God is Love

     A friend said to me recently, "I don't think of God as a person. God is Love!" 

    Well, OK, yes. God is not "a person," as if God were just one among many. As if God were a discrete individual, distinguishable from all the other "persons" in the world. As if God had a beginning and an end, boundaries, limits. Yes, we believe that God took on the human condition in the life and death of one particular person, Jesus of Nazareth; but in God's divinity, God is infinite and eternal, the ground of all being. So no, not "a person."

    And yes, "God is Love," as John says in the prologue to his gospel. But what is "love," if it is not personal? What does "love" mean, without a subject and an object? Surely it's not just a warm and fuzzy feeling or a free-floating, undirected passionate desire? What is "love" in the abstract? 

    No, to say that God is Love must mean that God loves; and love must have an object. That God is love means that God must love, that love is inherent to God, intrinsic to God, and therefore unconditional. God always loves. God loves us -- our Creator loves his creatures. 

Celebrating the Eucharist

     Today is Corpus Christi, the solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ, the feast of the sacrament of the Eucharist. What do these words mean? At their Greek roots, "Eucharist" means "thanksgiving," and "sacrament" means "mystery." Let us give thanks for the Eucharist, without reducing the Mystery to the small things that our reason can encompass. 

    I start by saying: right religion is a relationship between a person and God, and between a people and God, between creatures and their Creator. It is not an institution. It's not a book, or a story, or traditions. It's not ritual. It's not a system of rules to live by. It's not a building, or a tabernacle built into the wall. Without the Love of God, that's just a club, not a church. Then again, without those things, there's just vague "spirituality," which is certainly better than toxic religion, of which there is plenty in the world. But right religion does include all those human things, but as structure and practices to support us humans in the loving relationship, as forms of communication between God and each human being, and between God and the human community.

    So what does the Eucharist mean to me? It's all about LOVE. Everything, with God, is all about Love. The Eucharist is God's free gift of Himself to us, in love. He is incarnate anew every day, not in human flesh this time, but as food and drink for our own human flesh. He comes to become one with us, to commingle His self with our selves, in the sacrament. 

Obedience: from Paul to Benedict

     This Sunday, we are treated to one of the most reviled readings from all of Holy Scripture, Ephesians 5:21-32. This is St. Paul's statement that "the husband is the head of the wife just as Christ is the head of the church", and so, "just as the church is subject to Christ, so also wives ought to be, in everything, to their husbands."

    Pretty ugly, isn't it?!  Hard for a 21st-century self-respecting woman to listen to without turning around and walking right back out of the church. Hard not to just write Christianity off as a relic, as representing all the shackles women have fought so hard to throw off in the last century or so. It is a bald statement of a paradigm under which countless women have suffered, and of which we are still not entirely free.

Peace and Passion

     One of the monks here has mentioned a couple of times in homilies that some others are not comfortable with desire being an aspect of the love of God. For me, longing for God is an essential foundation for my religious life. And here is my answer (copied from my private journal, June, 2017). 

    Note: In the last year, I did go through that "dark night" I was fearing back then. It lasted six months, and was the first time since my conversion 38 years ago that I have been unable to sense God's loving presence in any way. I am grateful that I did not falter in my fidelity to Him, and now that it is past, I find Him even more intimately close, as if knit into the fabric of my self. Thanks be to God!

🔥❤🔥❤🔥❤🔥❤🔥❤🔥

Lord of the Storm, God of the maelstrom

    I'm inspired by the storm motif in yesterday's Mass readings to tell you about another mystical experience I had back in 2016. I had only recently acquiesced and committed to my eremitic vocation, and it would still be almost 3 years before I was able to leave work and take my first vows as a hermit. This was the honeymoon of my love affair with God. I was head over heels in love, and it seemed as if my Lover was, too, and every sunset and wildflower and singing bird was like a gift from my Beloved to me. Anyway, Love has always been my experience of God, from the first (38 years ago), when He responded to my cry for help from the depths of trauma and depression. He revealed Himself to me then, and ever since, as Love.

    The "fear" of God has always seemed totally wrong to me, incompatible with the God of my understanding. Not any more! I mean, yes, Love, so much love! But also, now I understand the fear of God, too. Not a fear of judgment, but a fear of annihilation, of Ego-loss. Fear of surrendering to the overwhelming power of God, Who is so entirely beyond my ken, let alone my control. I confronted this right in the middle of that sweet honeymoon, when I had a sort of Transfiguration experience, and saw a glimpse of the cataclysmic power of the Lord of all creation. 

