Nature's Embrace

It’s an early spring morning and I kept feeling this urge to pray.  The more I attempted to ignore the tugging at my soul, the more pronounced the sensation became.  So, I did what most people tend to do: I ignored that little voice inside my head whispering those irritating notions.  That is not a fair veneration of prayer, but sometimes it’s simply inconvenient.

Ultimately, I yielded and gave myself over to the ever imposing influence of...ahem, God.  Fetching my rosary, I committed myself to pray outdoors.  Albeit overcast, the spring temperatures were inviting.  Locating a nice, out of the way area of lawn in close proximity to a Native American prayer circle, I removed my shoes and kneeled until I was perched upon my haunches.  Removing my rosary from a medicine bag (no, I am not an Indian; however, a Native American friend crafted the satchel because he was aware that I am uncomfortable wearing this prayer medium like jewelry; I have no pockets) I closed my eyes and settled into a meditative prayer.  I was not seeking or petitioning, but simply listening with a quiet mind.  What could I hear?  Could God speak to me?  Jesus?  Mary?  Perhaps a saint?  Maybe just the sound of earth herself?  Whatever I came away with would be fine.

At some point I heard a rustling on the bark of a nearby tree.  A critter, for sure.  Being the undisciplined person that I am when it comes to prayer and meditation, I cracked an eyelid open to peek at that ever so curious sound.  As was suspected, a gray squirrel was doing what squirrels do...making no sense.  I smiled - that kind of smile which is not merely a facial expression, but a smile which sent warm sensations throughout my body  and moved back into a mode of silent observance.  Occasionally, when attaining that ultimate level of still thought (some may say, ”absentmindedness”) a breeze would engulf me.  I am not sure if it was a divine act or coincidence, but such sure set the mood.

As often happens with me, I can seldom keep the gears of my thoughts disengaged for long.  A quiet mind can be most elusive, for me anyway.  That being conceded, I slowly opened my eyes to see nature’s theatre.  Whenever I do this there seems to be a sense of tranquility.  This day was no different.  The sun was poking through the cloud cover, the trees and small meadow took on a particularly beautiful haze, the horizon was muted, everything was serene.  For a moment, I wondered whether I had been transported to an alternate-dimension, then rationality took ho1d.

Hang on a moment, something is different.  Mind you, I am still kneeling with the rosary strung between my hands.  Approximately ten feet away was that voracious herbivore.  Okay, it could have been a different squirrel, they all look the same to me.  Some would argue with that assessment, but come on.  Fuzzy.  Little legs.  Cute ears, etcetera.  Anyway, the little bugger was doing something that caused me to chuckle aloud.  The sound spooked him, or her.

A little disappointed that my entertainment scurried away, I settled back into my prayer and remained open to commune with...we1l, I was still waiting for clarification!  Thoughts would tumble in, but I would push them out so I could remain present.  A moment of peace, then more random thoughts.  Buddhists refer to this as monkey mind.  Rightfully so, my mind is like a jungle gym for the eccentric.

As I was settling in, another wisp of air kissed my face.  This happened on several occasions throughout my supposed stillness, but my infantile predisposition would ruin the placid moment by questioning: "Is it God, or coincidence?” Every time!  Of course, with these desperate bouts of seeking a message from God, monkey mind would clutter everything up.  I wanted the breeze to whisper something, but I kept running it off.

In the midst of all of this, I was present enough to hear the grass rustle.  Opening my eyes, the squirrel was a mere foot or two away.  Neat, but a little disconcerting.  It took a couple steps closer, then a couple more.  It dawned on me, my rosary may have the appearance of food.  Not the crucifix, but the sting of beads.  See, my beads are made of wood and are the size of peanuts.  I could not fathom the idea of this little critter nibbling on the beads, so I cupped them completely between the palms of my hands.  Though I was slow with my movements, the rattling of the chain must have spooked the fuzzy rodent and it retreated to parts unknown.

Back into my groove, I was settling nicely into my meditation.  Of course, there were the sporadic interruptions of the mind, but I was otherwise making progress.  Well, until a loud screech startled me.  Within three to four feet off my left shoulder a sea gull had moseyed up and decided it was practical to make a racket, screeching for no apparent reason.  Off my other shoulder, within inches, my peripheral caught sight of the fluffy tail of the squirrel.  Then, another sea gull landed and commenced to join in the festivities of making noise.  Why can't they sing like a robin or make the croon of a swan?

In conclusion, I chose to wrap my arms around the clouds, that the wisps of wind really were the breath of God.  That the noisy, white birds represented the barrage of random thoughts which I could not keep at bay.  As for the squirrel?  I do not have a clue as to what its purpose was.  Perhaps to teach me how to be more in the moment?  See, what I did not disclose earlier was that when the little furry bugger initially caused me to laugh, he was emulating me.  It, too, was sitting on its haunches.  (I say "sitting" because I do not know if a squirrel can kneel.) And, here’s where things became quirky; the squirrel was holding an acorn in both paws.  Why is that weird?  Because such was not all that different from the way I was holding my rosary.

So, have I read too much into these encounters, my mind entertaining fantasy?  Or, were divine spirits at work?

May 2011    

Quirky

I used to think that I was the only one who had quirky thoughts.  Ha!  The more I emerge from my shell, the more evident it becomes that I am not alone.  To my relief, these thoughts are not, in and of themselves, unusual.  Then again....

When using the noun ”quirky,” I mean in the sense of objects or situations being something other than what they really are.  For instance, that cloud in the sky which has the shape of a horse, or, the bird over yonder which seems to be trying to communicate in a "we're all God’s creatures" kind of way (come on, haven't you ever noticed an animal looking at you and wonder what it is thinking).  Or, to stumble upon a book or song title which seems to correlate with a random thought pondered earlier, seemingly confirming this, that, or the other.  You get the gist.  If not, then I am soon to be off to the looney bin!

During Palm Sunday the priest, deacon, and deacon in training brought a cluster of palm leaves with them to commemorate Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey (Matthew 21:1-11 NAB).  The priest blessed the leaves and then distributed those tokens of remembrance amongst the assembly.  It was a nice gesture.  Tradition.

