or five commands and when, with a single, softly spoken word, the rider prompted the two-horse team, the response of the horses was immediate. They would stop, or turn, or back up at the prompting of one appropriate word. I was amazed at the strength of those horses. They dragged with seeming ease hundreds of pounds of fallen timber. When they reached their destination, which was a good distance from the site of the fallen trees, the timber was cut into large, perfectly formed pieces and neatly arranged in piles. I brought my camera along with me and took a lot of pictures and am happy with the way they came out. I know I will look at those photos often and remember with fondness how genuinely good those men and women were.
Brother Augustine drove me down on one visit to the work site and on the way back I mentioned to him that watching the team made me think a lot about God and life. He asked what I meant and I told him it was not clear to me yet but I have had a few days now to think about it. God made us and we are stewards of this vast earth. Theologians have written enough books about them that could fill millions of shelves. A lot of prayer and thought went into such writing. And a lot of trees went into the making of those books and the shelves that might hold them. In our leisurely moments during life, we give thought to divine mysteries like God and may wonder what he and we are all about.
As I watched the loggers at work, their concentration was obvious. Any thought of a pious nature was far from their minds. Their attention was absorbed by the clearing of wood, the handling of the horses, the cutting and arranging of the timber. Of course God was there, but we were about other things, and it was not the time or place to discuss Him. But I did later, with Augustine, and am doing so now, with you. Like stewards, we work in terms of service to this earth and, if such is our bent, we may find time to rest and talk of God.
Storms come through life. These are brought by the winds, or through the many inclement sorrows that tear at the human heart. We have no control over these painful events other than to wait, to possibly clear the damage, to speak a kind word or to hold someone close when death breaks a heart. I believe these activities and more are God’s being with us – clearing the damage we suffer through because we are human and nothing is perfect in this life. But if nothing is perfect, human kindness and our lived practice of it come quite close.
The loggers have left and we all miss them. If a storm comes through here again, the silver lining will be the return of some wonderful people and their magnificent horses.
There is a huge pile of freshly cut wood. I asked Augustine what we are going to do with all that wood and he told me that the plans are to build a chapel. The wood will rise and point heavenward and house human gatherings who will worship God in times of joy and sorrow. The chapel will shelter them from the heat or the sun and the buffeting of the winds. We will make a place for God there, the God I saw pass through a few days ago, though He did not say much as the loggers went about their work in service to Him. He spoke so softly as the loggers smiled and told me about their lives, their hopes, their work.
Some months back when a severe storm hit the Conyers area, we lost a lot of large trees on our property, across Highway 212. We hired a team of horse loggers who came down from southwestern Virginia The horses were housed in our large hay barn and the team stayed here in our retreat house. The horses were magnificent animals – majestic in size and beauty. And the men and one woman who made up the logging team were such warm, friendly people. They were a pleasure to have here and to get to know.
I spent a lot of time at the work area, watching the horses drag out enormous pieces of fallen timber. They know just four or five commands and when, with a single, softly spoken word, the rider prompted the two-horse team, the response of the horses was immediate. They would stop, or turn, or back up at the prompting of one appropriate word. I was amazed at the strength of those horses. They dragged with seeming ease hundreds of pounds of fallen timber. When they reached their destination, which was a good distance from the site of the fallen trees, the timber was cut into large, perfectly formed pieces and neatly arranged in piles. I brought my camera along with me and took a lot of pictures and am happy with the way they came out. I know I will look at those photos often and remember with fondness how genuinely good those men and women were.
Brother Augustine drove me down on one visit to the work site and on the way back I mentioned to him that watching the team made me think a lot about God and life. He asked what I meant and I told him it was not clear to me yet but I have had a few days now to think about it. God made us and we are stewards of this vast earth. Theologians have written enough books about them that could fill millions of shelves. A lot of prayer and thought went into such writing. And a lot of trees went into the making of those books and the shelves that might hold them. In our leisurely moments during life, we give thought to divine mysteries like God and may wonder what he and we are all about.
