Carmelite Nuns of Eldridge Iowa: Current Reflections

Sometimes I wonder if it would be a bother to God if I made out a Christmas wish list. What is it that I really want? What is it that God, or maybe even the universe, wishes to give to me? Is it possible that the gift is being held out to me and I am missing it?

Deep abiding, everyday peace would be a welcome gift. The same would be true of non-worry and quiet trust. Incidentally, it has been said that most of the important things of life usually turn out quite well without a whole lot of worry from us.

Recently, I overheard a conversation in which one party commented on the value of myths and stories, including the familiar accounts of the Christmas narrative. "Don't myths and stories tell us about life, how to live it, as well as the purpose and meaning of life?" mused one of them. The other responded, "I feel that, more than wishing to know the purpose of life, most people really yearn for the experience of being fully alive." For myself, I would like to have both. The experience of being fully alive would be a wonderful Christmas gift.

As I write, I wonder if the experience of being fully alive is akin to the experience of God. Are such moments a brush with the Divine? Jesuit Karl Rahner states that the experience of self and the experience of God are a unity.¹

Here at the monastery, we often refer to the "Rainmaker" story. Although there are variations, one rendition goes somewhat like the following. A village was in dire need of rain. As a consequence, the people called in a rainmaker. Upon entering the village, the rainmaker quietly entered a little hut and remained there for three days. When the rainmaker opened the door of the hut, it began to rain. Of course everyone was quite ecstatic. The villagers asked to know the rainmaker's secret. It was explained that upon entering the village, the rainmaker sensed a spirit of disunity and lack of love among the people who lived there. So the rainmaker stepped aside to be alone, and prayed that love and unity would find a home in the rainmaker's own heart. And when love and unity came, so did the rain.

Having thought about it, this Christmas I plan to ask for a little hut and a surrendered heart. There, in solitude, I plan to pray for peace and joy and a spirit of harmony in my own being. I shall also pray for undying hope and optimism. Somehow, when I open the door and look out, I just know that I will see snow.

Every year at this time, I am fascinated again by the number of people who take Lent seriously. There seems to be something strong in the human spirit that wishes to return to the deeper mysteries of life, given a chance. What really matters? What do I deeply care about?

Recently, I asked a community member what she thought was the heart of Carmel. She responded by saying that she thought the heart of Carmel was to remain close to, and faithful to, one's avowed purpose. This conversation sparked a personal meditation, on my part, as to what my own avowed purpose might be. What is it? Has it changed?

People who have shared on this subject admit to having an intuition, or the nebulous feeling of a call to a certain something without really knowing what it is. The cover of our spring issue of Journey and the Joy carries the question: What is it that is worthy of all I have to give?

Perhaps a meaningful Lenten discipline would be to take ten or fifteen minutes each day and ponder what it is that is worth giving our all, what really matters, and what it is that we care about. The natural follow-up, of course, would be a decision to be faithful to this grace.

Lent also invites us to reflect on the meaning of suffering around us and the suffering that is ours, specifically. Simple faithful prayer often takes us into the pathos of God. To begin with, we know that God does not desire suffering and that God even suffers with us. Then, why is there suffering? The poet, John Donne, says that God batters the heart. But, again, why? Is it that difficult to yield and surrender to love? Even Carmelite Jessica Powers calls God a strange lover and states that the story of God's love is most surprising.

Lent is a kindly time, a gentle time, a song cast in a minor key. But Lent is also a friend. It keeps us from being abandoned as orphans. It tells us secrets hidden in the quiet.

Most of us feel that prayer takes place when we kneel in a church and sense the flickering of vigil lights and those few traces of lingering incense. Then too, maybe real prayer is sitting with a Bible in hand and looking out the window on a nice day.

But there are also other ways to pray. Everyday life teaches us one of them. In fact, God wishes our everyday to be itself a prayer. The praying Easter Jesus is continually rising when we make even small efforts not to be recognized as right, when we yield to that ready and healing humor that wishes to find a home within us, as well as when we scrape together just enough courage to deal with the difficulties we would rather not have.