Later in the day I observed a thin strand of palm leaf in an otherwise empty wastebasket where the Eucharist (Mass) had been celebrated.  It was likely that such inadvertently fell to the floor during the morning Liturgy (Mass) and a passerby threw it away.  (The proper manner of disposal is unknown to me.) Through an innocent oversight, ignoring this remnant did not seem kosher.  After all, the strand of palm leaf was blessed.  Not to mention, it was the beginning of Holy Week.  Feeling that I could not simply abandon the fragment, I picked it out of the wastebasket, wound it around two fingers, and proceeded to braid it (what I consider a braid, that is).  Then, without much thought, I placed the wad in my shirt pocket, willing myself to not forget it.  Not forgetting would be a feat in itself!

The next morning I felt the remnant in my pocket and remembered to remove it.  But, what would I do with it?  I had no clue.  So, until I had a better inkling of what direction to take, I placed it atop my medicine bag.  Huh?  My medicine bag?  Perhaps I should take a moment and elaborate.  I keep my rosary in a medicine bag made for me by a Native American friend.  No, I am not Indian.  Anyway, when not in use, the bag is perched on top of my Bibles.  (Yes, I have more than one.)

Moving on....  Periodically, particularly when reading my Bible, I will look up for a pensive moment, or to rest my eyes, and the medicine bag will draw my attention.  By proxy, the palm leaf fragment, too.  Right from the outset, a quirky series of thoughts began developing.  Keep in mind, this is Holy week.  By sheer randomness, the manner in which the satchel is normally positioned, the top not cinched shut, but open, a glint of light can be observed reflecting from the rosary's crucifix resting deep within.

Now, bear with me as I attempt to develop this mental picture.   Visualize the Bibles as a representation of holy ground.  Have you done it, yet?  Come on, nobody is looking, go ahead.  Okay, during this next step I want you to regard the medicine bag as the tomb of Jesus.  Whoa, that is heavy, I know.  As for the weaved remnant of palm leaf?  It is perched atop the medicine bag like a badge of honor…a crown of thorns.  Take a moment to connect all the dots.  Shazzam, the Paschal Mystery!

Yes, I have an overactive imagination, but what a cool and constant reminder of what paths the mind can take.

May 2011 

Psalm 23

There always seem to be funny coincidences, providing we are alert and sufficiently observant to connect the dots.

For an upcoming Keryx (a four day Christian retreat), I was asked to read a lengthy scripture passage.  Cool, I like to read, and, if I do say so myself, I manage pretty smoothly at the podium.  Though, me being me, I have a few prerequisites when it comes to public speaking.  Such as?  I detest the practice of cold- readings.  You have undoubtedly been exposed to such: by the time the presentation is finished you have no idea of what was shared, the delivery being abbreviated and clunky.  Thus, to prevent any unforeseen bugaboos, it was necessary to know which Bible translations were available to competently prepare.

Argh, the translations which were at hand did not appeal to me.  Not unusual!  I am particular because certain translations read smoother and complement our cultural speech patterns better than others.  For instance, one of the Bibles was a King James, which I abhor.  In the realm of study such may be the accepted norm for the astute, but I know of nobody who actually speaks like that.  So, thoust protesteth!  The other Bible was a New International Version.  The NIV is close in comparison to my preferred authority, the New Living Translation, but not quite as genial.  To give some perspective, most newspapers in this country are written at a sixth grade level.  So is the NLT.  That's not to   say this is a dummied down version.  To the contrary, this Bible is on par with our linguistic norms.  (Yes, it is apparent that the Bibles referred to are Protestant and not Catholic.  Um, I utilize more than one translation.)

Anyway, I jumped up and down like a child in protest (not really) and was permitted to bring my Bible.  Whew, what a relief.   Truth be told, the NIV would have likely been acceptable, but such is not as smooth and slightly foreign to me.  Plus, it is paramount for me to read from my Bible.  Why?  Because such was a gift from my mother.  Also, my Bible is in giant print, making it incredibly easy to read while poised behind a podium.  The size of the text may come across as trivial, but have you ever been in the presence of a delivery where the reader keeps their face planted in the book?  Very impersonal.  Perhaps I am boasting, but with my Bible I can look up and make eye contact with the attendees with out losing my place!

When all was said and done, the reading was flawless and I had the sentimentality of having my mother's gift with me.  Silly, I know, but that is who I am...si11y.

Later in the day I was invited into a makeshift prayer chapel.  Not knowing what to expect, I stood at the threshold of the door and peeked around with apprehension before entering.  After talking for awhile, I expressed my past discomfort of being called upon to spontaneously ad-lib prayers in the midst of a group, regardless that we are all there for the same purpose.  Quite frankly, I find the process of impromptu prayer to be mechanical and without reverence, an exercise to grandstand, the petitioner seeing how many Lord Jesus, Holy Father, Almighty God, and Holy Spirits they can cram in.  So inorganic.

To my chagrin, the pastor and his assistants understood my plight and prepared to counsel me in an alternative form of acceptable public prayer etiquette.  Hallelujah!

Whoa, hang on a moment.  Evidently, we were going to pray Psalms.  I have heard of such overtures, but never understood.  Nevertheless, the pastor handed me a Bible already opened and asked me to read the Twenty-third Psalm.  Guess there was no time like the present.

Stop, stop, stop!  Put the brakes on.  The Twenty-Third is the only chapter from Psalms that I immediately recognize.  Coincidently, it is one of my mother's most revered passages.  Pausing for a moment, I asked if I could retrieve my Bible...it was just in the adjacent room.  The pastor did not seem to mind.  So, I zipped out, returned, and reverently read the Psalm.  To my surprise, as the words flowed from my lips I began to recognize that the passages very much resembled prayers.  Indeed, are prayers.

Cool!  I now possessed a tool, for lack of a better word, which could be used for the purpose of satisfying public prayer.  Similarly, private prayer, as well.  I was feeling elated.  On a side note, albeit a tad humorous, I noticed later on in my prayer counseling that the Bible they originally handed me was the same translation as mine.  Go figure!

                                                                 * * *

The next day I was approached to be a prayer partner for one of the main speakers.  A little unsettled by the gravity, I knew that I could not dodge the summons.

But, hang on.  This concept is not what you may initially perceive.  We did not sit in close proximity and pray together.  No.  This gentleman was going to be delivering a speech while I interceded on his behalf with prayer.  Petitions to keep him on track and paint.   This would go on for forty minutes.  I have never prayed for anyone, much less anything, for that long!  I cannot even stay focused for such a stretch.

