Heraklitean River: Thomas Merton, Henry Sams, & Mary Ellen Chase

At St. Augustine’s House: June 29, 2009

I am sitting under a gazebo at this monastery, having taken shelter here from the intermittent rain. Not far away, two men are speaking in very un-monastic tones about vegetables in the garden. They have big hats, and are interested in everything they see. They walk on under the tall trees with the wind tossing the high branches and unsettling the big hats.
Earlier, among the musty volumes in the monastery’s library, I discovered a book, The Psalms for the Common Reader, by Mary Ellen Chase. That patrician-sounding name rang a bell for me… my father’s collaborator on a college text book? Could it be the same person? I thought Dad’s book was published in the 1950’s, and the one in my hands came out in 1962, so it is plausible she is one and the same. In it she quotes Heraclitus as saying, “God is winter and summer, war and peace, light and darkness, bread and hunger.” This, she writes, could be understood as summarizing the psalms.
Oddly, Heraclitus is also mentioned in the other book I had picked up in the monastic library, this one by Thomas Merton and titled, Raids on the Unspeakable. It is in the form of a daily journal, and the entry for June 26 reads as follows:

“The Heraklitean River
In the Republic of Plato there was already no place for poets and musicians, still less for dervishes and monks. As for the technological Platos who think they now run the world we live in, they imagine they can tempt us with banalities and abstractions. But we can elude them merely by stepping into the Heraklitean river, which is never crossed twice.
When the poet steps into that ever-moving river, poetry itself is born out of the flashing water. In that unique instant, the truth is manifest to all who are able to receive it.
No one can come near the river unless he walks on his own feet. He cannot come there carried in a vehicle.
No one can enter the river wearing the garments of public and collective ideas. He must feel the water on his skin. He must know that immediacy is for naked minds only, and for the innocent.
Come, dervishes: here is the water of life: Dance in it.”

Earlier, Father Richard had related an improbable anecdote concerning some store bought minnows that he had been given to “keep in the refrigerator.” Fearful for their survival, he carried the container of minnows through the woods to a small pond on the edge of the monastery property, and there released them. This was told as prelude to a lament regarding the number of mosquitoes he had encountered along the way.

The Heraklitean river is carried, precariously, by the bug-beset monk through a world of flux and change to its rendezvous with a wetland.
The minnows rejoice at their deliverance.
Dad- I am a minnow, born along by currents barely understood. Have I brushed against your academic colleague with the solemn-sounding name? Would she be interested in these thoughts and written words? You, she, Thomas Merton- are all gone, carried off by the current along with the displaced minnows.
I am seeing it all as one- you, she, Merton- a Heraklitean river sweeping us all along- I, perhaps, no longer a minnow but a momentary point of reference, a semi-solid object under this gazebo, like the twelve stones piled up in the Jordan at Joshua’s command, something for the river to come up against and flow around, a place of encounter, consciousness, and commentary- is this anything significant, noteworthy, intelligible? Or is it just random, flakey, the ringing in the ears of an aging man who misses his dad, his sons, his rivers?

Jonathan: go ahead and lament the lost moments and lost loves, the red sunset on Lake Chaplain with James and David in the boat, the red air and water, the red and black river you are stepping into even now, rowing through, carried forward with the surge of oar-strokes, writing, breathing, with Henry Sams and Mary Ellen Chase- did either of them ever hear of Thomas Merton?

Perhaps not- but they all knew of Heraclitus, and of the Psalms.
And now we have all heard these rumors, spread by minnows, and released by monks.

