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Sister Mary Jo Loebig, O.C.D.

October, 2006

The Way Chooses Us

It seems that one of the most difficult things in life is to pray and live from where we are, and not from where we should be, or where we would like to be. Related to this, it has been a long-standing custom for those entering Carmel to choose not only a new name, but also a title, a mystery that represents their unique approach to life, and to God. For example, St. Therese, the Little Flower, was known as Therese of the Child Jesus and the Holy Face, a mystery that truly ended up being played out in her life.

I have found that people coming into Carmel relish with enthusiasm praying over what their unique mystery might be, and when they finally come upon it, they hold their title with a holy and sacred reverence. Often enough, though, as their lives unfold in the milieu of Carmel , they wonder if they should change their title, or at least modify it a bit.

If we were to give St. Therese a title, we probably would say that she should be known as Therese of the Little Way, since this is indeed what she gave to the world. Dag Hammarskjold says that we do not choose the way, but that the Way chooses us. This means that we can never really possess our own unique way, but only touch it here and there, now and then. Little by little, in the events of our lives and in our prayer, our mystery unfolds. I ask myself how one stays within the way. My own feeling is that, when we go toward God, we are to do so with the whole of lives and not just part of ourselves. It would seem that this approach helps one stay within the Way. Listening to the yearnings and stirrings within is also an aid.

We live and pray, then, from where we are and how we feel at the moment, whether this moment is one of physical discomfort, calm, upset or doubt. Undetected by us, “something boundless of God” * lives within and is quietly and faithfully at work. For myself, now and then, I sense the Mystery that is embracing me and give thanks for this one tiny obscure awareness, knowing that someday the embrace will be forever.

*An expression used by Heribert Arens, ofm, in UISG, #113, 2000, p.13

Sister Mary Jo Loebig, O.C.D.

September, 2006

God Is In This Moment

It is not uncommon that every once in awhile people come to our monastery in hopes of learning more about the mysterious activity called contemplation. We find these seekers to be very sincere in their quest. I recall an incident when I, myself, was a new member of the monastery. A Sister, who is now with God, stood in the opening of the kitchen door and kindly shared with me what I might expect in joining a small contemplative group (small by design). Musing to herself and gazing out into the distance, she ended the conversation with a question: “What is prayer?” At the time, I thought to myself that this was a strange question coming from such a veteran. Now, I know differently. Actually, real contemplative prayer is not something we do ourselves. We can only dispose ourselves for its coming and remain open, with a sense of trust, believing that it can happen and that God will be faithful in coming to us.

Some years ago, I was in conversation with two of my blood sisters, all being teachers at the time. It was evening in northern Iowa. We were occupied in making out lesson plans in preparation for a Religious Education class, the topic being prayer, worship, and the like. Being veterans with the subject, or so we thought, two of us waxed strong on what should be included. With that, our older sister looked up and said, “Do you really think that is prayer? When I take the trash out at night and look up at the stars, I feel that is prayer.” I have never forgotten this incident. Looking up at the stars will always be contemplation for me. At moments like this, our whole self seems to be mysteriously moved by Another. It is much like the lyrics of the song: “You came. You passed by.” Simply put, contemplation is not a prayer form as such, not something we do. It is something that happens to us.

Although we cannot make contemplation happen, it appears that we can, at least, dispose ourselves for the gift. Many people find that Sacred Reading is helpful. Dom Marmion, O.S.B., tells us to read until the heart is touched by God, to read until God speaks. Then, pause, and let happen what happens. St. Teresa of Avila often prayed with a book. We know, too, that contemplative moments can happen outside the times of formal prayer. Even interruptions can be a contemplative moment. There is another practice I have found helpful. In the midst of high activity, I like to pause just for a moment, and tell myself that God is in this moment. Such a practice has a way of restoring calm and serenity, even to the exterior. Moments, too have their inner life.

Not long ago, a friend shared with me that a member of her family went every day to a facility to be with her spouse, even though her spouse was at the stage where he was not able to communicate. They were just there together. “We can, at least, be with each other,” she said. Upon hearing this, I realized, again, what contemplative prayer is. It is a “being with” God, as with a friend. No words are really necessary, and no words can really describe such a union of Presence.

Sister Mary Jo Loebig, O.C.D.

July, 2006

With No Other Light to Guide Me

Seeking my Love, I will head for the mountains.

St. John of the Cross – Spiritual Canticle

Although we do not think about this often, most of us do have a place, or a spot, where we are able to pray best. The hermit pilgrims of Mt. Carmel, about the years 1206-1214, felt they could pray best on top of a mountain, close to God. We are told that the setting near the Spring of Elijah, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea , was quite beautiful.

The mountain laurel in bloom was awesome.

I recall a member of my own family, who used to live in a farm house situated on a small elevation. Every morning, with a missalette from church, he used to sit in a rocking chair in front of a big sliding window, overlooking the expansive fields of Iowa . There, he would pray.

Carl Jung was fond of saying that the castle without should match castle within. It would seem that all of us have a little hermitage inside of us wherein a candle burns, a hermitage near the sea, a field of grain, a garden of flowers or a group of trees waiting to give us shelter in the shade. We could go on and on in citing examples. It is in these special settings that we sense the nearness of God and gain strength for the day. Interestingly enough, in this day and age, for some people, their time of quiet is in a car, going to and from work.

All that matters is that we have a place and a time to call our own, a place where we meet God, Who is waiting to give us shade and shelter. For myself, it is the kitchen table in early morning. In late afternoon, it is the monastery’s long corridor with windows on both sides. Walking back and forth, I meditate on the events of the day and the world situation. I lay all of this before God.

Some years ago, I came across the expression “circadian rhythm”. I learned that we all have a unique and natural rhythm to our day. What is interesting is that the root word of “circadian” has to do with “God in the sky”. In The Tree Full of Angels , Macrina Wiederkehr talks about the fact that God clamors for our heart’s attention. It is God who puts an ache there. Everyone has it, and it is an ache that is immensely deep.

The Feast of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel invites us to name our chapel, and our time, and to embrace this ache with tenderness. Little by little this ache will be taken away.