I found a little corner in the upper reaches of the auditorium, an out of the way space.  As I made myself comfortable for the long haul, I realized that the featured speaker, the person to whom I was interceding, could not easily see me.  Mind you, it is not necessary for him to observe me.  However, it was of utmost importance to me that I be seen.  Do you understand what was going on?  Ultimately, I was looking for a reward in his recognizing my presence.  Yes, that ugly characteristic we know all too well...pride.  So, I moved to a better vantage point, more out in the open.  But, in doing so, I felt a little awkward, knowing full well I should be more humble.  Yeah, right!  Nonetheless, I settled into my new perch.  Looking back towards my previous corner, lamenting that I had committed some form of cosmic heresy, there was a previously unrecognized banner hanging immediately over the seat I just moments before vacated.  Can you guess what was on that banner?  Get this little piece of irony, it was the Twenty-third Psalm!  I was about floored.  Dutifully shamed, I returned back to my original spot, chuckling at the comedy of it all.

My prayers were scattered, but all went surprisingly well.  Talk about connecting the dots.

April 2011

Who Wrote the Bible

Ever since I was knee high to a grasshopper I maintained the impression that God wrote the Bible.  For whatever reason, I did not question such.  There did not seem to be a reason to inquire.  Did you?    It is quite plausible that my tiny lil' brain conjured up an image of God snapping his fingers (assuming he has fingers) and, ”poof,” the Bible came into existence.  Hard cover.  Paperback.  Leather...for those who wanted to show off (yes, I am guilty of this).  Gilt pages (perhaps ”guilt” would be more appropriate).  Tiny or large print.  There was something for everyone.  Why not!

Over the years I have become more aware of Scriptural criticisms.  Are they authentic?    How can you trust that such are true?    Did those events really happen?    Didn't man write the Bible, not God?     Don’t you believe the Bible is a conspiracy, written by man to control the simpleminded?    For the most part, I ignored these inquiries.  Quite frankly, I was content with holding onto what I had learned in Sunday school and curse anyone who tried to ruin that innocence!   Even when documentaries questioned anything   concerning spirituality I would avoid watching such.  Though, I must admit, I am not sure why I cared.  See, at the time I was non-practicing.  Heck, non-studying.  I held no solid beliefs, other than I perceived there was a presence bigger than me.  To challenge that may have caused me to abandon the mustard seed of faith that I did maintain...if such would even amount to a mustard seed.  So, I buried my head in the sand.

While attending a Catholic study group, the deacon brought with him a couple of video cassettes.  This was of no concern because we commonly viewed lectures, the history of the Catholic Church, or some other resource concerning itself with Catholicism.  From time to time, a spiritual based movie.  As it so happened, his selection for the evening was a documentary of who wrote the Bible.  This was Karma.

On many occasions I had thrown a hissy fit over the dryness of one particular set of theological lectures or another.  In turn, the deacon would try to choose something more suitable to our interests and capacity to absorb.  With this came who wrote the Bible.  Never in a million years would I have considered that.  But, my bed was made and now I had to lay in it!  (A dumb expression, but fitting.)

With great apprehension, I watched.

To my surprise, the dialogue was easy to understand (not too many technical or foreign terms).  The dramatic landscapes and architecture of Israel, Palestine, Jerusalem, and the other parts of the Holy Land were inspiring and thought provoking.  Don’t tell anybody, but I was becoming enthused with all the history and evidence being doled out.  I actually yearned for more…but, I will not admit that!

This is not to say there weren’t some troubling parts for me to contend with.  For instance, I finally had to admit that God did not cause the Bible to mysteriously appear by snapping his fingers.  (Okay, I had already come to the conclusion that the Scriptures are written by man, inspired by God).  What I was not prepared for was that, with the evidence available to us today, or at least that which we can interpret, little is known about who actually wrote the various books.  In particular, the documentary claimed that John did not write the Gospel of John.  That Matthew did not scribe the book bearing his name.  That some books of the Bible may have borrowed from other books in the Bible.  That there may be a fifth Gospel (generically referred to as “Q”) that was heavily relied upon by the other Gospels.  That, for whatever reason, Protestant Bibles have omitted some of the books, which Catholic Bibles maintain.  All of this I found puzzling, and, a bit troubling.

At the conclusion of the documentary I found myself smiling and filled with a certain quiet repose.  Not because I was still embracing my adolescent fantasies of where the Bible comes from, but that I didn’t care.  Yes, you read correctly.  I do not care who wrote the Bible.  Why?    Because regardless of where the inspiration came from (I do choose to believe through the inspiration of God) many of the lessons (some would argue all) apply just as firmly today as they did when written.  A road map to life, if you will.  Assuming you don’t try to sacrifice a fatted calf at the local fair or try to walk on water!

At the conclusion of who wrote the Bible, a Jewish theology professor was asked: “why do you believe the Bible applies today...all of the cultural examples are outdated?”  His response was simple and spot on: ”Human nature has not changed!”

I guess that my mustard seed did not disappear, but is instead maturing.

April 2011     

Retreat Reform

I have mentioned before that I am a member of an ecumenical Christian-based retreat called Keryx.  (See: SPIRITUAL RETREAT).   Beautiful facets of this spiritual outreach are the weekly group fellowship gatherings.  Essentially, such amount to a venue where questions can be explored, reassurance can be gleaned from people who have encountered similar struggles, and so forth.  Think of it as preventative maintenance.  Spiritual maintenance.  Similarly, there are monthly gatherings which are little more than a social assembly and sing-a-long.  A hootenanny, if you will.

All of these sound neat, and they are, but it is the retreat weekends scheduled twice a year that we all look forward to.  Not only do we share in the experience of new candidates encountering a unique spiritual presence, but also there is an opportunity to reacquaint ourselves with people from the "free” community.  For four days we feel like normal people, as opposed to outcasts.  When the weekend concludes we leave feeling spiritually charged.

As with all things in life, changes have made their way to our retreat.  Big changes.  So catastrophic are the changes that there are no particular aspects of the reform that have been accepted with enthusiasm.  Both the inside team (us) and volunteers from the community are, how shall I phrase this...frustrated.  However, I will extend brownie points to the Keryx board for meeting with us ahead of time to outline the changes and provide a forum to present questions and hear our grievances.  Though there seems to be a consensus that our complaints were not listened to...in one ear, out the other.  Begrudgingly, some of the answers to our queries were pat and unsatisfactory.  Even so, many of the disclosures appeared to carry a genuine ring of truth, which they should.  Nonetheless, several answers were viewed as suspect.

