Tag Archives: light

Faith is the little night light that burns in a sick room

A life in the Spirit, Spiritual direction, , , , ,

I spent part of last week studying the life of Abbe Huvelin (1838-1910). I was creating an entry for The Transhistorical Body where he will appear on July 10. Just like his life and teaching influenced many of his contemporaries, he is sticking with me.

I am especially taken with his persistent admonition to keep it small, focus on love, and listen for the presence of Christ instead of listening to the voice of fear in us or listening to the powerful voices from the world threatening suffering if we don’t conform. He held out his little light as a local priest instead competing for prestige among the high-flying Parisians giving birth to “modernity” during his lifetime.

God in the small things

I suppose it is strange source of meditation, but a text from one of my friends is stuck in my mind. So few things stick (like the plot of Disclosure Day), I take the things that do stick  seriously.  Maybe I should be telling you about some atrocity, or last Saturday’s protest – and there will be time to speak up, but I think you might be better served if I share the small blessing of our text exchange about peonies. She offered to populate my garden and I accepted her gift.

Let’s just pause for a second. Aren’t flowers great? If you don’t stop and appreciate flowers, what kind of person are you? And isn’t it great that I have this new friend who takes an interest in my new garden? I have flowers and I have this friend. Life is good.

I wrote to her: It is Rod. I did not get the peony. Tomorrow OK?

I knew it would be fine if I did not get the pot off the porch when I said I would. But I like the little niceties between friends, so I texted an extra mile. I know people who hate receiving texts and calls. But I am not among them. I like attention, and I like attending. It makes me happier and more one with God, who made us by intending us, and lives from an intention to love. Such attention to loved ones seems in short supply in the world; I am moved to contribute.

It only seems like the world is ungenerous

She answered: Not a limited offer!

Those four words are sticking with me. For one thing, I can see the look on her face — that wry, but warm smile. But even more, I know she wrote that exclamation with commitment! She could have said “No problem,” which implies dealing with people is usually a bother. Instead, the first thing she thought to say came right out of the eternity in which she lives. I don’t know her as well as I will, yet, but I already imagine I could call on her to do whatever I needed, and she would do it if she could. She is not a limited offeror.

She continued: Tomorrow is fine; we’ll be away, but the plants are out for you.
(They look dead, but aren’t)

I have no idea how to plant or grow peonies, yet, Maybe they will sprout in my place, maybe not. But I enjoy the little effort I am making to get them and plant them. And I like the idea of planting something to see if it will grow.

My friend has planted a little seed of generosity in me by putting them on her porch. I am trusted with her porch! Being generous heals the wounds of our fear-filled world.

A mystery-filled word, here and there

Abbe Huvelin was known for meeting someone and, in a very brief time, speaking or doing something that was exactly appropriate, though often unexpected. St. Charles Foucauld began his journey when, as a disillusioned young man, he went to the confessional at St. Augustin Church and Huvelin did not debate with him at all, discerning he would just get into a fruitless power struggle. He told him to kneel and confess and receive the Eucharist. That was the moment. The act of a loving, assertive person, who sees someone and calls out their best and truest self is like a miracle.

My friend was helping my discernment when she warned me about the spent peonies on her porch. Her word was: “They look dead, but aren’t.”

Each of us is surprisingly and prospectively alive and blooming, as well, don’t you think?

I got some encouragement and a a call from God, as you can see, from my friend’s text. She called me right out of the grave. I sometimes look and feel prematurely dead. But I am not. A friend, a plant, a word can push me in the right direction.

She concluded with: Happy fourth to you and Gwen.

I don’t think my new friend knows the extent of my political and theological views. At one point last week, my own wife said with a little exasperation, “You are a radical you know.” My friend might not know I am not going to have a traditional “happy fourth.” The happiest thing I did was find my way into the protest on Washington Square at 9am to Declare Independence from Billionaires! I feel alive when I’m doing that, even though sometimes the whole movement feels like it is on life support, and I feel the power the billionaires to blunt any opposition.

