Monks' Corner for March
Diocesan Press Service. January 3, 1975 [75005]
( Monks' Corner is a monthly spiritual column prepared exclusively for the diocesan publications -- please do not print this material in any other publications.)
( You may also use articles previously released: DPS # 74206, # 74240, # 74269, # 74301, # 74334, and # 74346.)
Article No. 1 (Suggested for March issues)
THE ABSENCE OF GOD
by the Rev. Thomas Mudge, OHC
Prayer is often defined as becoming aware of the presence of God, or as what we do in the presence of God. But what of the long and sometimes frustrating intervals when we turn our minds and hearts to God and find not the fulfillment of His presence, but the emptiness in which we cannot find anyone ? Anyone who has tried to pray knows that he must at least some times cope with the feeling that "there is no one there " to answer, or even to hear. We approach our prayers at times like the young monk who entered his cell, knelt before the crucifix and said, "Well, Wall, here we are again."
The experience of prayer is full of these experiences of absence -- of no one "being there. " And it is crucial to realise that these experiences are part of the experience of prayer. We miss much of the point if we regard prayer as the good feeling that cone s when we can feel God with us, and only see the less exciting times as spaces between our real prayer. It is the frustratingly difficult times like this when prayer can be more valuable for us.
For one thing, being left without the good and exciting feelings of prayer forces us to reach out towards God not because He is giving us good things or pleasant, feelings, but just because He is there. If our love for God is to be full and mature we must progress to the point where we love Him for Himself, not for what He gives us. You well know that if you value a friend only for what he gives you, that friendship will not last long. Darkness and emptiness in prayer is often the sign that God is pushing you to a deeper relationship with Him, one in which the two of you will really know each other.
These experiences of God's absence often force us to "stand on our own two feet. " They are times when we realize how much of the work of prayer has been done completely by God, while we only sat back and enjoyed it. Without denying that God's grace is always the most important element in prayer, it is still true that we must do some of the work -- the work of responding to God's invitation to come near to Him. When prayer is accompanied by pleasant and enjoyable sensations it is a little like being carried in God's arms. But eventually the time comes when He must set us down on our own feet and say, "I've carried you long enough. Now walk. " The experience can be painful and hard to understand, as it is with everyone who first learns to walk, but it is necessary if we are to learn to be full people in response to God's call to wholeness.
The experience of prayer is a deep and wonderful mystery. For all people who pursue it beyond the beginning stages, it is crucial to know that their prayer will involve wonderful and exciting times of knowing God's presence and nearness. But prayer will also involve the experience of dying to self, of emptiness and of the absence of God. And it is no less prayer in these stages. This prayer is a gift of God, drawing us on through the emptiness we feel, until we are made ready for all of the things He wishes us to be and do.
Article No. 2 ( Suggested for March issues )
GENTLENESS
by the Rev. Kevin Dunn, OHC
"Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, says the Lord of Hosts." "By my SPIRIT" -- the spirit of love, of mercy, of gentleness, as opposed to the rule of force. We need to be reminded of the calm, quiet depths, for the earth on which we live is noisy and in a hurry, full of "sound and fury." It seems as though the shouting of the headlines, and the blaring of the loudspeakers, and the roaring of the machines had almost succeeded in drowning out the gentle voices of patience and wisdom. We appear to be accepting the belief that the bigger something is, the finer it will be; that the faster we travel the better chance we have of arriving first; that the more loudly we speak, the more clearly we shall be understood. In a world of violence it is easy to forget the strength of gentleness, and serenity.
Perhaps we are afraid to be gentle, afraid that we shall be thought weak and spineless, even cowardly. Somehow we allow ourselves to believe that roughness and rudeness are signs of strength, that to be a bully takes courage. We are very much mistaken. True gentleness wins affection, and demands respect.
Perhaps we are not strong enough to be gentle. For gentleness requires self- control, patience, and firmness, bravery, and faith. The emotionally uncontrolled person is not gentle; we do not sense gentleness in one who is fearful, or wavering, or impatient. The gentle touch, is a firm, sure touch, and instinctively we have confidence in it. We cannot learn, we do not dare, to be gentle, until we can trust ourselves, and until our faith is certain. It is our weaknesses, our doubts, our dishonesties, that lead us into blustering and bullying to "cover up " for ourselves. We need strength before we arrive at gentleness.
One of Aesop's fables tells of a dispute between the wind and the sun as to which had the greater strength. In order to settle it, they agreed that whichever could force the traveler coming down the road to take off his coat would be proved the stronger of the two. The wind was the first to try. He puffed, and he roared, and he wailed; but the harder he blew, the colder the traveler became and the more closely he wrapped his coat around him. Then came the sun. Quietly and gently he shone down on the road until, in the comforting warmth of his rays, the traveler threw aside his coat. And the gentleness of the sun was proved stronger than the bluster of the wind.
Perhaps we underrate gentleness, thinking that because it does not advertise itself, it cannot be important. But the force of gentleness is tremendous. If we stop to consider how softly dripping water, quietly and patiently over the years, can wear down rock, or if we take time to marvel at the power of tiny, plant leaf pushing its way persistently through the frozen ground then we shall realize, perhaps, that the strength of small, calm, gentle things is the strength that prevails, and endures.
Gentleness is disarming. When we are angry, in a quarrelsome and resentful mood, headed for trouble, it is not likely that we shall be helped regain our self-control or our judgment if we are shouted at, or forcibly restrained. Such treatment is apt to make us more defiant. But when our bad temper is met with gentleness compounded with understanding and affection, we cannot but be ashamed. And with shame comes a return to reason and control.
Gentleness has the power to heal. When we are hurt, confused, and lonely, it is to the gentle ones of the earth that we turn. We sense that from them, we shall have comfort. They are sure in their faith, these gentle people, and strong in their patience and self-control, and we trust them, even with our weaknesses and our fears.
"Not by might, nor by power." But we are accustomed, during these days, to displays of might and power. The whole trend is towards the bigger, the faster, and the noisier. We seem to believe that if we talk in a loud voice, our words will carry more conviction. But it is not the power of our voices, but the wisdom of our words that matters. We shall be heard, no matter how quietly we speak, when what we say is of value. We seem to think that we shall prove our strength if we are violent in our actions, intolerant in our attitudes, when we use force to compel others to follow our lead. But our true strength shows itself in quiet ways, when, in God's Spirit, and certain of His love, we grow strong enough to be gentle.