In the end, the bulk of the changes amounted to severely reducing the size of the inside team.  In other words, where thirty to forty inmates would volunteer with the retreat, we would now be restricted to ten!  Ouch.

It should be noted, or understood, that the retreat is intended to bring non-be1ievers or weak Christians deeper into the fold of the Christian flock.  But, what about those of us who are desperately thirsty for the recharging waters which possess the properties to rejuvenate our enthusiasm, which has been sapped by the perils of this environment?  What about those of us who want/need to reconnect with those individuals from the ”free” community who were so instrumental in showing us what brotherly love was?  Friendships were fostered.

Apparently, we have been cast aside!  No brotherly love.  No compassion.  From we can gather, all because of a couple of board members.  There is a certain underlying irony -- incarceration strips a person of hope, value, and worth.  Participating as part of the Keryx team eased some of that despair.  Note, past tense!  Once again, because of the decisions of the Keryx board, we feel disposable.  A means to an end.

At this juncture I must again reiterate, these retreats are for the candidates, not those of us who have already received the gift.  It’s easy to overlook this aspect in times of frustration.  But, still ....

Despite the changes, and overlooking my sophomoric grumblings, I believe so fully in this retreat that I continue to pledge my support, regardless of the new direction.  After all, we still have the weekly gatherings and once a month hootenannies!    Now, between you and me, the weekly and monthly get-togethers are most important to maintaining our spiritual strength.  Note, if you divulge that I said this, such comments will be emphatically denied!

Let’s continue on.

By sheer luck, others will say divine intervention, I was invited to volunteer at the upcoming weekend retreat during the spring (I was asked to give a speech outlining the struggles each candidate could anticipate).  This opportunity provided an optimal vantage point to evaluate old and new program approaches.  The question becomes, could I be impartial with my comparisons?  Admittedly, I liked the way we previously managed the retreat weekends.  However, if I am going to be honest, and it pains me to say this, the restructured weekend runs incredibly smooth with a smaller team.  The new approach, for lack of a better phrase, is more intimate and focused.  This is not to say that both ways have their place.  If  I were to pick one...I won’t.  After all, isn’t that is why there is a Keryx board?

Hang on a moment.  Yes, I am going to choose.  The old system is preferred because of the reasons already set forth.  Having that spiritual charge every six months can bolster a person's motivation.  That being said, there is another factor to consider, a huge factor.  Throughout the retreat weekend there are scheduled intermissions.  These breaks provide candidates an opportunity to stretch their legs, decompress, and digest what has been shared with them.  However, there is another aspect which may have been foolishly overlooked: these short recesses provide an opportunity for candidates to acquaint themselves with the thirty or forty members of the inside team.  A slow integration into the flock, so to speak.  Conversely, with the smaller team there were fewer opportunities to meet and welcome them, we were otherwise occupied.

At first glance this lack of interaction does not raise so much as an eyebrow.  But, and this is where matters become sticky, when candidates initially complete a weekend and begin attending the scheduled fellowship gatherings, they are unfamiliar with nearly everyone who is present and established.  To put it in perspective, how do you feel when walking into an organized group and are unfamiliar with most of the attendees?  Overwhelmed?  Filled with anxiety?  Out of place, like you don't fit in?  Unnoticed?

With the old system, friendships were fostered with the Keryx fellowship before the weekend ended.  With the new approach, the attrition rate for candidates has been significant.  The new members do not know the majority and end up falling away unnoticed.  I say "unnoticed” because the fellowship has no inkling of who they are, either.  Literally.  Just some strange face.  This is the result of the two sides never having met.  A paralyzing consequence of the new revisions!

If the program stays the same and does not revert back to its previous ways, the inside fellowship will need to take a more proactive role with the new candidates and help them feel welcome and comfortable.  They require confirmation that they are important.  Perhaps this is exactly the type of responsibility we need to grow as students of Christ.  As for losing the opportunity to be re-charged every six months during the retreats?  This is just me speaking here, but maybe we should consider changing our focus...the weekly fellowships are a place to maintain our forward progress; the monthly hootenannies in turn provide us a spiritual charge, assuming we are open to the process.

April 2011  

Shattered Eucharist

We all encounter those "aha" moments of enlightenment which cause us to slow down and reflect. That catalyst which awakens us, if you will. More often than not, it is something we have tAken for granted and not given much consideration. An unforeseen detail. Then, out of nowhere, "wham," we are confronted with a new appreciation.

What follows is a narrative of an unexpected occurance which I found paralyzing. In that singular moment, for a split second, I was right there, watching .... Frozen, I was unable to think of anything else. In some respects, I wanted to scream aloud, but such a response would be impractical since I was not actually there. Shutting my eyes would prove to be of little effect ... the events were replaying in my psyche. Similarly, sound could not be escaped as it continued to echo. I still hear it!

While at Mass recently, I was kneeling while the priest (celebrant) performed his ministerial privileges of consecrating the Host by invoking the power of the Holy Spirit (epiclesis) and narrating the words spoken by Jesus at the last Supper (anamnesis). As alluded to earlier, on this particular day something surreal transpired.

As the priest elevated the Host, I was keenly focused on the delicacy and reverence being employed -- this level of veneration always seems to stir my emotions. Then, when he carried out the physical

Breaking of the Bread, the crispness of the break was so sharp that it stole my breath. Whatever wondering thoughts I may have been unintentionally exploring were completely obliterated. Shattered as though such never existed. Instead, only one thought surfaced. A horrifying thought which left my mouth dry: the reverberating sound of the Host being snapped caused me to interpret, with the entirety of my senses, the spikes crushing the bones of Jesus as such were crudely hammered securely into the cross.

August 2011

Spiritual Retreat

Prologue: What follows is an account of a very special occasion in

my life. This experience was more than a component of my

spiritual journey; it was a time for healing, for breaking down

walls. ·

Having been incarcerated at such a young age, it was not only

necessary to learn how to cope with this environment, but also how

to rebuff the nasty thoughts of predatory men. Early on, I

reasoned that if I built a wall around myself people would not

notice me, they would leave me alone...for the most part. This

went on for eons. Now, having been in this archaic trench for most

of my life, I was becoming loathsome of seclusion. Although this

environment is riddled with nefarious people, as is to be

expected, there are also many good individuals. The conundrum?