    It was a Sunday morning, October 9, 2016. In my journal, I described it like this:

Easter Theophany part 3 of 3: Grace

    I decided to add a third article on another aspect of my Easter "theophany" (see parts one and two ). Thanks to those who wrote to me about the first two posts! I really appreciate your comments.

    Again, to set the scene: at Easter Sunday Mass, the church was full of God, appearing as a visible and palpable difference in the quality of light. Within this luminous Presence appeared small, dark and hard objects, scattered among the congregation; I understood them as points of resistance to God among the people (wounds, strong temptations, fear or anger, unresolved guilt, etc.). In the last article I wrote about what this implied about the relationship between God and evil, and my belief that nothing exists outside of God.

✳✳✳✳✳

    The last detail I want to write about is how few of those dark and hard objects appeared. In a crowded church of about 250 people, there were maybe 15 or 20 of them. Granted that the subgroup of people who decided to go to church on Easter Sunday is already self-selected for a certain degree of openness to God, I still found this striking. Even among those of us who have consecrated our lives to God, we are used to thinking that we're all sinners. Aren’t there “points of resistance” in each of us? We all have flaws, weaknesses, we all fail and sometimes need forgiveness. 

Easter Theophany, Part 2 of 3: Theodicy

    In my last post, I described part of a mystical experience that I had at Mass on Easter Sunday, exploring some questions of sacramental theology that it brought up. Today I am writing about what I saw earlier during the same Mass, and its underlying meaning for "theodicy"; that is, the problem of the existence of evil in a world created and governed by a God who is both all-good and all-powerful. 

Easter Theophany, Part 1 of 3: Eucharist

     I have always resisted studying theology. I've always had a very strong and direct experience of the presence and love of God, and it has seemed kind of offensive to the nature of the relationship to treat God as an academic subject. As if we could "know" our Creator intellectually. As if we could definitively "know" anything about the Beloved, or one another, or even ourselves. So I haven't studied theology in any systematic way, and I'm not going back to read the relevant parts of the catechism before posting this, either. 

    That said, I'm going to invite readers to share their theological reflections on this blog post and the next two, about different aspects of a beautiful mystical experience I had in church on Easter Sunday morning. I want to explore more deeply some of the theological implications of the Easter Sunday "theophany," as well as themes that run through my whole life with God. I would love to hear your thoughts, either in the comments or using the contact form.

    Note: although I talk about "visions" for want of a better word (feel free to suggest one!), they're never really visual, or they are barely so. At most, I might see a difference in the quality of the light, or a movement of light. I'm not seeing Christ seated on his throne with little baby cherubs flying around! That's not how my brain works, I have very little visual imagination even in ordinary life. In a mystical "vision" I often feel touch or movement, but I'm not seeing pictures, at least not with my bodily sight. Emotion yes, definitely: bliss, love, awe, gratitude. And often, words, or a definite concept, some insight, with a phrase that encapsulates it for me, with which I can bring it back to my memory with all the sensory and emotional qualities of it. Such as, this past Easter Sunday, "the church is full of God." The main thing is the absolute conviction these "visions" bring. It's like the conviction you feel during a dream, about the craziest things, except that in mystical vision the conviction stays just as strong after the experience is over. My first "parting-of-the-veil" happened when I was 18 years old, and my conviction about it has never diminished.

❇⚜❇⚜❇⚜❇⚜❇⚜❇

    So. On Easter Sunday, the monastery church was full of God.

Veneration of the Cross?

    Yesterday was Good Friday, when we again heard the recitation of the story of the Passion of Christ. That same service also includes the Veneration of the Cross, in which the whole congregation advances one by one to kiss or otherwise reverence a large wooden cross, representing the one on which Jesus was crucified. 

    This is one of those Catholic customs with which I have not yet become reconciled. It seems grotesque to me, all wrong. Jesus said about Judas in last Sunday's gospel (Mark 14:21), "the Son of Man is going to his fate, as the scriptures say he will, but alas for that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed! Better for that man if he had never been born!" So, why is the weapon that killed Jesus not also cursed? How can we talk about the "glorious Cross," as if it were this grim instrument of torture, rather than God's overflowing love for us, that defined the act of our salvation? 

