The Knitting Theologian

Basilica de San Francesco, Assisi

I am a fearful person. Now, I know some of my few dedicated readers just spat their beverage of choice over their screens at this revelation because they are under the impression that I am brave. Bravery is something you do under specific and individual circumstances. Fear, however, is something that you are—or at least something that can rule you.

I said in my first post looking back on Italy that if I had allowed myself to recognize how momentous a step it was, I never would have done it. In that case I managed my fear of travelling alone by pretending it didn’t exist. In Assisi I was forced to face one of my fears about being alone: what if something went wrong?

I was feeling pretty cocky by the third day into my trip, when I travelled by train from Rome to Assisi. After all, I’d spent a great day sightseeing in Rome, riding the Metro all over the place, had lunch, been asked for advice by other tourists. So by the time I found myself on the train to Assisi, I was feeling confident, so much so that other people I met on the train seemed to think I was some kind of experienced traveler.

When I arrived at the convent where I had a reservation, though, something went wrong. I had a reservation and a confirmation number. But the kind older Sister who answered the door informed me that there was no room at the convent. Or so I thought. There was a language barrier here; she spoke no English, and I only knew about 10 words of Italian. She drafted a young woman who, it turned out, spoke almost no English but a little French. Casting back desperately to recall high school, I finally understood that there was no room at the convent, but there was a hotel up the street.  The young woman escorted me to the hotel where I managed to reserve a room for the night.

After I got into my room and put my bag down, I was scared. I was in a strange place, with wholly inadequate language skills. The company I had used to book my reservation in Assisi was the same I had used to book my reservations in Florence and Siena. What if something went wrong with those as well? I had a bed for tonight, sure, but what about tomorrow? And what about the next several days of my trip?

I could have cried. And I could have stayed in my room. My fear was in charge. But then—and I can only attribute this to the Holy Spirit—I realized that I was in a beautiful place, I had a place to sleep for the night, and it would be a shame to spend the time fretting instead of enjoying myself. So I went out to explore.

How often do we read in Scripture the words “do not be afraid?” What about “trust in me?” I have not been much in the habit of trusting God, but in Assisi I had no choice. My fear was fruitless, as I think fear often is. I was forced to trust in God in Assisi, and everything turned out fine. More than fine, actually. I had a lovely afternoon and evening that day, and a great day the next day. In fact, Assisi turned out to be my favorite place of my entire trip.

My first transaction in Italy: I bought a train ticket!

I had a carefully orchestrated plan for my first day in Rome. It included taking the train from the airport to Termini station in Rome, finding my hotel, which appeared to be walking distance from Termini, and making it to the 10:30 AM Mass at Santa Susana, the American parish in Rome, which was across the street from my hotel. And you know what? It all worked. This, I felt, was a sign that my guardian angel was watching out for me.

Come, let us sing to the Lord
and shout with joy to the Rock who saves us.
Let us approach him with praise and thanksgiving
and sing joyful songs to the Lord.

It’s never easy flying all night, but I was too excited to worry about it. I said Psalm 95 in the air as we approached Rome, watching a glorious sunrise. About an hour later I was walking through the airport looking for the train station.

Something I learned that day: it helps to be in the habit of reading signs. Even signs in Italian, because if I slowed down I could usually figure out what they meant, more or less. I found the train station, figured out which train I wanted, bought a ticket, and figured out the ticket stamping machines. Then I helped other people figure out the machines. All because I took time to read the signs.

I worried about whether I would know when we were arriving at Termini until I realized that each station we went through on the way had the station name printed on signs that ran at intervals alongside the tracks.

Termini is the biggest train station I have ever been in. It is like a city all unto itself, with restaurants and shops and what seem like miles and miles of train tracks. I blundered around a little, trying to figure out where to exit, but I found a map of Termini, located myself, figured out which street exit I wanted, thanked God for the gift of a good sense of direction, and set off for my hotel.

I paid attention to the street signs, which reassuringly were just what I expected them to be. They weren’t always in an obvious place, but if I took time to slow down and look carefully, I found them.

I think this is a lot like learning to read the signs of God’s presence in our lives. Sometimes those signs are not in a language we understand readily. Sometimes they are not in obvious places. Rushing is a good way to end up lost, physically as well as spiritually. But slowing down, taking time to figure out what the signs are saying, and then following them faithfully can make the journey just…work.

A year ago today I left Seattle for a trip to Italy by myself. When I reflect back on the fact that I went to Italy alone, I am astonished, and I understand better the reaction of so many people I knew. Now I can see what a huge step it was.

At the time, I couldn’t think of it that way. If I had acknowledged the enormity of the step I was taking I never would have been able to go. After all, a couple of weeks ago it took me half an hour to get up the nerve to go out to breakfast alone on a Sunday morning, in my own town.

