...forever linked

"Intersections" (photo by Celeste Bracewell, April 2004)
A detail from the Brion family cemetery designed by Carlo Scarpa, located in San Vito d' Altivole, Italy,
The architect was later buried in a private corner, standing upright,
wrapped in linen sheets in the style of medieval knights.

Into the instant’s bliss never came one soul
Whose soul was not possessed by Christ,
Even in the eons Christ was not.

And still: some who cry the name of Christ
Live more remote from love
Than some who cry to a void they cannot name.

—after Dante

by Christian Wiman, "By Love We Are Led To God", Harvard Divinity Bulletin

Several years ago, my friend, Jane, and I decided to attend Easter Sunday services at Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in downtown Birmingham. Decades earlier, on September 15, 1963, this church was bombed. The cowards who shall remain nameless in this post placed dynamite with a timer beneath the steps near the basement. Four young girls died that morning as they walked to the downstairs assembly room: Addie Mae Collins (14), Denise McNair (11), Carole Robertson (14) and Cynthia Wesley (14). They never had the chance to grow to adulthood. To make the journey of self-discovery. To live out their highest ambition. 

Fast-forward to  2007. Jane and I were both raw...she mourned her daughter, Karen, who had died recently, far too soon. And I struggled to make sense of life in the aftermath of my husband's illness and death. We weren't running away that day. Just walking to Jerusalem, to an empty tomb, on a different path. 


Typically, Easter in Birmingham is warm enough for linen, with a light cardigan or jacket. April 8, however, dawned a chilly 30 degrees, then limped to a brief high of 43. Easter egg hunts were either fast or indoors. One friend reported weeks later that she finally located the missing egg behind a planter in the rarely-used formal living room. More accurately, the offending egg found her.

Spring pastels were exchanged that morning for black with heavy coats. Straw hats went back into hatboxes and out came wool felt cloches. Understand: Jane and I are both hat people. In the south women once wore beautiful hats to church on Sunday. This custom was killed off by "Seven Day Wonders", those bouffant hairdos that had to last between beauty parlor appointments. Otherwise sane women wrapped heavily teased hair in toilet paper at night in an effort to maintain lacquered pouffiness.

Black women in the south kept their hats and bought new ones. Jane and I would once again be among our own kind. Sort of. We struggled against the harsh wind as we climbed up the steps. A nice usher led us to a pew where we were given a warm welcome by our neighbors. That we were the only two white people in the sanctuary was a bit obvious but no one seemed non-plussed. At least, they had the good grace to withhold opinions. What stunned was the realization that we were - with one exception, a wizened little lady with a turquoise turban - the only women wearing chapeaus.

The choir and jazz band stirred the soul. In front of us a handsome couple sat with their grown children and precious grandchildren. I ached: this had been my dream. Grandmother was a beauty, elegant and smiling. And when she moved with the music, I knew that this too was my dream. To let the music overtake over me, to banish "But I'm a klutz" from my thoughts. The sermon graced us all. When the service ended, our pew neighbors wished us a "Happy Easter". The couple in front turned around and spoke. The wife first, then the husband who paused for a moment and then said, "Nice hats." With a smile.

Next day at work, I told a black co-worker that I had attended Sixteenth Street Baptist with a friend. And added that we were the only two women with hats.

Deborah exclaimed, "No! You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am."

"Celeste, my people ALWAYS wear hats."

"Not at Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, Deborah."

"Well, I never."

Here's the rest of the story. Over the years, the community changed as residents moved to suburban neighborhoods. This inner-city church has been in a re-building mode: updates to the structure as well as the creation of an environment that welcomes the young people who live in the area. The day we attended, the ushers had shed coats and ties for white tees with "Sixteenth Street Baptist Church" printed in black. They made welcome those who came in Easter finery or in blue jeans. And two aging white women in hats. 

On an April morning in 1963, "the explosion blew a hole in the church's rear wall, destroyed the back steps... and all but one stained-glass window...one which showed Christ leading a group of little children." [from the Wiki] 

Forty-four years later, we gathered in this place. Our gaping holes had been patched but scars remained. But on that cold Easter morning, grace shone on us.

Christian Wiman's words are worth a read:

For many people God is simply a gauze applied to the wound of not knowing, when in fact that wound has bled into every part of the world, is bleeding now in a way that is life if we acknowledge it, death if we don’t. Christ is contingency. Christ’s life is right now.

Despite the value and absolute necessity of spiritual solitude, Christ comes alive in the communion between people. When we are alone even joy is, in a way, sorrow’s flower: lovely, necessary, sustaining, but blooming in loneliness, rooted in grief. I’m not sure you can have Christian communion with other people without these moments in which sorrow has opened in you, and for you; and I am pretty certain that without shared social devotion one’s solitary experiences of God wither into a form of withholding, spiritual stinginess, the light of Christ growing ever fainter in the glooms of the self.