In the midst of death, we are in life

    There is a Gregorian chant for the Office of the Dead that starts out "media vita, in morte sumus" (or, "in the midst of life, we are in death"). Very often, walking in the woods in Winter, the opposite line pops into my head. In the midst of death, we are in life. 

    The other day I was walking along, in a bit of a pissy mood, when I was struck by the sight of a dead tree trunk covered with multi-colored lichens, mushrooms, mosses, and no doubt hosting legions of bugs and microbes, and I thought, "there is so much life in decay!" 

    And at that, trees are very hard to kill! If you love the woods like I do, you will often have seen a tree broken in half, struck by lightning, or even cut down with a chainsaw -- and fiercely sprouting new branches, covered with fresh leaves, full of unquenchable life. And the healthy trees, the ones that appear at a glance to be dead in Winter when their leaves are gone, have twigs full of swelling buds, while out of sight their roots take advantage of the slow season to spread and deepen.

Beech stump, fully alive

Existential Solitude

     The vows I took as a hermit are Solitude, Silence, and Simplicity. They are traditional; I didn't come up with them myself. I knew that my understanding of them was patchy and uneven, and trusted that I would grow into them over time. And so it has been, a little here and a little there. I've only been a hermit for 4½ years, and I know I still have a long, long way to go before I ever really understand what I've gotten myself into. 

    This past week, I think I have gained a new and deeper insight into the power of Solitude. I wonder how much it is relatable to people who are not hermits, the rest of you out in the world? I'd guess there is value in it for many of you as well, in a world where we are told there is now an "epidemic of loneliness." I would be glad to hear from any readers who want to share your perspective, either in a comment on this post or by using the contact form on the right sidebar.

Sacred Heart

     Today is the feast day of Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque, who had visions of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, symbol of the great love of God for humanity.

    And I just wanted to echo her message, and the message of Dame Julian (in this blog header) and of so many other mystics, and of St. John the Evangelist: GOD IS LOVE. 

    That's all. God is Love, infinite, unbounded, deep, penetrating, indescribable, inalienable, unconditional Love. God IS Love. God could not stop loving you, or me or any of [His] creatures, even if [He] wanted to, because God IS Love, Love is God's nature. There is nothing that can separate us from God's love. 

Queer Theology

    I've just finished reading Queer Theology: Beyond Apologetics, by Linn Marie Tonstad. It's very highly rated, with lots of rave reviews, so you may take my opinion with a grain of salt against the rest. But I found it very unsatisfying! It is a dense, academic book with depth and breadth on queer theory, defining "queer" very broadly (beyond personal sexual and gender diversity). It has some interesting things to say from philosophical, anthropological, sociological, political-economic, human perspectives. Where I find it wanting is in the theo part of theology. Where is God in all this, for her? The whole text, to me, is passionately and complexly theoretical, with only few and vague glances to the theological. It's all very intellectual, with passion around "queering" (challenging heteronormativity) but no evident passion around God.

The Turning Stone

     My new local monastery is called the Abbaye Sainte-Marie de la Pierre qui Vire. The "Pierre" in the name has nothing to do with St. Peter, it's a literal stone at the site of the monastery. It's a boulder balanced on top of another boulder in such a way that it can be turned around by hand ("pierre qui vire" means "turning stone"). That's the old story, anyway. Such instability made the first monks there so uncomfortable that the turning stone was cemented to the boulder beneath, and a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary fixed firmly on top. They kept the name, though, even when the stone no longer turned. 

    There is something in common with St. Peter after all. Jesus gave him the name, which means "rock," as related in Matthew's gospel: 

Wildsister

     Now that I am living in this new place, in relationship with this new monastery, I am beginning to see myself and my own solitary monastic vocation in a new light. I am in a country that values hermits. It is a striking change from my native U.S., where "loners" are generally viewed with suspicion, as sick, maladjusted, and probably dangerous misfits. Here, I am welcomed, appreciated. My imposter syndrome is fading away. The old ladies in the village are pleased to have me here. And the monks, whose community life I admire so deeply, seem to feel the same about me and my solitary life. 