I went because I wanted to prove to myself that I could travel on my own. I went because I wanted to mark a passage in my life. Despite the parting advice of my best friend, who said, “Go find God, and don’t stop listening for Him,” I was not seeking God Himself. But I was seeking a deeper connection with Him, and an increased sense of His presence and love. And as my second flight lifted off from New York, headed toward Rome, I prayed that God would speak to me, and that I would hear His voice.

What I mean by “small amazing” are miracles. Seriously. When I am paying attention, I notice all sorts of little gifts and, yes, miracles, that God drops in my path as pure gift.

For instance, the view across Lake Washington to the snow-covered Olympic mountains. I live in an extraordinarily beautiful part of the country, and this particular view reminds me that God has given me the gift of living where I am. (I’d post a photo, but I see this view when I’m driving, and I know better than to try to take a picture and drive at the same time.)

Another for instance, especially at this time of year: wildflowers. They pop up on the sides of the road, on freeway medians. Oh, sure, some of them are indirectly the result of seeding done by the Washington State Department of Transportation, but God is the one who makes them grow. Wildflowers are pure gift, in their bright colors and defiance of the asphalt. God did not have to make daisies, you know. Or poppies (my favorite). I look at those bright colors and my heart lifts.

Best of all: unexpected encounters with people that leave my heart singing. This is the best surprise of all, because I believe that Christ reaches out to us through others, so in those contacts I am not only experiencing the gift of another, I am experiencing the gift of Christ’s presence.

I guess you’ve noticed by now that spiritual practices do not align tidily with months. My initial idea was to write about a different spiritual practice each month, but that is not the way my spiritual life works, and so I decided to write about a spiritual practice whenever one started to push its way into my prayer life.

Right now, it’s acceptance. I read St. Francis de Sales’ book, Finding God’s Will for You during Lent, and I think a lot of that book focused on acceptance: serve God in the circumstances in which He places you, avoid being anxious about little things, learn to embrace your crosses, do not be discouraged by your failings, and so on.

My mother says that I tilt at windmills, and I am learning to recognize that tendency and to let it go. Letting it go means accepting where I am. Acceptance does not mean passivity, but it does mean being aware that everything happens for a reason, or, as I read last summer and still use as a prayer:

Accept as a blessing everything that comes your way in the sure knowledge that nothing happens without God’s concurrence.

One specific way I have been practicing acceptance has to do with the idea of spiritual healing. I know I need healing, and I have prayed and prayed for it. But I have expected that healing to be instantaneous. Certainly most of the healing stories in the Gospel appear that way. Jesus heals people immediately. The lame walk, the deaf hear, the mute speak, the hemorrhages stop, the demons depart, shrieking.

There is one story where the healing is not instantaneous, though: in Mark chapter 8:

When they arrived at Bethsaida, they brought to him a blind man and begged him to touch him. He took the blind man by the hand and led him outside the village. Putting spittle on his eyes he laid his hands on him and asked, "Do you see anything?"
Looking up he replied, "I see people looking like trees and walking." Then he laid hands on his eyes a second time and he saw clearly; his sight was restored and he could see everything distinctly. (Mark 8:22-25)

Mark does not tell us why the man was not healed immediately, but I take comfort from this story, because I recognize that although I am not healed completely, I am healing.

Every time I go to Mass, when I pray, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed,” I believe, fervently in the words I am saying. This morning the insight came to me that I am being healed, bit by bit. I think it’s like losing weight. It takes time to put weight on, and so it also takes time to take it off. I have layers and layers of sin and hard-heartedness in me, accrued over years and years. And so perhaps, for me, the best thing is a gradual loosening of the chains, link by link. For others the best thing might well be an immediate healing. The key is to accept what is happening now. When I do, I find peace.

Bet you thought I forgot, didn’t you? I didn’t; I have only been trying to figure out what I wanted to say. I knew I was going to write about fasting. It’s a natural for the Lenten season, which started on March 9. I actually know a fair amount about fasting—I’ve made a study of the topic, because each and every Lent it defeats me somehow.

I think I am fairly moderate in my food and drink intake most of the time, and I think I manage myself pretty well. I can deny myself things during the rest of the year without too much trouble. But enter Lent, when I resolve to deny certain foods or beverages for the duration of the season and all my lurking obsessiveness comes out.

The U.S Bishops have this to say about fasting:

Ash Wednesday and Good Friday are obligatory days of universal fast and abstinence. Fasting is obligatory for all who have completed their 18th year and have not yet reached their 60th year. Fasting allows a person to eat one full meal. Two smaller meals may be taken, not to equal one full meal. Abstinence (from meat) is obligatory for all who have reached their 14th year.
If possible, the fast on Good Friday is continued until the Easter Vigil (on Holy Saturday night) as the "paschal fast" to honor the suffering and death of the Lord Jesus, and to prepare ourselves to share more fully and to celebrate more readily his Resurrection.
Fridays in Lent are obligatory days of complete abstinence (from meat) for all who have completed their 14th year.

These are not very stringent requirements. I do not eat meat on Fridays during the rest of the year anyway, and this bit about one full meal plus two smaller meals can end up to be about as much as I eat on a normal day anyway. So, because I am a relentless overachiever, I set myself the goal of a higher fast during Lent.