As I watched the loggers at work, their concentration was obvious. Any thought of a pious nature was far from their minds. Their attention was absorbed by the clearing of wood, the handling of the horses, the cutting and arranging of the timber. Of course God was there, but we were about other things, and it was not the time or place to discuss Him. But I did later, with Augustine, and am doing so now, with you. Like stewards, we work in terms of service to this earth and, if such is our bent, we may find time to rest and talk of God.
Storms come through life. These are brought by the winds, or through the many inclement sorrows that tear at the human heart. We have no control over these painful events other than to wait, to possibly clear the damage, to speak a kind word or to hold someone close when death breaks a heart. I believe these activities and more are God’s being with us – clearing the damage we suffer through because we are human and nothing is perfect in this life. But if nothing is perfect, human kindness and our lived practice of it come quite close.
The loggers have left and we all miss them. If a storm comes through here again, the silver lining will be the return of some wonderful people and their magnificent horses.
There is a huge pile of freshly cut wood. I asked Augustine what we are going to do with all that wood and he told me that the plans are to build a chapel. The wood will rise and point heavenward and house human gatherings who will worship God in times of joy and sorrow. The chapel will shelter them from the heat or the sun and the buffeting of the winds. We will make a place for God there, the God I saw pass through a few days ago, though He did not say much as the loggers went about their work in service to Him. He spoke so softly as the loggers smiled and told me about their lives, their hopes, their work.
Salvation and the Tuna Fish Sandwich
Salvation and the Tuna Fish Sandwich
I have heard that roughly seventy-thousand people pass through our monastery every year. We are on the tourist maps and in religious sights-to-see brochures. I am the Guest Master of the retreat house, so I have an opportunity to meet many of those who grace our lives with their presence. I give orientations several times a week and am often called upon to give talks to groups who visit us. I enjoy my “job.” I am always meeting new people, people from all walks of life and from many varied places on the religious “map.” People, of course, are the living embodiment of the church. There are people who are liberal in their thinking and there are those who feel more comfortable in the conservative realm of devotion.
Last Saturday I was asked to give a brief talk to a group of visitors. It was a group of mentally and physically challenged adults. They were accompanied by their parents and chaperones. I met them in a large room beneath our church. Chairs were arranged in a large circle and when I walked into the room, I saw a chair which was reserved for me. Well, not everyone was able to use a chair. Several of the people were wheeled into place on their small motorized vehicles. And there was a man who wore a blue helmet and who leaned against a pillar. I noticed later that when he walked, he did so in fits and starts, shaking a lot before he was able to steady himself, and then took one small step at a time, and then began to shake again until he steadied himself and the shaking stopped. Then he would move forward again.
I sat down and began to speak, telling them about the life here, about what we are about. I shared with them a few things about myself – where I grew up, how it was that I came here, and then invited the group to ask questions. To my right there sat a young man who was wearing a baseball cap. He tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to him and he smiled and said “I want to live here. Wanna be a monk, maybe a priest. Gonna do it. Gonna, gonna do it do it do it” He stuttered, trying to get the words out. He smiled. I told him it just might work, that it would take some time. “Time, time, time,” he said, seeming to like the cadence or the sound of the words. Or maybe it was a way that he let things sink in, by a need to repeat important words over and over. He had a wonderful smile – I could feel him listening to me, taking in every word.
I had brought my camera and wanted to take some pictures, but the light in the room was poor. I thought to myself that I would meet the group later, when they went outside for lunch.
Later, I came back and it was raining, so the group was in the same room, having their lunch. The tables were rearranged so as to easily accommodate the movement and placement of those who had the wheelchairs and motorized vehicles. I let go of the idea about taking photographs. I sat near a couple and later found out that they were the parents of one of the older men. We chatted a bit – they were interesting, easy to chat with. We spoke about the church with its present challenges, opportunities and problems. They were well informed and extremely articulate in terms of church related – human related – issues. I was listening intently to what they were telling me about their journey re church and their son when suddenly I noticed movement before me, on the table. I looked down and a sandwich wrapped in cellophane paper glided across the table and stopped in front of me, guided by a hand. I looked up and their son beamed at me. He did not say anything, and nodded. “It’s for you,” his mom said.