Good or corrupt, very few could see me because of this wall.

Realizing this facet, I have been chipping away at my barrier over

the past several years. Enough of this blockade had been eroded

so people could occasionally peer in and, for the first time, I

could peek out. Despite this wearing away, the height of my wall

was still an obstacle. Friendships were tough. Although, such

friendships were noticeably becoming better and more wholesome.

Yet, progress was slow. Very slow. However, to my disbelief, I

encountered a group of people who effectively kicked a huge hole

in my wall. Not only can I walk out, but people can walk in.

That has been a tremendous blessing. For that alone, I am

indebted. As for the strength of my spiritual journey?  Priceless.

For many years I marched to my own drum. To a spiritual beat, that is. Not

really settling on any particular religious practice, but a conglomeration of

everything. A smidgen of Judaism. A fairly good wedge of Buddhism. And,

yes, the most significant piece of pie consisting of Christianity. Those

qualities which I understood and thought suited my opinions were embraced, and

what remained would be disposed of like a stinky sock. Because I failed to

fit into a particular box, I considered myself a spiritual mutt. (In many

respects, I still am.) However, this created a pitfall...a lack of foundation.

Because of my nearly hostile predisposition towards organized religion,

shunning anything resembling a group belief has not been difficult. To be

more blunt, I was rather proud of not being so simple-minded as to follow a

predetermined arrangement of doctrine like sheep chasing after a shepherd.

Savant that I perceived myself to be (not serious), I had the capacity to see

through all of this hocus pocus which the herds otherwise seemed blinded to!

Why anybody of competent mind would subject themselves to more routines than

life demands escaped me. Preposterous, that's what it amounts to.

Apparently, my outlandish self-absorbtion did not go unnoticed. From time to time, friends would invite me to attend a spiritual retreat. For some, their approach could be better rationalized as badgering. Surely, you have similar friends in your life and can recognize my peril!

From rumor, I knew the retreat was a Christian-based fellowship, but that was

about the extent of my familiarity. Oh, and I was also aware that the program

had some daft name like Keryx. Was that an acronym?  If so, of what? All I

could think of was: I did not want to be in the presence of a bunch of

counterfeit Christians who found God in prison. What a joke! Yet, I

respected and admired my friends. I had no preconceived notions of them at

all, other than they had demonstrated themselves to be outstanding

individuals. Indeed, this was an anomaly, they were different. But this did

not dispel any questions. Were the facilitators of this retreat going to

repeatedly impose upon me that I was no good and possessed no possible chance

of redemption? Were they going to force scripture down my throat? Were

they...? I had no clue.

On the many occasions where I was being berated by my friends, I inquired as

to what Keryx was all about. Asking many questions like I set forth just

moments ago, their responses were alarming. To start out with, I was unable

to distinguish whether the expressions on their faces were sinister or something otherwise benign. My friends, at which point their motives were beginning to come into question, would allude no further other than to

encourage me to be open and trust the process. What?  Hm, I think it may be time to reevaluate what my definition of a "friend" consists of!  Time and again I pleaded with them to reveal the dynamics of this retreat so that I could make an informed choice as to whether or not to commit. Each one of them simply said: "Trust us."  Wow, there was a less than promising endorsement! Yeah, those two seemingly innocuous words, "Trust us," carried a hidden warning to my psyche to find something else to do. Immediately.

When all is said and done, I can divulge that Keryx is unmistakably

identifiable as a Christian-based fellowship which is open to persons of any

background. Jews, Muslims, etcetera. Everybody. Buddhists, too. Even those

who do not believe. Such is organized and presented by volunteer laypersons

and clergy, Catholic and Protestant. The program is premised on Cursillo

weekends which originated in the Catholic Church during the middle of the last

century as a way to extend an olive branch to the faith challenged...um, those

of us who are secular. Though non-denominational, such is more biased towards

Protestantism, if that even has any bearing. Without regard to any of that

mumbo jumbo, one of the underlying charms of this fellowship is that it is

ecumenically intended to introduce people to God. Or, reintroduce, as the

matter may prove. Or, strengthen. I could labor on, but you get the idea.

Perhaps to muffle them, or maybe to prove that this was all a bunch of

poppycock, I finally succumbed to their relentless poking and prodding. How

much worse could things get?  They already had me teetering on the edge of

kicking and screaming. Silly me, what was I thinking?  Matters did

deteriorate. Ahem, please permit me to go off on a tangent, clarifying once

and for all that my friends are pesky and annoying!

When entering the lobby area where the retreat was being held, anxiety

immediately reared its head. I was not alone: there were 23 other

individuals awaiting to embark on the same journey. As not a single one of

them was a familiar face, their presence was of little consolation. Oh, how

uncomfortable this was going to be. Yippee! I wanted to leave right then,

but an annoying little voice inside my noggin kept chanting: "Be open to the

process."  Were my friends practicing voodoo; was that why their words seemed

to resonate? I tried my darnedness to stamp out the rhetoric, all to no

avail. (If that "little voice" was God...whew, it is suspected I will have to

answer for inferring His nagging was the equivalent to that of being a pest!)

After what seemed an eternity (all of five minutes), we were ushered into an

auditorium. I stood my ground like a stick in the mud and melted into the

wall, graciously permitting of the other participants to mosey past. Taking a

big gulp, I fell into step. Really, there was nothing else I could do; nobody

else remained to enter but me. Plus, I could visualize the proverbial boot

winding up to punt me through the entrance. So, I might as well enter under

my own volition. Three strides in and I was choking with misgivings (I do not

typically fare well in crowded situations) and wanted to leave through the

door from whence I came...through the wall...up and through the roof...just

get me out of this mess!

All of these cooky Christians whom I had never seen

before were overly happy to greet me (us) with peppy Kumbaya music,

handshakes, hugs, and other uncomfortable salutations. And I mean these

people were nutty! Where was their dignity and sense of social etiquette? It

was all quite overwhelming.

About to turn and run like a dickens out of there, anywhere, my eyes betrayed

me with the glimpse of a friend. Bugger! Here was a man who had taken time

out of his life, away from family and work, so he could share this experience.

He had no idea that I would be there, but when he took sight of me, a smile as

big and warm as the rising sun set across his face. Ouch. I was now stuck.