Regardless, I love the fact my friend took the time to type out good wishes to me. How cheerful! How ennobling! — I was worthy of a blessing! That little act was a pretty good protest in itself. It is the blessings that make the world — even if Peter Thiel thinks he makes it.

If you think this whole story is making a mountain out of a molehill, I say, “Absolutely.” Abbe Huvelin said:

Faith is the little night light that burns in a sick room; as long as it is there, the obscurity is not complete, we turn towards it and await the daylight.

When we turn toward that little light we can see in our darkness and respond to it, inwardly and out. That turning makes all the difference. We are never really short of opportunities to do that, are we? — surely not, as long as there are peonies! In the middle of my sick society I saw a little light in my friend and thank God it met the little light in me. Let it shine.

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Today is Jan Hus Day! Get in touch with your family-of-faith history at The Transhistorical Body. 

Light in my darkness: Common life, mystery and the moon

A life in the Spirit, , , , , , ,

I found out my old computer had a built-in microphone the other day. I told my wife of my discovery and she said, “Yes. They have microphones.” She was not as embarrassed about me as I was – or at least she did not say so. I supposed she thought I knew what I was doing when I set up my external mic all those times. My computer darkness is rather deep it would seem. But I got a little light.

In similar fashion, my supervisor criticized a technique I was using. I would not say we had a “spat” about it, but I sounded a bit testy when I mildly implied he did not know what he was talking about. Afterwards I regretted seeming even a little defensive. He was just doing his job, after all. Later on, I was reading an assigned text and realized the author used the same kind of technique I was using. That was kind of a twofer experience. I saw the darkness of my defensiveness and then received another kind of light when I was affirmed. Now I can use two techniques.

If I am on my game, I feel OK about wandering around in the dim light before dawn, luxuriating in the moonlight, assuming sunrise is likely.

moon in the darkness over Philadelphia

Darkness is the seedbed of light

What I am learning again is that my darkness is often the field where my light grows. The fertile darkness of Lent so many of us avoid is redolent with the spiritual humus where light grows.

I live in a high rise to the west of downtown, now. The moon rising over Philadelphia often wakes me up in the night. It teaches me. As you can see, last week the moon of God’s light and love rose in my darkness a couple of times and woke me up. Thank you Jesus for more salvation

Although we often sing of “the light of the world” we might want to give that image a little boost of terror. If we actually saw God revealed in full glory, the brightness might make us want to tear our eyes out. Remember, we can’t even look at the sun straight on without damaging our eyes — as Trump was surely told that time.

Light does not always feel like a blessing. My blindness regarding the operation of normal computers by normal people recently came to light. I felt ashamed. My supervisor shone some light and spotlighted how I was not going with the program. It showed how vulnerable I feel when I do not appear perfect. We often “seek the light” when we are in much more dangerous and destructive places. But we may not see it or not really want it.

We may be so blind or feel so threatened we embrace darkness as the true light. I can easily imagine me telling my wife, “Real computer users use external mics.”  Sometimes the more enveloped we are by darkness, the less likely we are to give up the belief we are in the light. Nothing prevented me from saying, “That supervisor and his cronies are damaging people with their one-sided teaching!”

The yearly pilgrimage through Lent leads us into our real darkness and ends with a promise of real life in the light. You will have to test that out, of course. My experience, and the Bible, tells me that the darkness I fear, which I would like to sleep through, is the place I find light.

Our deep darkness this Lent

This year the darkness in the U.S. could really help our Lent or just swallow us up. Vaccination and daylight savings time has certainly lightened my step. But the deep darkness afoot could lead to the deeper light of God. Two major events have occurred during this season which might be seedbeds for glory to grow in us.

Members of the Floyd family at memorial after settlement was announced.