The son moved off, back to his table. I let the sandwich be for the time being. Several minutes later, I spotted him across the hall, standing at his place, looking at me and smiling, his arm raised high and his hand making a pointing motion down. He wanted to make sure I had noticed the sandwich. I lifted it off the table, showed it to him, and he beamed and sat back down.
I went back later in the afternoon, hoping to see them again, but they had left earlier than had been originally planned. I suspect that the stormy weather had something to do with it. I hope that they come back again someday.
The monastery attracts as many questions as there are the people who ask them. Many of the questions hover around the presence of God – how to find him, how best to order one’s life so as to allow a space for God to make an appearance. I suppose it is assumed by many that we monks have some sort of a knowing edge when it comes to divine matters, to the revelation of the holy in this life. And so it is that for most of us, language strains to situate in a fairly convincing way the parameters of God in this life. We have monks here who speak about such things very well. And we have a lot of books, CDs and videos, audio tapes and the like which offer a huge array of God related topics.
Yet how well aware I am at this writing that there are other conversations, other ways of being in this world that are no less striking in their offerings of what God and salvation are all about. I sat with that group on Saturday, crafting as best I could some words about the holy and this life, well aware that I was speaking to many levels of comprehension and experience. And in the midst of some high flying words about whatever – grace or peace or the psalms, a tuna fish sandwich made its way, unbidden, right before me. And there it sat as I spoke. And then I saw the giver out of the corner of my eye, waving and hoping that I saw what he had given to me. He was a man who will never get things really “right” but who does what is of deepest “right.”
And the teetering man, the man in the blue helmet, who needs to take life a very careful step at a time lest he fall. All around him were those who would pick him up and help him get to where he needs to go. But it is best that he tries each step alone, for now. Yet he is never really alone. He is watched, loved, and will be helped to his feet when the time calls for it. As a gathering of believers, no matter where our place on the religious map, we fall. Being human is to risk each step, each teeter and shake that goes with it, trusting in the move forward, and being lifted up when we go down.
“Gonna, gonna, gonna be a priest.” I wanted to photograph him, to remember him. The light in the room was not bright enough, the light above. Yet how a different kind of light shown from below, through everyone in that room, people looking for God yet bearing him with such beauty. A priesthood we all are and share, as real as the priesthood that young man wants and is already. A priesthood of smiles from wounded bodies, a priesthood of a tuna fish sandwich and a reminder from afar that it is there in front of you and, of course, that there is more to come if you need it.
God may seem far, but he is near, kind of across the room, where he needs to be, yet giving us what we need and ready to come again and give more. He is waving.
All of life, all its beauty, sadness, teetering joy and stammering – God comes slowly, through it all. “It’s for you,” I was told. Words that say it all.
We are of God to each other. And what is revealed through human weakness is the most powerful of God’s many manifestations. It was just that way in the dimly lit room, where the light was brightest from below.
I have heard that roughly seventy-thousand people pass through our monastery every year. We are on the tourist maps and in religious sights-to-see brochures. I am the Guest Master of the retreat house, so I have an opportunity to meet many of those who grace our lives with their presence. I give orientations several times a week and am often called upon to give talks to groups who visit us. I enjoy my “job.” I am always meeting new people, people from all walks of life and from many varied places on the religious “map.” People, of course, are the living embodiment of the church. There are people who are liberal in their thinking and there are those who feel more comfortable in the conservative realm of devotion.
Last Saturday I was asked to give a brief talk to a group of visitors. It was a group of mentally and physically challenged adults. They were accompanied by their parents and chaperones. I met them in a large room beneath our church. Chairs were arranged in a large circle and when I walked into the room, I saw a chair which was reserved for me. Well, not everyone was able to use a chair. Several of the people were wheeled into place on their small motorized vehicles. And there was a man who wore a blue helmet and who leaned against a pillar. I noticed later that when he walked, he did so in fits and starts, shaking a lot before he was able to steady himself, and then took one small step at a time, and then began to shake again until he steadied himself and the shaking stopped. Then he would move forward again.