I give up alcohol, for instance, just to make sure that I can. I fast on all (or most) Fridays during Lent, and for me fasting means liquids only until dinner. I say “most Fridays” because if I have a business lunch on a Friday in Lent, I eat because I do not want to stand out. You could say that I am missing an opportunity to witness and you would be right.

Despite the fact that I haven’t gotten through Lent yet without breaking one or both of those resolutions once or several times, this year I set myself even more goals. I resolved that I would not eat meat during all of Lent and that, in fact, I would attempt to follow a vegan diet. I got this idea by reading about what many Orthodox (Eastern Rite) Catholics abstain from during Lent: not only meat and alcohol, but fish, eggs, dairy, and oil. If they can do it, thought I, with strains of “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better” running through my head, so can I.

Alas. Lent is not a competitive sport and pride is my biggest sin. I have struggled and struggled with fasting this Lent, and I am not sure I have gotten anything out of it other than the realization that I am far more attached to the food and drink of this world than I would like to be. All too often I forget my overarching goal for Lent: to grow closer to God. I forget that I’m denying myself these things to remember Him. Most of the time I don’t even remember to think of Him while I’m longing for a latte, say, or some grilled chicken on a salad.

And yet, I would say that fasting is worth it, even with the falling on and off the wagon. That insight—that I am not as moderate as I think, that the attachments run deeper than I would like—is worth the struggle. I remind myself that I gave up caffeine last year and I am still decaffeinated. I don’t think I’ll be a vegan after this, but perhaps there will be one change, a small one, that I will maintain. And maybe that will be enough.

I’m still working on stopping complaining, of course. It is an insidious thing, complaining. Ever since I resolved to stop complaining, in defense it has dressed itself up in all sorts of costumes, trying to appear what it is not. But I am seeing through the pretenses, and I persevere.

For February, though, I want to add something: wanting what I have. I am blessed. There are many things in my life for which I am grateful, and for which I thank God each and every morning. Nevertheless I am unfortunately prone to sadness, melancholy and even despair, when I pay too much attention to things I do not have that I want, or think I want.

And so I want to spend February, this funny short month between winter and spring, with no Lent in it this year (Ash Wednesday is not until March 9), focusing on giving thanks, each day for the blessings that I have, and more than that, choosing to be happy that I have them, and asking God how He wants me to use them.

This quarter I am taking a class in the history of Christian Spirituality.  For this week we focused on desert spirituality, and read from several sources, including The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection, by Benedicta Ward, The World of the Desert Fathers, by Columba Stewart, and The Way of Imperfection, by Simon Tugwell.

I found a formula for living in this last source that “resonated with me,” as we say at STM, because it summed up one of the ways in which I struggle spiritually. This formula comes from a monk named Barsanuphius (imagine naming your child *that* nowadays!), who I think makes clear good sense.

Attending to God in freedom from care.

Simon Tugwell elaborates on this formula of Barsanuphius’ thusly:

All our troubles arise because we fail to attend to God, and we cannot attend to God properly unless we take it as axiomatic that he has everything perfectly well in hand. The christian life is not primarily a matter of arranging our circumstances and ourselves into a suitably spiritual pose; it is primarily a matter of resisting the thoughts which confuse and poison our way of seeing things and our reactions to things. It matters relatively little whether we or other people actually do the various things that we think ought to be done; it matters enormously what our attitude is to our own and other people’s successes and failures.

Sometimes complaining is really just criticism of others, you know? This passage makes me want to evaluate what I say and think more carefully.

I spent this past weekend, Saturday and Sunday, in class: Theological Reflection in Ministry. So far this is a good class (my friends will know how rare this is), on something that I have long wanted to study and understand.

On Sunday I heard a poem as part of class that struck me deeply. I’ve shared it as a page on this blog: A Ritual to Read to Each Other by William Stafford.

Last week on my way to work I was listening to Sound Insight, a local radio program. The host, Dr. Tom Curran, was talking about the idea of discerning and acting upon God’s resolution for you for 2011. You can listen to the podcast here.

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, but I was interested in the idea that God might have a resolution for me. After only a little bit of reflection, I realized I knew what it was. It had come to me the previous Sunday. The words were “Be opened.” They come from the gospel according to Mark:

And people brought to him a deaf man who had a speech impediment and begged him to lay his hand on him. He took him off by himself away from the crowd. He put his finger into the man’s ears and, spitting, touched his tongue; then he looked up to heaven and groaned, and said to him, "Ephphatha!" (that is, "Be opened!") And (immediately) the man’s ears were opened, his speech impediment was removed, and he spoke plainly. (Mark 7:32-35, New American Bible translation)

I do not know everything this means, by a long shot, but I do know it’s the right one. I think the verb tense is significant: it is not “be open,” which implies some action on my part, but rather, “be opened,” which suggests allowing God to work in me.