The George Floyd murder trial is beginning. I will never forget the picture of that poor man being murdered on TV and the eruption of anguish and fury which followed.  I wonder if we Christians can follow Jesus through the Lent of this trial without being swallowed by the ideologies swirling around it.

The Nobel Prize committee called Doris Lessing, after awarding her the prize for literature in 2007, “that epicist of the female experience, who with scepticism, fire and visionary power has subjected a divided civilisation to scrutiny.” That she did. When she emigrated from Zimbabwe, she was not overly impressed by the shallow people in charge of the deep causes for which she worked.

When I came to England, I found the Left could be dull persons shouting at meetings boring me to death with their egos. With words. Verbiage the more outrageous the less it meant. They hated art. In time, I came to fear they hated people as well. Living lives of frenzied emotionality  based on the sufferings of other persons in countries about whom they seemed to care very little except to find them convenient for certain neurotic needs of their own. (Via Kate Millet in Flying)

When I see the Floyd family walking around the scene of George’s death, considering how to invest their $27 million monetized justice, I have to pray for Jesus to be their light and to save us all.

Another strange darkness during Lent is the big, bright Covid-19 relief bill which the Republicans all voted against. I think that party has tried to present themselves as heroes in a culture war against godless people who will force your child into a multi-gendered bathroom and such. But, in fact, in opposition to the moralists screaming on the street, they have embraced an anti-fundamentalist “openness” of their own, and invented a religion based on Donald Trump’s lies and the willingness of Q-Anon people and Senators to swallow illusions. The United States is pretty much the home of do-it-yourself religion by which people arrive at their individual beliefs. Trumpism may be the full flower of that dark path.

Robert Bellah is kind of old hat by now, but he nailed where the U.S. was headed. It got there under Trump.

There is a fear in our loose-bounded culture that strong belief in anything, particularly in the area of right and wrong, means one wishes to coerce others into sharing one’s views. (More in Uncivil Religion)

When I see the Senators devote themselves to division and infect us all with enmity, I have to pray for Jesus to be their light and to save us all.

Such a rich, deep darkness around us that so many see as light! Isn’t it the perfect atmosphere for Lent?

It takes a real Lent to cultivate light in the darkness

Will the pandemic end by July 4th and our normal illusions be restored? Will the economy rebound without an inflation crisis so we can return to its domination? We’ll see. But it would be a missed opportunity if we did not ask the questions in Christ. The darkness of this Lent coming to fruit in the trial of Derek Chauvin and the ongoing power frenzy in the government is a fertile field for light to grow. Most of the time we like staying dim. But we’ve been in the dark a long time. If you at least see the moon, I would meditate on the sun it reflects. There is light.

A few suggestions for how to get some rays:

1) Be an obedient moon, yourself. Know you reflect God’s light, in Jesus. Let that light sink in and follow it. Have a “single eye.” You are not God. Find yourself in relationship to the Creator.

2) Give up any individualist view of religion. The sun rises on everyone, not just people with whom you agree. And you don’t rise at all without Jesus. Keep questioning your private judgments. I recently found out old computers also had microphones. Who knows what else I have yet to learn?

3) Accept that your choices matter and be responsible for what you do. Be seen for who you are in Christ and be free from the shame that leaves you in the dark. If you are defensive, you are. If you are affirmed, accept it.

4) Build community. We are all reflections. The light comes to us all. We are all struggling. Love and reconciliation will always be what shining means. If you are at peace with those near to you, wonderful. It will be easy to find someone with whom you, or Jesus, are not.

Old people don’t sleep as much. When I was young, I slept with a bat under my bed to fend off intruders in the dark. Now I am up in the night relishing the moon. The purposeful darkness of Lent might generally scare you to death – just look at the four demanding admonitions above! It is for serious humans. While I think the times are scary, the moon keeps rising in the night in different quadrants of the sky and in different permutations, always waning and always growing. Though the night is very dark, light grows there if we welcome it and live in its glory.