I sat down and began to speak, telling them about the life here, about what we are about. I shared with them a few things about myself – where I grew up, how it was that I came here, and then invited the group to ask questions. To my right there sat a young man who was wearing a baseball cap. He tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to him and he smiled and said “I want to live here. Wanna be a monk, maybe a priest. Gonna do it. Gonna, gonna do it do it do it” He stuttered, trying to get the words out. He smiled. I told him it just might work, that it would take some time. “Time, time, time,” he said, seeming to like the cadence or the sound of the words. Or maybe it was a way that he let things sink in, by a need to repeat important words over and over. He had a wonderful smile – I could feel him listening to me, taking in every word.
I had brought my camera and wanted to take some pictures, but the light in the room was poor. I thought to myself that I would meet the group later, when they went outside for lunch.
Later, I came back and it was raining, so the group was in the same room, having their lunch. The tables were rearranged so as to easily accommodate the movement and placement of those who had the wheelchairs and motorized vehicles. I let go of the idea about taking photographs. I sat near a couple and later found out that they were the parents of one of the older men. We chatted a bit – they were interesting, easy to chat with. We spoke about the church with its present challenges, opportunities and problems. They were well informed and extremely articulate in terms of church related – human related – issues. I was listening intently to what they were telling me about their journey re church and their son when suddenly I noticed movement before me, on the table. I looked down and a sandwich wrapped in cellophane paper glided across the table and stopped in front of me, guided by a hand. I looked up and their son beamed at me. He did not say anything, and nodded. “It’s for you,” his mom said.
The son moved off, back to his table. I let the sandwich be for the time being. Several minutes later, I spotted him across the hall, standing at his place, looking at me and smiling, his arm raised high and his hand making a pointing motion down. He wanted to make sure I had noticed the sandwich. I lifted it off the table, showed it to him, and he beamed and sat back down.
I went back later in the afternoon, hoping to see them again, but they had left earlier than had been originally planned. I suspect that the stormy weather had something to do with it. I hope that they come back again someday.
The monastery attracts as many questions as there are the people who ask them. Many of the questions hover around the presence of God – how to find him, how best to order one’s life so as to allow a space for God to make an appearance. I suppose it is assumed by many that we monks have some sort of a knowing edge when it comes to divine matters, to the revelation of the holy in this life. And so it is that for most of us, language strains to situate in a fairly convincing way the parameters of God in this life. We have monks here who speak about such things very well. And we have a lot of books, CDs and videos, audio tapes and the like which offer a huge array of God related topics.
Yet how well aware I am at this writing that there are other conversations, other ways of being in this world that are no less striking in their offerings of what God and salvation are all about. I sat with that group on Saturday, crafting as best I could some words about the holy and this life, well aware that I was speaking to many levels of comprehension and experience. And in the midst of some high flying words about whatever – grace or peace or the psalms, a tuna fish sandwich made its way, unbidden, right before me. And there it sat as I spoke. And then I saw the giver out of the corner of my eye, waving and hoping that I saw what he had given to me. He was a man who will never get things really “right” but who does what is of deepest “right.”
And the teetering man, the man in the blue helmet, who needs to take life a very careful step at a time lest he fall. All around him were those who would pick him up and help him get to where he needs to go. But it is best that he tries each step alone, for now. Yet he is never really alone. He is watched, loved, and will be helped to his feet when the time calls for it. As a gathering of believers, no matter where our place on the religious map, we fall. Being human is to risk each step, each teeter and shake that goes with it, trusting in the move forward, and being lifted up when we go down.