Ramblings re Holy Week, 2009

MAUNDY THURSDAY…Pastor Manisha’s sermon speaks of the drastic intimacy Jesus seeks with us…she urges us not to shy away as he draws near to us to wash our feet… as I kneel to wash the feet of my two companions I am aware that these are not just random feet here in front of me, they come with stories I know well… the first pair belongs to one of our youth with whom I went to New York on the J2A Pilgrimage last summer… I remember how these feet could not walk by any homeless street person without stopping while a conversation took place and some of their owner’s small amount of money shared… the other feet are attached to a young man who, a few years ago, was suffering from an ominous blood disorder that defied diagnosis or prognosis…I help to wash their feet and the familiar music washes over me…
When we sing to God in heaven/We shall make such harmony/Born of all we’ve known together/Of Christ’s love, and agony.
GOOD FRIDAY- music, once again, with Colin Davis’ group singing Lift me up/ Turn me around/ I was lost/ Now I’m found… our own parishioners speak with humanity and humor about their own experience of Christ’s suffering and death… one speaks of an uncle who lost his wife and two daughters over a very short period of time, yet found the strength to keep his faith and hope alive in spite of it… another speaker talked about his uncles, father, and grandmother, and their self-giving love taken for granted by those on whom it was bestowed… “giants”, he called them… “giants” in gentleness, generosity, and faith…as I look around, I behold a churchful of such giants… yet this awareness does not make me feel small, it makes me feel lifted up, as if invisible uncles were supporting me on either side.
EASTER VIGIL… The Gospel read in darkness, lit only by two small candles…“And very early on the first day of the week…the [three women] went to the tomb…” and what they found there fills us with dread and amazement and an abiding hopefulness that we can barely put into words, so we just whack on bells and gongs until our arms grow tired and lights in the church all come on at once to reveal a dazzling panorama of flowers and candles and gleaming silver… and Chase, three years old, comes forward to present himself for baptism… “Do you renounce Satan,” inquires Pastor Manisha, “and all the powers of wickedness that rebel against God.” “I eenoss them,” Chase replies. “Do you turn to Jesus Christ and accept him as your Savior?” Chase is obviously thinking about something else, and there is a pause as he gazes up at the ceiling before looking Pastor Manisha in the eye and saying, “I do.”
EASTER SUNDAY… Trumpets! Beethoven! Throngs of small children! More trumpets! I move to the pulpit to the tones of a majestic fanfare… What can I possibly say to fulfill such grand expectations? Nothing… it has already been said, and sung, and acted out, and lived.
You and I are the sermon, the promise, and the hope. We are also the roadblock, the detour, and the heavy stone rolled against the tomb. But God’s love perseveres in loving us and teaching us to love. Christ has risen! And so have we.
Love,
Jonathan+

On Pilgrimage with St. Stephen's Youth: Among the Amish

In the latter part of July, 2008, I was privileged to accompany St. Stephen’s J2A Youth Pilgrimage. Along with 12 high school youth and 3 other adults, we traveled to the Amish country in Pennsylvania, the site of the Episcopal Church’s founding in Pennsylvania, the cathedral Church of St. John the Divine in New York City, and St. Paul’s Chapel at the 9-11 site. What follows are some observations regarding the two days we spent as the guests of Amish farmers in the vicinity of Intercourse, PA.

There is a kind of sweetness that hangs about the gatherings of these gentle people, and a restrained dignity that is evident even in the young, barefooted children. Their fields and animals are carefully tended to and, in full summer, at the height of vitality and health. Their houses are unadorned but immaculately clean. Their hospitality is generous but offered with an eye to the priority of work. They laugh often, but not, apparently, at church.

At church, the men and boys sit on one side and the women and girls on the other. When bidden to pray, the entire congregation rises (rather alarmingly) as one body and kneels backwards in the pews, with foreheads pressed down upon the benches. When invited to sing, however, alarm gives way to four-part harmony, and the sweetness returns to flood the gathering like the smell of new-mown hay. The women’s clear, unified voices carry the main tune, while the men’s growly bass, accented by a few tenors, follows along behind. It is heartbreakingly beautiful, reminiscent of the “shape-note” tradition in the southern USA. At several points my voice broke and I thought of heaven, of passing over into a strange yet welcoming place where unknown songs become instantly familiar, like melodies from some unremembered dream, or infancy.

The resemblance to heaven was diminished, however, on the many occasions where one of the worship leaders (all male) would remind us of grim justice of God and the eternal consequences of failing to fully accept the gift of salvation. The main preacher (chosen by the congregation from among their own membership) spoke at length about the “unacceptable offerings” that misguided Christians bring to God. These included such thing as guitar music, cell phones, divorce, and immodest dress (especially for women). The only “acceptable offering” is the inward surrender of one’s soul to Christ, evidenced outwardly by obedience to the community’s standards of dress and behavior. Had these been “Old Order” Amish the list would have included the driving of automobiles, but this church was part of a “reformed” group that worships together in English in a church building, rather than in “High German” and in people’s homes. They also drive cars and undertake mission work in places as far away as Romania.

It is disconcerting to find a kind of spiritual ferocity lurking just beneath the surface of this gentle community. I long to reach out and connect with them, celebrate a spiritual solidarity with them, but it is clear that I am an unacceptable ally. Like so many other fundamentalists, the only valid story for them seems to be one that is told in their own accent, by someone wearing clothes just like theirs, and adhering to the same unquestioned certainties.
In this respect the Amish and conservative Mennonites resemble some of the Anglo-Catholics I met in England, as well as many evangelicals in this country. The same could be said of Muslim extremists, and some secular radicals. I wonder, how can any version of Puritanism know if their particular interpretation is correct? They can’t all be right. And if God’s will is so plainly discernable, why are there so many different varieties of Amish and Mennonites? Yet in everyday practice, there seems to be an overarching unity among all the Plain People. It is only when religion enters in that the barriers come up. What a shame.