    I think I could not live in community as they do, as much as I admire the way they care for and support each other. I'm very tempted by the green, green grass on that side of the fence (or rather, the cloister wall)! But I am a wild-sister, I bloom in a hidden hollow, I think the careful tending in a garden would suffocate me. I need quiet, and lots of it. I need privacy, to live unmasked, free to talk to myself out loud, sing and dance if I feel like it, go braless, cuss out my computer. I think the constant presence of others sharing my home space would wear me out very quickly. 

On Solitude and Loneliness

Note: Since I'm living in France now, I've added a "translate" option for those who want to read the blog in French or any other language. This particular blog post, however, is going to be confusing in translation. English distinguishes between "solitude," as the outward condition of being physically alone, and "loneliness," which is the painful emotion of being isolated or disconnected from human companionship. French, Spanish, and probably lots of other languages use the same word for both. So if you find this post confusing in places, you might want to switch back and forth to the original English. If the word translated as "solitude" starts with an "L" in English, it is the painful emotion. If it starts with "S" or "A", it's the emotionally-neutral state of being alone.

+++++++++++++++++

    It's been almost 5 months now since I moved into my new village hermitage in Burgundy, France, near my new Benedictine monastery, the Abbey of La Pierre Qui Vire. I'm starting to settle in, and take stock of how different my eremitic life is shaping up to be here, as opposed to the way I lived back in Maryland. I'm beginning to make friends at the monastery, and the people in the village are friendly but reserved, the perfect balance for a new hermit in town.

    I'll tell you what, though: the first few months were tough. This is why it's been so long since I posted ... I've been struggling! I cried a lot. I'd never been so lonely in the first four years as a hermit! In all of last year, living in Spain, I never made any friends and I spent much more time alone, but I wasn't lonely like this. But I think it's like when you get absorbed in something and forget to eat, but you don't feel hungry until you smell dinner cooking, and all of a sudden you're ravenous. There were no monasteries near me in Spain, no obvious ready-made community that I wanted to connect with. The loneliness hit once I settled next to this monastery here in France, thinking "these are my people!", and then coming up against ... the cloister wall. I was just ravenous for connection, and could not find a way to connect. It was excruciating.

Stability

    It's been a while since I posted here, almost two months. I've moved into a new home, again. This time, I hope and expect to stay put for a good long while. "Stability" is one of the vows that Benedictine monastics take, and it's a quality I've sorely missed since I decided to move from the USA to Europe. Now I am again in a place where I hope to settle and re-focus on what is most important to me.

Stop Resisting Temptation

     How's Lent going for you? Did you give something up? (If you don't do Lent, think about your last New Year's resolutions, and if you don't do those, either, the last time you resolved to change a habit.) How hard is it? How challenging of a resolution did you choose? How are you doing at resisting temptation? 

Original Sin

     Today is the first Sunday of Lent. As is becoming my usual practice, attending Mass in a language that mostly goes over my head, I spent the homily in my own meditation on the Scripture readings. This time, just the first reading, which is Genesis 2:7-9; 3:1-7. The first sin, the sin of Adam and Eve in partaking of the only fruit that had been forbidden to them in the whole Garden of Eden: the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The sin is disobedience, or presumption, or trying to usurp God's place and be (as the serpent said) "like gods." 

    But why does God forbid them to eat of that fruit? I mean, leaving aside the question of why God would plant that tree there, right in the center of the garden, why wave temptation in their faces and then forbid them to touch it. Leaving that aside, why would God not want them to have the knowledge of good and evil? It seems so baffling, so counter-intuitive. Isn't that basic human formation, what parents try to teach their children and religious leaders their congregations? What is this allegory really all about?

The Hungry Month

     Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the season of Lent. What are you giving up for Lent? Maybe that's the wrong question. Why are you giving up anything for Lent? What's it all about? 

    This might be a somewhat unconventional answer, but it's the one that occurred to me this morning as I was, once again, zoning out on a homily delivered in a language I don't yet understand very well. What will happen when I get more fluent in French? Gee, I might have to deliberately take time to meditate on the Scriptures ... would that be a terrible thing? Probably not. Meanwhile.... 

    What I was thinking about was how back in the old days, before supermarkets, refrigeration, or pressure canning, there wasn't really very much choice about whether or not to fast toward the end of winter.