What this means is that even if you are socially shy and generally inarticulate about spiritual matters—and I say this as someone who finds casual social interactions often quite difficult and my own feelings about faith intractably mute—you must not swerve from the engagements God offers you. These will occur in the most unlikely places, and with people for whom your first instinct may be aversion. Dietrich Bonheoffer says that Christ is always stronger in our brother’s heart than in our own, which is to say, first, that we depend on others for our faith, and second, that the love of Christ is not something you can ever hoard. Human love catalyzes the love of Christ. And this explains why that love seems at once so forceful and so fugitive, and why, “while we speak of this, and yearn toward it,” as Augustine says, “we barely touch it in a quick shudder of the heart.”

Click HERE to read an excerpt from Wiman's essay and watch a clip from Bill Moyer's interview.

...reflection on ashes and mercy

Merton’s Voice 

Let my trust be in Your mercy, not in myself. Let my hope be in Your love, not in health, or strength, or ability or human resources. If I trust you, everything else will become, for me, strength, health, and support. Everything will bring me to heaven. If I do not trust You, everything will be my destruction.

Thomas Merton. Thoughts in Solitude. (New York: Farrar, Strauss, Giroux). 29,30

Psalm 51: 3

Have mercy on me, God, in accord with your merciful love; in your abundant compassion 
blot out my transgressions

Contemplative Pause 

Throughout this day, pause, take a breath, and listen with your heart. How is God's mercy unfolding in your life?

Ash Wednesday. The day when complete strangers walk up - in their most polite fashion - to stare at my forehead. And wonder about my personal hygiene. The lady in front and the gentleman behind me walk away from the sanctuary with proper markings. But my ashen smudge seems never to look like a cross. A few have tried to wipe away the stain. 


Wipe away the stain. William Blake’s poem, Songs of Innocence, evokes strong opinions in literary critics. They argue about the theme and the imagery. But I think of Dr. Oscar Stembridge when I read this poem. Of one particular morning in his college class, when I lifted my hand - not unlike Hermoine Granger, alas - to comment on a single line: “I raised my rural pen, and I stain’d the water clear.” Interpretations point to baptism, Christ’s blood in the water that washes away all sin. That day I questioned whether we are bound by a single interpretation - even one offered by the author - or if the power of poetry lies in its evocative nature.

Dr. Stembridge asked what stirred when I read that line. Here is my response: Water is, of itself, transparent. The silica of glaciers gives a turquoise glow to northern lakes. We add substances to create ink and with this give form to ideas. Much like stained glass windows. Glass allows what is outside to enter our view. But stain the glass and the colorful bits woven together into a mosaic tell a story. When I cry, the salt in tears that stream down my cheeks to my lips, speaks to me of sorrow and regret. A Blake critic would rip my thoughts to shreds rather quickly. But I take my “aha” moments where I can get them. 

Back to the stain. Shorthand for “no cheap grace.” How is God’s mercy unfolding in my life? Constantly. In the quiet whisper of the Spirit that convicts and gently moves me. In the presence of family and friends whose love and hugs, whose struggles and fears, grow me. Here is a specific example that relates to my oft-mentioned aching back. I will spare you the gory details. Suffice it to say, I’m not supposed to sit for long periods. My definition of “long periods” is quite different from that of my physical therapist. Bill. To whom I am married. 

I am a pig-headed, mildly incalcitrant creature. My interests are far-ranging. Many - writing, graphics, etc. - take me to the computer. I am currently writing this while flat on my back. My goal is to write for thirty minutes, then get up, walk a bit. Stretch. This part involves draping my body over a large rubber ball. Balance, in all its forms, is not my strong suit. And Bill actually cringes when he sees me lurching wildly before rolling onto the floor with a thud. 

I'm on the ball, sweetheart. Don't quibble about photo quality.
It's hard enough to stay on the thing
much less take a picture with my iPhone.
I'm impressed.

Banned from the living room after nearly pulling a table down on my head, I’m now limited to the bedroom where I can get leverage against the bed frame. 


I have a plan to increase my productivity. And sometimes I adhere to it. But I relapse: cross-legged on the sofa, head bent forward, pecking away on a keyboard.  In the kitchen, I stand with weight on one hip, one knee hyperextended, while I stir.