Our principle guide was an inspired advocate for the Amish/Mennonite way of life, but when asked if any members of their community ever became doctors, he told us that “hospitals and medical schools are not considered a suitable environment for Christians.” Yet this is a community that readily takes advantage of hospitals and advanced medical technology when an emergency arises. But is it not inherently risky to follow Christ into the world? Indeed, following Christ will bring us to places far more “risky” from a spiritual standpoint than a hospital. To hold back from the world, to sanitize one’s discipleship from any possible contamination is, first of all, impossible, and even more, contrary to the gospel. In catholic Christianity, God is understood as one who reaches out from the purity of heaven to share the vulnerability of human life in the world. Discipleship, even in its most extreme monastic forms, seeks to recapitulate this redemptive engagement, undertaken on behalf of the world God so loved.
It is true, of course, that a community with porous boundaries and diverse occupations will lack the cohesiveness and solidarity that are the cornerstone of Amish life. But would it necessarily lack the sweetness, and the gentleness, and the simplicity? Those qualities are, I believe, gifts of the Spirit, not the results of strictly enforced rules and boundaries.

Despite the contradictions, these Plain People have something that is essential for others to understand. They can help us see how we are being enslaved by idolatrous forces of greed and violence. They can teach us how to rely more upon each other and our local economies, and how to seek rational limits to our consumption and our misuse of the environment. They provide an example of a loving, supportive community in which children can grow and flourish. They can show us how to “live simply, so that others may simply live.”

The future is likely to show that human beings cannot go on expanding their economies without restraint. It is likely to show that we must become more cooperative, less violent, and more in harmony with our environment if we are to avoid a descent into chaos. As this becomes more evident, we may have to reorganize ourselves into simpler, more sustainable forms of community. Should that time come, we may find ourselves looking to the Amish and Mennonites for prototypes, as well as to Native American tribes and to monastic communities. Each of these provides an alternative model to the hypercompetitive, self-indulgent, addictive, violent forms of social organization that predominate in our world today.

MORE PSALMIC VERSES: Quam delicta # 4

1. How hospitable is the sacred place of pilgrimage, Lord of Pennsylvania mountains and Amish farms!* my soul carries a great weight of longing for what pilgrims in former times have sought,

2. At Mecca, at Jerusalem, or other holy places;* my heart and my whole being resound with Living Silence.

3. Happy are those whose trust is in the healing power of God, * whose hearts are set on the pilgrim’s way.

4. Observe how the pigeons roost above the mighty doors of St. John the Divine, and how the seagulls beg for French fries on Liberty Island, * just as pilgrims are drawn to sacred places, seeking refreshment for their souls.

5. Mirthful and musical are those who walk all the way to South Street in search of Philly Cheesesteaks!* they will never run out of songs and stories.

6. When their paths lead by scenes of desolation at the 9-11 site, * they remember St. Paul’s Chapel, and draw on deep wells of memory and hope.

7. Lord of secret power, hear this prayer; * take notice, God of our future and our past.

8. One day on pilgrimage is better than a thousand spent watching TV at home, * and to cross the threshold of these sacred precincts is worth more than all an empty world can offer.

9. No blessing will be withheld from those who keep faith with such sacred places, * and those whose feet have walked upon the path of wisdom will keep their integrity intact.

10. O Lord of Amish farms and New York subways, * happy are those who have

learned to trust from you.

St. Stephen’s J2A Youth Pilgrimage, July, 2008

Birthday/Wedding Poem

Birthday/Wedding Poem
For Katie, b. October 28, 1991

“There is no Messiah”
Katie said.
“The world is screwed.”
Come unglued, that is,
Misconstrued,
A deconstructed rood.

But her hair is glamorous,
And her face pale but radiant
In the loud room,
Crowded with decked-out bridesmaids
And feathers.

Hypothetical Mess-iah,
This world is a Mess, and
IF you were to notice, and
IF you had a chance to do that stuff they talk about, you know,
The manger birth, the wedding feasts, the fishing trips, and
IF you had a chance to suffer pain, like we do,
Then maybe you would like it, (not the pain, you understand)
But like the whole idea of US,
Of Katie, of birthdays, weddings, and the rest,
And want to join us in the Mess,
And sit among the foo-foo and the feathers,
Sample wedding-cake,
And Mongolian barbecue,
And take part in other things we do.