O God of the poor and struggling, we have nothing that can force you to rise within us. In fact, we stand in mysterious awe at your rising, since you will always be more than our reaching hearts. O faithful All of our lives, we believe that Easter will happen, has happened, in everything.

In another century, our venerable novice directress used to look real serious, squint her eyes as if she were going deep down inside her own soul and then say: It's the set of the soul that decides the goal and not the storm or the strife. She was quoting Janet Erskine Stuart, of course.

Sometimes, the heart needs resetting. What is the set of my own soul deep down? What do I cherish and hold dear, and what animates all those choices I make every day? Each new day invites us to touch that spot in our souls, that source of strength and love, that well of wisdom and direction.

Resetting the soul calls for constant and continual surrender. Over and over again the heart needs to be given to God. This repeated giving is probably the truest prayer and act of worship. Very likely, it is the best gift that we can give to the world. Carl Jung, noted psychologist, wrote that the greatest gift he gave the world was to go down into his soul and do the work he found there.

Resistance is the usual trickster that we meet in giving over the heart. Surrender has never been an enjoyable occupation. A real wrestling can go on. At that moment, we experience our own powerlessness as we struggle to yield to the very thing that will give us peace, real joy and new energy. Sometimes the voice in the struggle asks us to simply let go. At other times, we are called to act. But even in acting, often we are asked to go against what seems to be our natural bent.

Here at the monastery, we authored and printed a little book of daily inspiration called Honey For The Heart. The Introduction encourages the reader to be good to the heart, to bring it honey. The heart is the unifying element of our lives. It is the place where we are most ourselves, where at times we may feel most alone. From this sacred center, we see things differently. The heart always belongs to the One who made it, from whose own Heart it was born.

Sister Mary Jo Loebig, O.C.D

January 2000

The Burning Bush

Sometimes it seems as if one event in our lives summarizes the whole of our lives. I once heard a speaker who immensely enjoyed telling the story of the day of his Baptism. Everything was in readiness for this great sacrament of initiation. When his godmother uncovered the bundle she was holding, she discovered that she had been holding the child upside down. Tiny pink feet wiggled and stretched and greeted the Christian assembly.

Although this speaker would react with shyness to anyone saying this, in the days and years that followed, his feet were indeed richly blessed. Those who know him are reminded of Isaiah's quote: "Blessed are the feet of the one who comes bearing good news, announcing peace, telling everyone that the Lord God is near." (Is.52:7) This person is now a Scripture scholar.

There is a school of thought that promotes the theology that the end is in the beginning and all along the way. Related to this is the topic of burning bushes we encounter, and sometimes pass up - those events wherein God speaks quietly without show. In such moments, we learn more about God, about the all of life and how our own life fits into that all.

What are some techniques for becoming more aware of burning bush events? How can one become more accustomed to leading the reflected life?

One way is to recall one event from your childhood that was a foreshadowing of the years to come. In it, how did God deal with you? Is this still true? What one happening this past week, or even yesterday, summarizes who you are, and the unique way in which God works in you? Today, at this moment, what Scripture passage speaks to you and is a commentary on your unique, but also somewhat common, human vocation? Interestingly enough, Walter Brueggemann states that, by reason of our personhood, our existence is by definition conflicted. "We are always in tension with our (human) vocation, wanting it another way or not at all."(1)

I have a friend, now with God in a different way, who used to sum up the different experiences in life in a single word. He would take a trip, be with his family, or conduct a rally to encourage the small Iowa farmer. In prayer and reflection, he sought to find one word that would summarize the event. I know of someone else who summarizes her morning meditation in a few words, and then posts it where she will see it during the day. These are Holy Ground moments, in which God speaks from the Burning Bush.

Most people reading this reflection were baptized right side up. Still, something happened way back there. The whole of our lives, with all its joys, frustrations and discouragement, was consecrated and immersed in the strength, comfort and fidelity of God. On any given day, we can claim what was given to us at that moment.

