Moment Of Surrender

Last week I was grateful to drive up to San Francisco and visit some of my family.  My brother Greg, my sister-in-law Dede, my nephew Julian and my niece Miriam were vacationing in San Francisco for a few days.  

Up there, I was happy also to stay with fellow monks who live in Berkeley at Incarnation Monastery, our Camaldolese monastery there.  I was glad to see my good friend Michael who lives in the East Bay.  

On the way back south, at the airport in San Jose, I picked up a young fellow named JP who is participating in the Ora et Labora program here at the hermitage.  He'd heard about the program from a friend.  

Word gets around.  Young men who are not asking to become monks but who want to experience monastic life may come work and pray with us for a couple of weeks as this particular man is doing.  

In the car on the way back here from San Jose to the hermitage, at one point we were listening to the song "Moment Of Surrender" by U2.  JP explained to me that the band recorded the song in a single take.  

The relevance to the spiritual life?  When we are in a moment of surrender to the grace of God, we are empowered to succeed at what we are doing in just a single try.  

We Are All Valuable And Loved

A place was to be filled.  One of us was all ready, was asked and accepted the invitation.  In the invitation was found affirmation of one's humanity and thus dignity.  

Every Sunday at the hermitage we ask a guest to read the second Scripture reading at the Mass.  We gladly welcome our brothers and sisters not only at the table where we all receive the Eucharist.  We invite them to recite The Word they are about to receive in the Eucharist.  They are welcome to receive Him on their lips and proclaim Him with their lips.  

This past Sunday a monk asked a retreatant who identifies as transgender to read the second Scripture reading.  Since I do not have that individual's permission, I will not use that person's name.  

In any event, that guest walked up to the ambo and in the reading, recited Saint Paul's directive.  I refrained from issuing any accusation, condemnation or excommunication against this person.  Instead, I let Saint Paul speak for me, as this guest read Saint Paul's words, urging us: Love your bodies, "for no one hates his own flesh but rather nourishes and cherishes it, even as Christ does the Church."*   

We ask the second reader to go with the monk who read the first reading to the altar: the guest who has read the second reading brings either the bread or the wine up to the altar along with the first reader.  

This past Sunday we asked our second reader to help bring the bread and wine to the altar.  As with any other guest, we included this person as one of our beloved siblings.  

Right after Mass, this retreatant who had served as second reader went into the bookstore.  This grateful servant explained to the monk in the store how different this particular Mass had just been from worship services in other places.  At other churches, this beloved child of God sadly was thrown out, ejected from church, discarded and disregarded, unheard and unappreciated, dehumanized and demoralized.  

Sharing this rejection, opening up wide, becoming so vulnerable, this valuable gem of a person was on the verge of tears.  The monk who had been listening tenderly encouraged the shedding of tears.  

Tears can express a dignity recovered.  Tears freely flowed as this precious, unique and exceptional human being, having been included, welcomed and encouraged to speak, felt respected, valued and loved.  

* Ephesians 5:28-29 

If We Can Laugh At Ourselves, We Can Learn

Usually every Friday at the hermitage lunch is silent.  As monks we sit in the refectory, that is, the monastic dining room, and eat and drink, as we abstain from speaking, as we listen to one of our fellow monks read to us.  The text read is sometimes spiritual autobiography, at times Papal guidance, at other times from another spiritual writer.  Then we hear a brief excerpt from the Rule of Saint Benedict before the closing prayer.  

For weeks now, we've been listening to one of our fellow monks read from the book "Alive in God: A Christian Imagination" by Timothy Radcliffe, a Roman Catholic priest who's also a Dominican friar.  Once he'd been diagnosed with cancer, he threw himself into writing the book, which he had been postponing.  In it he explores what it means to be alive in God, and how to live fully.  

Yesterday as Father Isaiah was reading "Alive in God," I finished eating.  Rather than wait until after the meal, I decided to bring my bowl and silverware to the cart where the used items are placed.  Once Father Isaiah had finished a sentence, I dropped the silverware into its basin, so as not to be making noise during the reading.  Then I knocked the bowl against the side of the cart, it fell to the floor and shattered.  

After my effort to be silent, I ended up making much noise.  On top of the crash, I made a further distraction as I swept up the pieces.  I was struck by the irony of how, despite my aiming to be as quiet as I could, I created a disturbance.  We have aims, we make our plans, and then sometimes we end up sabotaging ourselves.  Yet also in ourselves we find opportunities to recognize the irony and humor in life.  

I'm reminded of how someone recently told me that, as a postulant in a Buddhist monastic community, she was proceedingly slowly, and, she thought, carefully, into the sleeping quarters one night when she knocked over the wooden apparatus that was used to correct beginners.  As she tried to be quiet, she made noise.  As she knocked into something, she upset the very thing used to correct mistakes.  

Rather than wait to be corrected, as she was making her mistake, she corrected herself.  Years later, as she recalled the mishap, she was laughing.  If we can laugh at ourselves, we can step outside the immediate circumstances.  Then we can see what there is to learn.  If we are able to laugh at ourselves, we are able to see the correction being offered to us.