Maybe you would.
And we are stuck here, so you should.


Jonathan
October 28, 2007

Dan Treece, friend and priest

Dan Treece, friend and priest

When Dan Treece died, it was like a mountain laid itself down one night between two older ridge lines and breathed its last. Next morning, the view seemed different, but no one could say exactly why.

In younger days Dan had been a geologist of the oil-seeking sort, roaming the western plains in search of promising topography and landowners willing to sell oil leases. But when I came to know him, Dan was a seminary student at the Nashotah House in Wisconsin, where we both studied to become priests in the Episcopal Church.

From my first encounter with Dan there seemed to be something rock-like about him, a gravelly aura of reliability and trust, something borrowed from Montana mountains and Oklahoma plains and translated into the reverent tones and movements of Anglo-Catholic liturgy, sacred gestures and words rendered by Dan in a gruff voice that made it seem as if God were being commanded to do the sacramental thing, sort of ex opera operato in reverse.

Dan was like an anchor, holding me down on the real world when the detached churchliness of seminary life sent me into unhealthy flights of theological fancy. He also taught me how to tie knots.

In those days we were just learning how to fish for bass using Rapala lures, hand carved from balsa wood by Finnish craftsmen for use in deep, clear northern waters very much like Upper Nashotah Lake, where we fished whenever we could. Dan knew how to tie a certain knot that would not slip on the high-tech monofilament line we used in that ultra-clear water, and I use it to this day, wherever I fish.

And whenever I tie that knot, I think of Dan, and give thanks for having known such a solid character and knowledgeable friend.

Dan fell on hard times as he grew older, and I realized things were not right with him on one of the last fishing trips we took together, perhaps fifteen years ago, when I noticed that Dan wasn’t fishing much at all, but mostly sitting on the bank watching me or just gazing into space. At the time I thought he was just being contemplative, but now I think it was because he had forgotten how to tie the knots in his fly-line.

Not long afterwards, Dan was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s Disease, and spent his last years in a Nursing Home in Bluff, Utah, where he and his wife, Jean, lived. After learning of his death, I spoke to Jean for the first time in quite a few years. I told her I was going to try to write something about Dan, and that I would send it to her.

I didn’t write fast enough, because Jean also died, not long after we had spoken. She had said nothing about any serious health problems. Now they are both buried there in Bluff, surrounded by the sacred mountains and stark beauty that had so enticed and humbled them.

Having known such grace, how can we lose hope? Even when the knots will not hold and memory fails. It may be that someday I will forget how to tie knots, and how to preside at Mass, and the other things that we so eagerly learned together. I devoutly hope that does not happen to me, but in any case I will still be tracing Dan’s footsteps, following an unknown trail into the mountains, bereft of everything but that which is most real, most holy, and most true.

More things about deer hunting

More thoughts:

Someone told me at a church meeting about how Native Americans believed the deer offered themselves as food for the people because otherwise the people would have perished during the last great ice age.

Offered themselves. The people survived, not because of their great prowess as hunters, nor because of their good luck, or any other factor but that the deer loved them.

I believe it. I enter the woods clad in thermal long johns, gortex, insulated boots, etc, and armed with sophisticated weapons. Those ice-age hunters hunted with sharp sticks and stones, and went naked until they killed something. If the deer did not “offer themselves” as food, our ancestors would have starved to death the first winter.

St. Hubert, the patron saint of hunters, was the greatest deer hunter of his time, but he renounced it all to become a fulltime man of prayer when a huge buck appeared to him in the woods and instructed him to do so.

That is what I need. The buck that offered himself to me as food must appear to me and explain what happened. Until that time, I cannot even renounce hunting a la St. Hubert, because it would be disrespectful, petulant, and leave open the possibility that deer do not offer themselves, that they do not love us, even a little. I cannot accept that conclusion, not only because it empties the world of magic and meaning, but because it would mean the old people all starved to death during the last ice age, and we do not actually exist.

So I am waiting for that buck to tell me I do indeed exist, and why I was not permitted to accept his offering of himself as food.

If this were to occur, it would not be the first time that deer have brought messages to me, although it helps to be asleep.

ONE MORE THOUGHT... the last deer I killed was 17 years ago. I have been at St. Stephen's, Troy, for 16 years. Every November I am (more or less jokingly) informed that a significant number of my parishioners are "praying for the deer." Is there a connection here? 16 years of prayers may have bestowed invulnerabilty upon any bucks in my vicinity. But this would not resolve the matter... what would God want me to learn by granting such prayers?