So what does my doctor/therapist/husband do? Does he throw his hands in the air and rant? No. Does he lecture? No. Sunday he walked past me in the kitchen and lightly touched my leg. A quiet reminder of my stance. This morning after we talked about our respective plans for the day, he texted a photo. One that he took Saturday when I wrote my last post. Cross-legged on the sofa, head bent forward, pecking away on a keyboard. Again. Just a quick and dirty get-thoughts-on-”paper” moment, or so I thought. I wrote the whole post that way. 

Bill put the paper down while I was writing and stretched himself over the ball. “Boy, I needed a good stretch. That drive last night left me tight.” That’s all he said. Those words and the photo this morning didn’t scream guilt. Just a quiet, mercy-filled reminder. When I self-correct my stance, he praises me. Makes me giddy with delight. [I think I'm part Labrador or Rottweiler. The good part.] 

I watch Bill treat everyone this way. Because he treats people who can no longer stand upright. Whose feet are turned in so badly they can barely walk. Postural habits wreak havoc on the spine over time. The needless suffering breaks his heart. Much like choices and habits wreak havoc on the soul. And God weeps.

Mercy from my Creator
Not the crushing judgment I deserve
Mercy
from Bill, from the kiddoes, from complete strangers
Not the harangues I invite
Are my actions, my words, an unfolding as well?
Do they nourish and encourage?
Something to think about today.

Portia speaks in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice:

The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. . . .
. . .
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God himself,
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, [Shylock],
Though justice be thy plea, consider this:
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

...reflection on violence

The delicate action of grace in the soul is profoundly disturbed by all human violence. Passion, when it is inordinate, does violence to the spirit and its most dangerous violence is that in which we seem to find peace. Violence is not completely fatal until it ceases to disturb us.

Thomas Merton. Thoughts in Solitude. (New York: Farrar, Strauss, Giroux). 114

Thought for the Day

The peace produced by grace is a spiritual stability too deep for violence - it is unshakeable, unless we ourselves admit the power of passion into our own sanctuary. Thoughts in Solitude: 114

Every Monday, the Merton Institute sends a reflection for the week: an excerpt from Merton's writings, a thought for the day and a contemplative pause. Something to think about each day. I have long loved and practiced lectio divina (read, pray, meditate, contemplate). These week-long meditations are an extension of this daily practice, along with those from Sacred Space. Links to these are at the bottom of this post.

One thing came immediately to mind when I read this morning's email from the Merton Institute: recent chats with my sisters. An only child, I am blessed to claim several “gift siblings”. A recent conversation with them unlocked one of my “stuck” places. Merton touched on the same subject. I take such repetition as confirmation that this is a lesson I need to learn. Or re-learn.

Last weekend I encountered a man at Trader Joe’s who took offense when he heard me speak. My southern accent carried him to a place of great anger. An anger so profound as to be malevolent. Think "smoking crack". The fear that rose like bile in my throat was as irrational as his contempt. 

Sometimes an assault on the spirit comes in a pretty package. Perhaps this is the most insidious. I thought of both incidents during a conversation with Bill's sister (and mine), Bonnie. She said that she regularly prays for us (all of us) to be delivered from evil. So do I. But this prayer has to go beyond words...to discipline and practice.

I do not think of myself as a violent person. But thanks to the man in the produce section and the pretty, peace-less package, I had a little epiphany. I assent to violence upon my spirit when I give space to the upset of others. And I play a part in deliverance from evil. Until I let go of the memory, peace is impossible. As long as I harbor thoughts, I am party to a violence on my own being. In every moment, I choose. I thought I had learned this lesson. Perhaps I fight the humility of playing the hand I've been dealt. I want to be smart-er, pretty-er. Sometimes I live in that place Andy Stanley calls "The Land of Er", the comparison trap. How many choruses of "Just As I Am" does it take for the truth to sink in? Love is not dependent on my "ers." Any more than peace is dependent on the assent of others. It's a game only if I play. 

During Lent, I am going to return to these reflections in my posts. Thank you for sharing this journey.

Contemplative Pause:  

Throughout this week, pause, take a breath, and listen with your heart. 

How do peace and violence manifest in your life?

After writing this, I read the latest post in Gladsome Lights. Gretchen Joanna opened with "By the Waters of Babylon"...so fitting:

Psalm 137 

By the waters of Babylon,
there we sat down, 

yea, we wept, 

when we remembered Zion.
We hanged our harps
upon the willows in the midst thereof.

For there they that carried us away captive 

required of us a song; 

and they that wasted us
required of us mirth, saying,
 Sing us one of the songs of Zion.

Merton Institute:  

Weekly Reflections (a link to receive these by email can be found below the reflection)

During Lent,a selection from Thomas Merton's writings and a reading from the Psalms is emailed daily. To receive the daily lent reflection please email Elizabeth at ecaskey@mertoninstitute.org

  

Sacred Space:

Sacred Space