*** It should be noted that the vast majority of volunteers and organizers

were from the free community and had likewise set aside their regular

responsibilities to share in this retreat.

The first day was way in excess with singing and clapping. This was not my

cup of tea, whatsoever. Grueling. To compound matters, some friends, whom

had been considered loyal, thought it would behoove them to share my

background as a musician with the visiting band. The damage inflicted? I was

continually harassed by band members for my lack of ferver. It did not help

that I was seated squarely in front of the Noisemakers for God, either! Time

and again, one would chirp: "Come on, Karl, sing." Or some variation thereof

where they would try to shame me into clapping like a child. These wacky

fanatics were really putting the coals to me, though not out of spite or

meanness. When the evening ended, I was so thrilled to get out of there, it's a wonder I did not knock the door off the hinges with my exuberant departure.

In the wee hours of the next morning this whole procession began, again.

Nothing really changed. Clapping and singing for what seemed like longer than

it takes paint to dry on a rainy day. My mind steadily muttering: "Oh my

gosh, will this tyranny ever end?" Thank goodness there were other activities

to break up the day, but nothing as prominent as all that offensive noise!

Day led into night and it was finally over until the next morning.

Hallelujah!

I was not sure day three could be survived without my head popping off, but it

was completely different. The program had changed. Drastically. The

testimonies had a familiar ring to them. The community volunteers were not so

much talking about what God had done for them or how their lives were blessed

or without God .... Instead, they were sharing their struggles prior to faith.

Their struggles with faith. These laypeople and clergy were human, not

pretentious. They were not afraid to reveal their dents and dings. They,

too, had made some unsound or regretful decisions. Very plainly, it was

conveyed that regardless of how rusty and rotted a person's life had been `

(they were living examples), hope continues to remain. I was impressed. As

the day proceeded, I found myself thoroughly embracing the fellowship. Yes,

even the music from grandpappy’s hillbilly hootenanny. *** I would like to

reclarify: these individuals are not common. Far from it. It takes a

special and compassionate soul to enter this environment in order to

demonstrate love, expecting nothing in return.

Later in the evening, absorbed in camaraderie, some nincompoop found it

necessary to play a radio outside the auditorium. Loudly. The callous nerve

of that individual. Much to my dismay, he chose a Christian station. Adding

insult to injury, it sounded good. Much better than we did! Though, in all

honesty, that would not take much. Still, his nerve. If that were not bad

enough, the door opened and pleasing harmonies flooded into the auditorium.

The atmosphere was so saturated with rich tones that I could not help but

notice how uplifting it was. Abandoning conversation, I looked up and

immediately found myself immersed in emotion. I was mistaken about from where

the sounds were coming from. Did I ever feel sheepish. One by one, members

of a choir entered and sang with the most angelic of voices. (Now, nearly a

year later, tears continue to well up at the mere thought of what was being

shared...it was that profound.) In all, about eighty blissful voices

presented us with a serenade. (My numbers may be inaccurate; I was not

focused on each individual present.) As it so happened, I was sitting in the front row. These celestial spirits (some would say God) were touching my soul

with song. My eyes leaked like a faucet. Tears flowed and I was running out

of tissue. The volunteers around me were consoling me and were likewise

emotionally moved. Even a Buddhist individual who I had befriended over the

weekend had become noticeably red-eyed and puffy-faced at my total coming

apart...he fully knew how reluctant I was. Their divine voices spawned the

turning point for me. The seed of conversion had been planted. No matter how

much I would have wanted to deny it, there was a presence in that auditorium.

A presence which surged right through me, and I suspect many others (as they

were all behind me, I do not know). Wow, what a conclusion for that evening.

Day four started rather wonky. Bittersweet. It was the last day of this

gathering, and I had met a whole procession of looney people who I now

understood and...uh, could identify with. To a point! And, let's face it,

nothing could top the serenade. Nothing. Or, so I thought.

What unfolded on this day brought me to my knees. My soul was ripped apart

and then healed. What I refer to as the culmination of the entire weekend

could be summed up by a ceremony of breaking bread. Not in the sense of the

Eucharist, which Catholics embrace. Nor as a token of remembrance, like many

Protestants practice. This was something totally different and hugely unique.

It was so stirring that I am of the opinion if churches practiced such on a

regular basis there would be much less division. (To give a description is

pointless, as words will not suffice. My world was rocked.)

The last hours were doubly emotional because I was not only heavily focused on

that spiritual euphoria enveloping me, but my dad, as well. I longed to share

this experience with him, wanting him to be privileged with the same

tranquility. A sad impossibility as he is no longer physically with us. (My

mother has not been overlooked. It would have been so monumental if she could

have shared in this experience; in lieu of such an impermissibility, I have

enthusiastically encouraged her to attend a similar retreat.)

In an attempt to disassociate myself from what was happening and prevent a

verbal outcry to my dad, I squeezed my hands so tightly that it seemed as

circulation and sensory responses ceased. The volunteers seated in close

proximity observed this breakdown building and did their best to comfort me.

which they accomplished. But nobody had any idea of the turmoil being

experienced...I ached to have my dad on this journey with me.

I was broken. Splintered. Grieved.

In conclusion, this journey can only be equated to having a burden lift from

my shoulders. (Kind of. That onus has been replaced by another: hours and

hours of studying.) Nevertheless, that comparison fails to capture the true

essence. And, let's not forget the passion. There was a tremendous presence

of honest love during those four days, and ever since.

I do not know what tomorrow will bring, but it is hoped that I continue to

pursue this journey with enthusiasm and openness.

For those of you who have taken part in a similar retreat, or plan to in the

future, this statement will only make sense to you:

My name is Karl.

In the spring of 2010, I attended Keryx 53.

I sat at the Table of Peter.

Epilogue: Most every participant comes out of the retreat on a

spiritual high. Not to be negative, but it is almost comical;

society's outcasts running around like a bunch of ninnies,

offering blessing to every passerby. Sadly, the attrition rate is

calamitous; many fall out of step with their profession of faith.

Studies have been conducted on the effects of unrelated programs

which reach deep into a person's psyche. Without regular

reinforcement of what was shared, the results last approximately

seven weeks. This average seems applicable to Keryx, as well. I

remember the weekend coming to a close and being bent on

fulfilling myself spiritually. As did everyone else. At about

the seven-week mark I began to witness a sharp decline in

participation. I, too, hit a lull. (And, will undoubtedly do so

again.) The difference being, my desire for answers and a deeper

understanding caused me to continue my pursuit. As did others.