The nice part about burning bushes is that, if we miss one, another will come to us, later. Jessica Powers, our Carmelite poet, alludes to this. "The flame burned on, unimperiled," she writes, "There was no darkness that could put it out."(2)

1. Walter Brueggemann, Interpretation, Journal of Bible and Theology, Vol XXXIL April 1979, #2 (Virginia, Union Theological Seminary) p. 126.

2. Jessica Powers, Selected Poetry, 1989, (Kansas City, Missouri, Sheed &Ward) p.1.

By: Sr. Mary Jo Loebig

A curious thing happened the other day. Being liturgist I attempted to take a different approach to the liturgy of the day. As an opening refrain for Morning Praise, I chose the following: "Let us worship God and ask for the courage and joy to embrace the way chosen for us." For some, this was inspirational. Others were uncomfortable with it, saying that we choose our own path.

Surprised by the reactions, I was left with one convincing thought. I may, or may not, choose my own path. But, there is one thing I know for certain. Regarding purification along the way, this is something I certainly do not choose.

Where does the way end? Where are we going, anyway? Donald Nicholl, shortly before his death, recounted the following story: "It was one of those dreadful meetings where we all had to introduce ourselves. The others all introduced themselves by their jobs and professions. When it came to my turn, all I wanted to say was: 'My name is Donald. I am a unique manifestation of God.'"(1)

It seems like the purpose for walking the way, whether chosen by us or given by God, is to make this manifestation real. Although we probably would not want to admit it, the trials and troubles we would rather not have be ours, actually help make this manifestation come to be.

This belief has two parts to it. Most of us are familiar with the idea of seeing God in other people. It seems much more awesome, however, and equally hard to believe, that I, myself, am a unique manifestation of God, and not only a manifestation, but, in some incomprehensible way, a part of God. It would seem that such a belief could also affect the manner in which we pray.

There was once a hermit who went off to a hut, to pray and to be alone. There was a knock at the door. Who is it?" the hermit asked. "It is your friend," came the answer. "Please go away," replied the hermit, "I came here to pray and to be alone." The friend knocked a second time. "Who's there?" asked the hermit. "Someone who wishes to be with you," said the friend. "There is not enough room in here for both of us. Please go away," said the hermit. The friend came a third time. "Who is there?" asked the hermit. "It is Thou," said the friend. "Come in," said the hermit.

1. Quoted in Cistercian Studies Quarterly, Vol.35.2, 2000, "Atlas: Reawakened Memories And Present- Day Reflections," Peter Gilmore, p.237.

This is one of our favorite projects. Every year, in late spring or early summer, we give ourselves a retreat, the presenter for each day being one of our Sisters. Naturally, we hope that the effects of this retreat will last until the next retreat in autumn.

In this pondering, I would like to share with you one of the reflections. The source for this particular presentation was actually a sophisticated expression called "Searching Christology," a term used by Karl Rahner S.J..(*)

In the discussion, Fr. Rahner refers to the three deep and basic longings of every human being, regardless of their religious tradition:

1. Everyone longs to love another human being, fully and completely, and to be loved, in return, in the same manner.

2. Everyone longs to face death with the confidence that they will fall into the arms of a loving and gracious God.

3. Everyone longs to see realized that, in spite of evil and injustice, and the sufferings and struggles in this life, good is victorious and possible.

Recently, I shared the latter with a friend. She stated that she, personally, did not feel the need of a Savior as much as she felt the need of a Comforter, a Guide, a Companion. This response set the rest of us pondering our deepest need and longing.

Is our deepest need that of a healer, a restorer of peace of mind, someone who will help us put it all together? Or is the need that of someone who will help us repair a relationship, someone who will teach us friendship, someone who will bring us a sense of self worth? Then too, we may feel the need of having someone lift and take away our fears and anxieties. The Dutch theologian, Edward Schillebeeckx, O.P., states that the main message of the Gospel is, "Do not be afraid."