“Gonna, gonna, gonna be a priest.” I wanted to photograph him, to remember him. The light in the room was not bright enough, the light above. Yet how a different kind of light shown from below, through everyone in that room, people looking for God yet bearing him with such beauty. A priesthood we all are and share, as real as the priesthood that young man wants and is already. A priesthood of smiles from wounded bodies, a priesthood of a tuna fish sandwich and a reminder from afar that it is there in front of you and, of course, that there is more to come if you need it.
God may seem far, but he is near, kind of across the room, where he needs to be, yet giving us what we need and ready to come again and give more. He is waving.
All of life, all its beauty, sadness, teetering joy and stammering – God comes slowly, through it all. “It’s for you,” I was told. Words that say it all.
We are of God to each other. And what is revealed through human weakness is the most powerful of God’s many manifestations. It was just that way in the dimly lit room, where the light was brightest from below.
Faith and Writing
Faith and Writing
We recently hosted a retreat here on faith and writing. There were about thirty people who registered for the retreat. Carl McColman, who manages our Abbey Store and who has written several books, carried the weekend with gusto. On Saturday morning, I asked several of the monks and Linda Mitchell to serve on a panel discussion on their love for writing and spirituality. Linda serves with us as a spiritual director. Father Anthony, Brothers Elias and Mark, me and Carl rounded out the panel. It would turn out to be the part of the weekend most liked by the retreatants. Many of them spoke of how much they enjoyed hearing about how and why we write. As the panelists each took turns talking about their writing journeys, I watched the expressions on the faces of the retreatants. I was delighted to see smiles of interest, delight, curiosity. I am very happy with the way the weekend “worked.” In addition to the retreat, many other events were taking place in the retreat house, especially on Sunday. Our Lay Cistercians were here as well as a group from a parish being given a tour of the monastery. And, to cap it all off, a friend of mine came and gave a concert in our Crypt Chapel. His name is Chuck Henderson and he is a folk singer and a recording artist. He came down from South Carolina with his guitar and harmonica and played and sang for an hour. He is good. Like, really good. He has composed songs about such beautiful experiences in his life, people and events that have come his way and which he put to words and music – a wondrously rich transformation. I did regret that there were not more people at the concert – but Chuck had called earlier in the week and I spread the word as best I could but it turned out fine. He seemed genuinely pleased to sing and play and it was easy to tell that those there realized that they were listening to a gifted musician as well as a sensitively attuned heart to the ways of God in this life. He sang of his grandma and his love for her. He shared a beautiful song about two homeless and wandering people, and a song about salvation and a stone. He finds his inspiration in what touches his heart and the melodies and lyrics pour out from that place.
All this took place last weekend. And, this weekend, we celebrated the Body and Blood of the Lord. There will be a Serenity retreat, which will as well be a full house, but there will be no troubadour and no panel discussions. But it will “work” just as well.
The sound of Chuck’s voice is still fresh in my mind, as are his words, and what he has seen in life and put to music. And I can still see the faces of those on the writing retreat – some letters have already come in from those who were here, letters that brim with words of gratitude and avowals to put pens to paper and fingers to keyboards. And, there may be a person or two who may have been inspired to sing and play guitar. I watched Anne Sullivan, who works in our retreat house and who sat in front of me as Chuck played. She has told me much about her life, and it has been a good, loving life, and I think if Chuck got to know her, he would raise her life even more to a melody, taking the rich places of her life and crafting some lovely notes and words.
During the retreat, on Saturday afternoon, we showed a DVD of the writer Anne Lamott. I had never seen it before, though I have corresponded with Anne over the years. She is a wonderful writer and a delightful person. But that is another story, too good, perhaps, to relegate to a few sentences here. Anyway, to my dismay, the DVD projector was not working properly. There was a “lag” as the picture played on the screen – it was like looking at a rapid slide show instead of a smoothly moving film. The audio worked fine, as did the movie as it played on the small computer screen. But something was lost in the transmission from the computer to the big screen. The retreatants did not seem to mind. They were able to fill in the gaps, listen to the DVD and watch the staccato-like images on the screen. It “worked” even though it sort of limped along in fits and starts. But the audio was as smooth as can be.