Unlike the majority of outreach programs, no matter how well

intentioned, the Keryx volunteers maintain their commitment.

Laypeople and clergy enter this environment to fellowship with us

once a week. They are a small contingent, but essential for

spiritual maintenance and nurture. In itself, that level of

constancy is impressive. Though not to be outdone, once a month

many of the other volunteers arrive from all over the state and

share the day with us. This helps retreatants remain motivated until their foundation is strong enough to stand.

Rite of Reconciliation

During adolescence, Mass was little more than a fancy church service with a bunch of additional whatnots added in for flare. And, confusion. Those whatnots had never been given much thought. Obviously. By accident (or, Divine intervention), I have begun to learn what this, that, and the other are all about. Coincidently, as answers reveal themselves, the more questions I seem to stumble upon. Gladly so. This, amongst a bevy of other considerations, has brought me back into the arms of the Church.

If somebody would have predicted I would say this two years ago, I would have thought them silly.

Strange and unconventional as my path has been, I have always held a special place in my heart for the Eucharist. There is something mystically profound when receiving the Sacrament of Christ. For those who are Catholic, you are undoubtedly saying to yourself, "duh!"

Perhaps my journey is not all that peculiar and uncommon. Jesus did not shower his message and compassion upon the rich, but instead on the poor and oppressed (Mark 5:1-12; Luke 4:18, 6:20-26 NLT). Factoring in that I hit bottom, albeit lower than most, his message is for those of us who have encountered struggles in life. Reflecting, I am aware of many instances where I ignored , that little inner voice which encouraged me to take the more difficult path. Those alternative roads, now that I look at them without bias, were likely the hand of God trying to guide me. I say "probably" because I am reluctant to make that confirmation. Such is what I would like to believe, but at this point in my
journey I am unable to definitively identify "the voice of God."

It was towards the end of 2010 when I began attending Mass. (Notice the verbs "celebrate" or "participate" have not been utilized when characterizing my presence at Mass.) First impressions of the Liturgy were the same: a bunch of sitting, kneeling, standing, and saying prayers in unison. Yuck...boo...put me to sleep! Yawn, yawn, yawn, and a snore thrown in for good measure. Yeah, I too am amazed that a bolt of lightening has not struck me for those apostate sentiments. However, after some significant time spent pouring through books and asking questions, the purpose of these cantankerous rituals began to reveal themselves. Whoa, something else became apparent, as well -- I had been oblivious to the meaning and objective of all the prayers, readings, and whatnots. I suppose this is what happens when one (me) merely elects to go with the
flow and does not learn about where they (me, once again) are going. I wonder how many others have been similarly apathetic about their spiritual journey? Anyway, back to the matter at hand. To my surprise, such customs bring tremendous focus and illumination to one's faith. Another unforeseen aspect is centered on the fact that much of the Liturgy is directly from Scripture. Guess I never cared, until now.

The chapel where I currently attend Mass does not possess the opulent embellishments which Catholics are typically accustomed to. Quite the opposite. We use a multipurpose room with chairs, in lieu of pews, and fold-up tables for the altar and ambo (podium). This bare bones space scarcely seats twenty congregants squished side by side. Nonetheless, what occupies this tiny room is magnificent. Perhaps it is because I possess a better understanding and reverence for the Liturgy...that is mighty presumptuous on my behalf. Or, maybe it is because I am open to the mystery...once more, I am thinking highly of myself. Then again, it could simply be that I am hungry for more than what the secular life has to offer .... I don't really know, nor care...I am enjoying the walk as it unfolds before me, around me, and in me.

As of this moment, I will not take part in the Eucharist. Oh, I desperately want to accept Communion, so much so that I well up with emotion every time the Host is shared. Week after week I kneel and pray, the core of my being tugging at me to walk up to the priest or deacon and accept Jesus in my hands. But, I refrain from doing so. Why? You’re not alone in your wondering. This is a holding back on my part which has bewildered my spiritual community. Priest and deacon, too. As this is a monumental step in my spiritual walk, I am not willing to be listless or passive in regards to my approach. For the first time I am walking with eyes wide open. Heart, too. It is necessary for me to have all my ducks in a row before I cross the threshold. One issue in particular concerns itself with the rite of individual reconciliation. Confession.

I had confessed a couple of times during my youth, but possessed no real understanding for the process. Each time I had walked away feeling incomplete. Quite frankly, I did not know what I was doing. Yes, I was cognizant that sins were shared and forgiveness sought, but I never gave the rite of reconciliation much consideration. My confessions were always spur of the moment mutterings of convenience because the priest approached me. On the spot I would utter the first things which came to mind; of course, avoiding any embarrassing tidbits. I had never approached the confessor (priest) of my own volition; thus, I had not analyzed my misdoings. Had I taken the initiative to learn
about the penitent's (me) responsibilities, I would have, if sincere, found it hypocritical to ask God for forgiveness when I had yet to forgive myself. Without doubt I was/am sorry for my sins; hugely so, but forgiving myself was near impossible -- it's a continual work in progress, some days are better than others.

It is incumbent to celebrate the sacraments of conversion and renewal before embracing the Eucharist. This has required a lot of study and a ton of reflection. The more I explored the rite of individual reconciliation, the more excited I became. Nervous, too. Whew, was I ever apprehensive. I knew that I wanted...needed to take this step, but it was necessary to celebrate, not simply go through a series of mechanical rituals. I talked to other Catholics and the deacon about what to expect, what could I take with me, and so forth. Everyday became one more obvious step forward on this journey.

As it so happened, I made my perfect contrition a week early. Two weeks before Lent. It was tentatively planned (silly me, life never goes as we envision) to occur a week later in order to provide a little extra time to prepare. However, when I awoke that morning there was a sense of: do it today. My heart felt as if it was going to burst. My hands were sweaty and capable of little more than opening a door. And, I lost more hair! Sitting. Waiting. Head bowed. Fumbling with the rosary which my mother gifted me some years ago (up until recently it had been little more than a very special and dear memento). As I finished the third decade (a series of beads) of the joyful mysteries, the deacon entered the chapel and shook my hand. Really, come on, I was in the middle of prayer! A few moments later, a lay volunteer did the same! What was this...is there no sanctity? Geesh. Neither knew I was going to confess, but their actions, motivated by whatever reasons, reinforced the timing of what I was moments away from committing myself to. I should probably thank them, but do not want to discourage their pleasant interruptions in the future.