Is there a Someone? Christian teaching holds that these longings and needs are answered in the Incarnate One of God, who became one with us and remains with us. Jesus was a Paraclete, who promised to send another Paraclete, who would never go away. Fr. Schillebeeckx also writes that it all began with an encounter. And, this encounter was meant to continue.

* Karl Rahner, Foundations of Christian Faith (New York: Seabury Press, 1978) pp.295-296.

Recently, I learned that, in Canada, a blind man was asked to be a judge in a beauty contest. It turned out that he was right on target.

As I pondered this event, I did not know whether to meditate on inner beauty or to think about what it means to see with the heart.

There is something in the heart that prompts all of us to seek God. Perhaps, this is the main thrust of the human vocation. If we lived life based on this common calling, we would wake up each morning saying to our selves, "Today, my chief task is to seek God."

Still, there is another side to this project. God is always seeking us with a much greater passion than we ourselves could ever seek God. How does one actually seek God? How does one recognize that one is being sought with such a deep love? Jeremiah has God saying to the soul," When you search for me, you will find me; when you search wholeheartedly for me, I shall let myself be found." Since I do not really know just how one concretely seeks God, I rather enjoy saying these same words to God, "God, when you search for me wholeheartedly, I shall let you find me." In peace and quiet joy, I give the task back to God.

The Easter event brings with it a new vision and a new awareness, that of seeing with the heart just how God is working in our lives, especially in the little things. Perhaps, our main task is to yield to being sought and found and to allow the yearnings of our heart to be an Easter prayer.

On that long trip, I mused on what it would be like to live life fully for six weeks. Recently, three of us made a trip by car. To help the time pass more quickly, we sponsored our own traveling theological seminar, starting with our current understanding of God and how this compared with the running beliefs of other people. It was a sort of manifestation of the catechism of the heart.

In view of the upcoming season of Lent, gradually we chanced upon the topic of penance, together with all its dark and somber nuances. One of the passengers said that, for her, the best definition of sin was the failure to live life fully. All of this led me to meditating on what it would be like to really accept my own humanity. Doing this for six weeks seemed like a good place to begin.

Fr. Rahner points out that the acceptance of our humanity brings our existence and the existence of God together. Paradoxically, our total being with all its poverty and neediness is oriented towards the fullness of God. If we were honest, most of us would admit that we would like to be cured of our humanity. We wish that we could choose the good parts and somehow get rid of the rest.

What does it mean to be human? It means that on some days we wake up and are happy to see another day. On other days, we force ourselves to open the shades. Some days, we walk with a spring in our steps. At other times, our bodies drag us down. Sometimes, we pray well. At other times, we are unable to entertain the smallest pious thought. St. Teresa of Avila said that she experienced this.

We know what it means to be happy and what it means to be sad. We have the experience of knowing what life is all about and we have our moments of feeling completely lost and abandoned. Sometimes, we think we know who God is and who we are. At other times, all of this seems absurd and unreal.

Is there a special something underneath these movements that keeps our lives together, something that is constant? Is there a hidden treasure in the struggle? The spiritual writers tell us that all the events of life that happen to us reveal to us, and bring to real life, our hidden identity. In these events, we come to know our own goodness, beauty and strengths, treasures hidden in the depths that we would never have known otherwise. These events make mystics of us. We come to know the other faces of God and of ourselves. All that happens to us expands the heart and makes our world bigger.

To say that we will make a conscious effort to accept our humanity seems to be a good project for Lent. As ashes are placed on the forehead, most people eagerly begin the season. (It occurs to me that maybe we should think of the ashes as symbolizing the goodness of our humanity a humanity which God took on and loved.) At any rate, often our firm resolutions grow pale as the weeks go by and the activities of the Spring season set in. I personally like to choose something concrete that keeps the good resolutions before me. Some years ago, the theme of being fully human emerged during retreat. At the close of the retreat, I found a clown and named it "Fully." I kept it where I would see it."Fully" kept me in touch with my own good intentions.

The aim of life is not only to accept our humanity, but to love it and to see it as good. This is the one place where God always chooses to meet us. Every morning, God greets us there when we awake.