Like any weekend, or any day in life, that particular weekend was an interplay of highs and lows, misfires, adaptations, wondrous revelations spoken, sung, written, harmonized, strummed, jotted down. And I suppose that there was experienced some level of anxiety as some the retreatrants wrestled with how to better express their rich interior landscapes through words. And I found myself wishing that more folks had come to the banquet of the music of Chuck Henderson. And I wish the DVD player had perfect synchronization between the voice and the image.
The same might be said of this weekend, this feast of the Body and Blood of Our Lord. For it is a feast of this banquet of life, a setting aside of a day when we remember the gift of Jesus to his followers in the very offering of his body in the Eucharist.
Eucharist is best translated as “thanksgiving.” It seems strange. Like something is lost in the translation, Such a generous, all encompassing word settles on the familiar substance of bread and wine. (Another theme, incidentally, that Chuck put to music and rhyme). But it settles and then moves, expands, finds its proper place in the farthest reaches of the universe and the deepest recesses in the human heart.
Anne was beautiful to watch as Chuck sang. I wondered if she was thinking with love about her grandmother, about growing up in Michigan, about the hard and good times in her life, and finding in her heart as she did so a gratitude. As if the staccato like memories of her life were given a graced cohesion and fluidity with the tender words and cadence of Chuck’s voice and guitar. I like to think so.
Life is a daily banquet and everyone is always invited. It seems that few take the interest to ponder where all this came from, and how rich and vast it is. But that is okay. The world is a symphony of God’s love, and we had here a gathering who wanted to write, and listen, and who have now gone back to their lives – their work, their marriages, their loves with all that these offer in their joys and sorrows. A small panel shared how to find the gold in such things, and put it to paper. And then a man sang with all his heart, and even more was given us through the beauty of song, words written on the air and breathed into hearts, making the fits and starts of human life a lovely song.
As he left, Chuck gave me a hug and said he wanted to come again and sing. And that made me so happy. I will write to him in gratitude for what he gave, and for what he will give when he comes again. And at Eucharist later this morning, I will remember those who write and sing, raising something of this Body of the Lord to a visible and audible expression. Out of the fits and starts of this seemingly cranky machine of life, artists go for the gold in the seemingly misfiring engines of our lives, and make them purr and run and shine. It is always that way. But we need words and song to better see it, hear it, love it.
We recently hosted a retreat here on faith and writing. There were about thirty people who registered for the retreat. Carl McColman, who manages our Abbey Store and who has written several books, carried the weekend with gusto. On Saturday morning, I asked several of the monks and Linda Mitchell to serve on a panel discussion on their love for writing and spirituality. Linda serves with us as a spiritual director. Father Anthony, Brothers Elias and Mark, me and Carl rounded out the panel. It would turn out to be the part of the weekend most liked by the retreatants. Many of them spoke of how much they enjoyed hearing about how and why we write. As the panelists each took turns talking about their writing journeys, I watched the expressions on the faces of the retreatants. I was delighted to see smiles of interest, delight, curiosity. I am very happy with the way the weekend “worked.” In addition to the retreat, many other events were taking place in the retreat house, especially on Sunday. Our Lay Cistercians were here as well as a group from a parish being given a tour of the monastery. And, to cap it all off, a friend of mine came and gave a concert in our Crypt Chapel. His name is Chuck Henderson and he is a folk singer and a recording artist. He came down from South Carolina with his guitar and harmonica and played and sang for an hour. He is good. Like, really good. He has composed songs about such beautiful experiences in his life, people and events that have come his way and which he put to words and music – a wondrously rich transformation. I did regret that there were not more people at the concert – but Chuck had called earlier in the week and I spread the word as best I could but it turned out fine. He seemed genuinely pleased to sing and play and it was easy to tell that those there realized that they were listening to a gifted musician as well as a sensitively attuned heart to the ways of God in this life. He sang of his grandma and his love for her. He shared a beautiful song about two homeless and wandering people, and a song about salvation and a stone. He finds his inspiration in what touches his heart and the melodies and lyrics pour out from that place.