My time had arrived, the clock struck some magic number in my soul and the cuckoo bird popped out to sing its song. I was now face to face with my confessor (apparently, the long-practiced formality of hiding in the confessionary booth is now discouraged). Once I overcame my initial anxiety, the outpouring was surreal and uplifting. The confessor was very patient and understanding. That is, until we ran out of time. Not that I
had a bunch to confess, but I had a great deal to say by happenstance. Thus, my confessor rushed the conclusion and/or cut a few customs short.

The experience was very emotional. In many respects I felt...um, different. In a good way. Which I suppose is the intent. Yet, I was a tad frazzled that we were rushed. Considerable effort was exercised in writing my own act of contrition (an apology to God). Sure, I could have used the canned standby, but parts of it did not fit my walk. So, I fashioned my own. The fact that an opportunity was not given to profess this act of contrition ate away at me. The next day I was in knots over this omission. Then again, perhaps such was not necessary because the tears leaking down my cheeks revealed the sincerity of my sorrow. Not only that, but God knew the effort I placed into forming my own apology, that I was not settling for a generic delivery of words. At least this is how I was/am consoling myself. Irrespective of one's beliefs, we have all heard the indelicate
remarks: "When a Catholic sins, nothing more is required than a mindless confession, simple absolution from a priest, and the penance of a few traditional prayers in succession. Ah, then the reconciled Catholic can return to whatever it is they were doing
with a clear conscience. If the penitent commits another sin...no big deal, cunningly confess and rattle off another Hail Mary." Such is typically followed by a couple of chuckles.

I never really knew what to think about those comments; heck, I did not know any better myself. But, I suspected there was always more to it than that. And, there is. Much more.

On paper, my penance could easily be misconstrued as a walk through a meadow. Nothing could be further from the truth. When taking a close, deep approach to it, being mindful to openly embrace its intent, the penance allotted has been tailored and spiritually provoking. In itself, the penance in no way reduces my sadness and grief. Moreover, such does not diminish the seriousness of my tragic choices, nor do I want it to. But the penance does offer something else: the more this sacrament is pondered, the more discouragement one will encounter when confronted with that particular sin again, or any others, for that matter.

Much to my confessor's annoyance, I still will not partake in the Eucharist. Lent is a time for penance and rumination. I want to spend this time doing just that, digesting every morsel my confessor bestowed upon me. At the same time, I need to strengthen my foundation...I want to celebrate and participate in g the Eucharist, not merely be present.

Prayer Responses

On my spiritual walk there has been an apparent increase in frequency of peculiar anomalies. Then again, perhaps these are not irregularities at all.

As is typical of anyone who suspects or believes there is something bigger to life, the transcendent, if you will, I...um, pray. Regularly. No, I do not necessarily mean the studious type of Christian prayer ritual many of us were taught as children: kneeling before bedtime, hands clasped together, head bowed, asking God (okay, pleading) for a new fire truck or to keep the boogeyman at bay. Neither am I referring to those tired, meaningless, repetitive prayers said before meals. You know the ones: ”Lord, please bless this food we are about to eat and let us humbly offer you thanks for this day. Amen." Oh, and let us not overlook the traditional prayers muddled through during church services, the ones which closer resemble medieval chants (more on these some other time). With the exception of really wanting this, that, or the other, we often do not expend much effort into prayer.

So, what does prayer really consist of? Have we ever given this consideration...beyond our wants? The Bible mentions the word ”pray” somewhere around three hundred sixteen times, throughout both testaments. The New World Dictionary to the New American Bible defines prayer as:

In Scripture prayer envelops the whole range

of human attitudes and aspirations towards

God and his wonderful works. There is

petition, thanksgiving, narration and praise,

astonishment, distress, contrition,

adoration, and meditation.

As will be no surprise, I am rather unpredictable when praying. More often than not on a whim. Furthermore, I do not maintain a sequence. If I feel like saying something to God, I simply strike up a dialog. Admittedly, this is a one-way conversation. For instance, I could be walking along and out of the blue be touched by the beauty of a tree; thus, being inspired to offer up gratitude for connecting me to nature. Or, I could recognize a glow in the face of a passerby and feel compelled to make an acknowledgment to God. Of course, I have my erratic moments of asking God: "What were you thinking?" And, yes, I do petition for selfish wishes from time to time.

Hey, it was Jesus who said: "I tell you, you can pray for anything .... ” (Mark 11:24 New Living Translation ·- NLT). Believe me, that statement has been put to the test, pulling on the heavens from one extreme to the other. Woowee!

In Matthew 7:7 (NLT), Jesus added further clarification: “Keep on asking, and you will receive what you ask for." I do ask. And, ask. Though, I try not to be a pest. Is that even possible? I sometimes wonder if God was too busy to hear my litanies the first dozen times, so I appeal yet again. Though, according to Psalm 6:9 (NLT), such repetitions may be in vain: ”The Lord has heard my plea; the Lord will answer my prayer.” When? And, here’s the rub: ”l prayed to the Lord, and he answered me" (Psalm 34:4 NLT). I have sent so many petitions up to God that I do not know if any of them have been heard, or taken seriously. In some respects it is possible that very few of my prayers have been received.

Check out the hiccup in Mark 11:25 (NLT) where Jesus set forth some parameters for prayer: "But when you are praying, first forgive anyone you are holding a grudge against, so that your Father in heaven will forgive your sins, too.” Wow, where did that little morsel come from? Don’t know about you, but I have at times failed miserably in this area. However, as stated  earlier, there have been same strange anomalies on my spiritual walk as of late. Several of my prayers have come to fruition. But, and this is where my mind begins to play tricks on me, is this fruit indeed divine blessings from God, or mere coincidence?

I presented the above query during an ecumenical Christian fellowship gathering and received several stern responses. Some of the facial distortions read: "How dare you even question such good tidings...don’t you know that every single action is at the behest of God!" There were others whose expressions could not be interpreted for they buried their grimaces out of shame of even knowing me. The rest were merely frozen like deer in headlights, their eyes clouded over and blank.

What do you think, was God indeed answering my prayers? Or, was it coincidence? Do you encounter similar questions on your spiritual journey?

January 2011