People have
the fundamental duty to orientate their entire being and life to God.
Thomas Merton
I cannot
recall the specific time that my new life and prayer took a turn from
discursive to contemplative.
By discursive
prayer, I mean prayer that uses the faculties of the mind and imagination in
the development of concepts and understanding of God. In contemplative prayer, these faculties are
by-passed, and one becomes immersed in God as mystery, God as love. It is experiential but not at the level of
the intellect or emotions. There is only
a sense of being in God’s presence.
It all seemed
to happen quite naturally. As a result
of Diaconate formation, prayer group, and service in the church, prayer became
a habit that I grew to love. Scripture,
church prayer and studies became a norm for me as a result of my diaconate
pursuits. Through all of this, I did not
cling to any particular way of prayer, and when the time came to change, it
seemed to flow more from what I was experiencing at the moment and not from any
conscious decision.
Nevertheless,
during times of scripture reflection, reading, or studies, I would often find
myself slipping into a silence where all I wanted to do was be still, let my
obsessive thoughts fade away, and strangely sit in the presence of
nothingness. I was quite happy to be
there for a time, soaking in the peaceful stillness as if some mysterious force
was present there changing me and shaping me into something of its own
design.
This was the
beginning of the time that I seemed to desire solitude, of not being
disturbed. Mary Anne would call these
times of mine “going into my cave”. And
often this time was followed by some form of consolation, of being united with
that nothingness. So rather than being a
planned activity as were so many other things in my life at that time, there
was a flow about this that made it feel quite natural and right. As I read and was influenced by the many
books of Thomas Merton, Basil Pennington, James Finley, William Shannon, I
began to better understand the call to monastic life, the call of a monk or a
hermit. And somewhere deep inside, I
secretly desired the simplicity that this lifestyle could bring. Not that I knew much about it except from
what I read. It just had an appeal at
that stage of my spiritual life, even though I knew that such a life would not
be possible for a married man with three young children. I would have to be content in being a deacon
with its somewhat active life of church ministry, liturgies, meetings,
planning, and all those other things that go with church. But balance among family, work and ministry
would always be an important consideration, and I was learning to feel the
effects of imbalance as I plunged at times into too many activities. These would be times of feeling overwhelmed,
out of control. And when these times
would arise, adjustments had to be made so that life would take on some
semblance of smoothness. Yet it was the
quiet times, times of solitude, times of just sitting in the presence of
nothingness that I would always return to during those times of imbalance. It often was enough to correct any of the
turbulence caused by the miscalculations of how much I could handle, and what
activities were appropriate for my personality.
During the
years of transition towards this prayer of quiet, it seemed that my life could
be broken down into two components. The
most frequent part had to do with carrying out of the normal day to day
activities with job, family, and church.
Those moments were filled with all of their ups and downs, successes and
failures, joys and sorrows. The less
frequent part were those moments when I would slip into a space that can only
be described as the total absence of all those things. It would be as if “self” no longer existed,
and nothing remained but a sense of oneness with God, which was not conceptual
but experiential. It was a nice place to
be, and at time of return when my outward life started to intrude, I ventured
back reluctantly.
In this quiet
place, I found a refuge from the indulgences of the body, the twists,
distortions and dominance of the thinking mind, and the roller coaster ride of
the emotions. I longed for the times
when I could make my escape into this place.
And when I wasn’t there, it seemed that I was fighting the endless
battle with desires, thoughts and emotions that would continue to toss me about
as on an ocean of turbulent waves. One
of the many journal entries that I made during this time of my life reflected
this battle.
March 30, 1996
“The forces of desolation worked against me
today, but I must fight them. Don’t ask
what God can do for me; ask what I can do for God. If I fall into the trap of thinking and
saying: what’s in this for me”, then I make company with strange
bedfellows. But if I think and say: what
of me can I give to God today, then I make a home with Jesus, and He becomes my
friend. If I draw closer to God, He will
draw closer to me. Trust Him in
desolation. He is near.”
April 1, 1996
“Jesus said: ‘In order to be my disciple, you
must take up your cross and follow me.’
When we look at Jesus’ life, it was one intimately linked with listening
in faith to God the Father, and responding in obedience and love. Never did we hear or do we even imagine that
Jesus said or thought; “what’s in this for me”.
His focus was always: ‘what can I
do to make you aware of my Father’s love for you, or what can I do to make you
aware of what the Father has in store for you’.
These are the things that governed His life and determined how He was
going to act. Why can’t I?
April 10, 1996
“Fill me in the sea of your love with
love. Free me, liberate me so that I may
fly to you, my heart’s desire. Help me
to know you, to be consumed by your fire.
Lower my anxieties, my self-concern so that I may recognize your
truth. I am a person of short life. Let my love for you, not be attached to
things that hold my spirit down. Help me
rid myself of my obsessions, and give all for all. Let me meet you and recognize you on the road
to Emmaus.”
My inward
stillness, which I began to seek daily, became a place of safety from an ocean
of turbulence. And often, I secretly
wished an escape from what constituted the majority of my life’s time in order
to be immersed in the quietness and serenity of nothingness, but as time went
on, I would discover that this was not meant to be.
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