All this took place last weekend. And, this weekend, we celebrated the Body and Blood of the Lord. There will be a Serenity retreat, which will as well be a full house, but there will be no troubadour and no panel discussions. But it will “work” just as well.
The sound of Chuck’s voice is still fresh in my mind, as are his words, and what he has seen in life and put to music. And I can still see the faces of those on the writing retreat – some letters have already come in from those who were here, letters that brim with words of gratitude and avowals to put pens to paper and fingers to keyboards. And, there may be a person or two who may have been inspired to sing and play guitar. I watched Anne Sullivan, who works in our retreat house and who sat in front of me as Chuck played. She has told me much about her life, and it has been a good, loving life, and I think if Chuck got to know her, he would raise her life even more to a melody, taking the rich places of her life and crafting some lovely notes and words.
During the retreat, on Saturday afternoon, we showed a DVD of the writer Anne Lamott. I had never seen it before, though I have corresponded with Anne over the years. She is a wonderful writer and a delightful person. But that is another story, too good, perhaps, to relegate to a few sentences here. Anyway, to my dismay, the DVD projector was not working properly. There was a “lag” as the picture played on the screen – it was like looking at a rapid slide show instead of a smoothly moving film. The audio worked fine, as did the movie as it played on the small computer screen. But something was lost in the transmission from the computer to the big screen. The retreatants did not seem to mind. They were able to fill in the gaps, listen to the DVD and watch the staccato-like images on the screen. It “worked” even though it sort of limped along in fits and starts. But the audio was as smooth as can be.
Like any weekend, or any day in life, that particular weekend was an interplay of highs and lows, misfires, adaptations, wondrous revelations spoken, sung, written, harmonized, strummed, jotted down. And I suppose that there was experienced some level of anxiety as some the retreatrants wrestled with how to better express their rich interior landscapes through words. And I found myself wishing that more folks had come to the banquet of the music of Chuck Henderson. And I wish the DVD player had perfect synchronization between the voice and the image.
The same might be said of this weekend, this feast of the Body and Blood of Our Lord. For it is a feast of this banquet of life, a setting aside of a day when we remember the gift of Jesus to his followers in the very offering of his body in the Eucharist.
Eucharist is best translated as “thanksgiving.” It seems strange. Like something is lost in the translation, Such a generous, all encompassing word settles on the familiar substance of bread and wine. (Another theme, incidentally, that Chuck put to music and rhyme). But it settles and then moves, expands, finds its proper place in the farthest reaches of the universe and the deepest recesses in the human heart.
Anne was beautiful to watch as Chuck sang. I wondered if she was thinking with love about her grandmother, about growing up in Michigan, about the hard and good times in her life, and finding in her heart as she did so a gratitude. As if the staccato like memories of her life were given a graced cohesion and fluidity with the tender words and cadence of Chuck’s voice and guitar. I like to think so.
Life is a daily banquet and everyone is always invited. It seems that few take the interest to ponder where all this came from, and how rich and vast it is. But that is okay. The world is a symphony of God’s love, and we had here a gathering who wanted to write, and listen, and who have now gone back to their lives – their work, their marriages, their loves with all that these offer in their joys and sorrows. A small panel shared how to find the gold in such things, and put it to paper. And then a man sang with all his heart, and even more was given us through the beauty of song, words written on the air and breathed into hearts, making the fits and starts of human life a lovely song.
As he left, Chuck gave me a hug and said he wanted to come again and sing. And that made me so happy. I will write to him in gratitude for what he gave, and for what he will give when he comes again. And at Eucharist later this morning, I will remember those who write and sing, raising something of this Body of the Lord to a visible and audible expression. Out of the fits and starts of this seemingly cranky machine of life, artists go for the gold in the seemingly misfiring engines of our lives, and make them purr and run and shine. It is always that way. But we need words and song to better see it, hear it, love it.
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