Earth, Air, Water, and Fire

Sunset on the Nile, January 1981 - crg

I offer four meditations from my book Communion of Life that celebrates the gifts of earth, air, water and fire. You will better understand how Celtic spirituality and Celtic Christianity deeply touch me.

Cycle One: Day 1 Earth

Sacred earth :

Holding us fast,

Whirling to keep us steady,

Shifting axis to temper climate,

Yielding nutrients of life.

Holy ground :

A grassy belly cradling us in rest,

A rounded, rocky bosom inspiring dreamers,

A birth canal whose current is destiny.

Grateful, grateful am I,

To stand, to sit, to lie on you,

To ride, to sail, to drive on you,

To look down, to look up, to look out

And see you there.

Sacred ground,

I remove my shoes in reverence.

Cycle Three: Day 10 Air

The sun’s glory

Wraps around us,

Dives into valleys,

Peaks behind ridges,

Slinks through city streets,

Explodes on beaches

As if through thin air.

The sun’s grandeur

Glows green through branches,

Bounces lavender off irises,

Mushrooms grey above factories,

Canopies blue on clear days,

Gilds with age,

As if through thin air.

The sun’s gospel

Proclaimed to earth’s ends

Effortlessly, gracefully,

Baptizing us all,

Just and unjust,

Believer and nonbeliever,

Grateful and ungrateful,

Enlightened and unenlightened—

Immersing us all

In our star’s splashing splendor

As if through thin air.

Cycle Two: Day 7 Water

You live within me—

In my eyes, in my flesh,

In my thoughts, in my movements :

My liquidity.

You cleanse me inside and out,

Rinsing each cell,

Flushing out toxins,

Boiling out sweat,

Crying out grief.

Most of me is you.

Before air, I knew you,

Bundled by embryonic fluids :

Echo of primordial waters

Where first were fused

Earth, air, water, fire,

The things that make for life.

As you held me,

Now I hold you,

Precious, unasked gift from eternity—

Living water.

Cycle Eleven: Day 44 Fire

You have been the center of our dance.

From bonfires ablaze to candles flickering,

Wildly we have swung around you,

Howling, shouting, singing, chanting,

Igniting our passion for uniting

For war, for the hunt, for community, for the gods.

Flame mesmerized by flame :

Our burning, restless insides

Stretch outside unfired clay

For flames of unity, at-one-ment in immolation :

The burning flash of bullets and bombs,

The stinging, fatal wound by carnivores,

The searing of the heretic at the stake,

The burnt offering of sacrifice.

Attacking the enemy,

Devouring our prey,

Excommunicating the stranger,

Slaughtering a scapegoat

Do not make us one.

We are one—

With one another and the gods,

With the enemy, the prey, the stranger, the scapegoat—

Clay lamps burning with the same divine starstuff

That prompts bowing in reverence and awe

Before one another.

To know more about how the book came to be, see my earlier post “Communion of Life.”

Progressive Christian Reflections is entirely supported by readers’ donations. To support this blog: http://mccchurch.org/ministries/progressive-christian-reflections/

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Copyright © 2018 and Communion of Life copyright © 1999 by Chris R. Glaser. Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution of author and blogsite. Other rights reserved.

Communion of Life

Grant Park, where I often walk or run.

As a follow-up to last week’s post, “Thank You for the Body that Loves Me,” I present another meditation on our earthiness, another in a series of reflections from my earlier books that I hope may lift our spirits in this new year. The series opened with “Peace of Mind” and will continue throughout the season of Epiphany and, who knows, maybe beyond.

The late gifted editor Stephanie Egnotovich at Westminster John Knox Press helped me “birth” a number of books, for which I am grateful. In 1998, she came to me with an idea. Sitting next to someone on an airplane reading a kind of generic book on spirituality, she asked him about his selection. As I wrote in my acknowledgments of what became Communion of Life, “He explained [to her] that he had no religious background and was attempting to discover spirituality.”

“Why don’t you write something like that for spiritual seekers?” she asked me.

Not knowing this was a common plan for New Age books, I chose a mythology that no one would take literally, that everything consists of earth, air, water, fire. And I wrote 12 cycles of meditations on earth, air, water, and fire.

I was so self-conscious of this adventure that I showed them to no one until complete, and then only to Stephanie. She loved them, and took them to marketing at the Press. The marketing department loved them even more, she said, and though later admitting their limitations with this very different market, we proceeded with this experiment.

Stephanie herself paired my meditations with the outstanding art of National Geographic photographers, so I can honestly say without self-pride that Communion of Life: Meditations for the New Millennium became the most visually beautiful book I’ve ever helped create.

Cycle Three: Day 9 Earth

Tangible earth,

You touch yourself through us.

We grasp your hand,

Stroke your fur,

Prune your branches,

Cast your stones,

Bury your seed,

Birth your children.

But it’s not just us,

It’s you in us.

You have developed your sense of touch

Within our bodies—

Communing through us

With air, water, fire,

In pleasure, buoyancy, and passion;

And communing through us with yourself

Delightedly, painfully, compassionately:

A communion of life

Giving rise to soul:

More than the sum of your parts.

Earth—in us, in me,

You have become sensual and sensitive.

Blessed earth!

Progressive Christian Reflections is entirely supported by reader donations. To support this blog: http://mccchurch.org/ministries/progressive-christian-reflections/

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Copyright © 2019 and Communion of Life copyright © 1999 by Chris R. Glaser. Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution of author and blogsite. Other rights reserved.

Souls "Flung Up to Heaven": Maya Angelou and Hildegard of Bingen

This week I am co-leading a contemplative retreat at Sacred Heart Monastery in Cullman, Alabama. Four years ago on this site, Dewey Weiss Kramer gave an uplifting course on Hildegard of Bingen for Columbia Seminary’s Spiritual Formation Program. I decided to adapt today’s post from my reflections on that experience.

I am writing this in the wake of the news of the death of Maya Angelou, and this propinquity prompts me to note Hildegard and Angelou’s shared recognition of our musical and lyrical needs spiritually, as well as the role that deprivation plays in appreciating those needs. Both Hildegard and Angelou played many roles in life, and both were strong and savvy women, unflinching in challenging injustice as well as carving places for themselves in patriarchal systems and cultures.

Angelou took the wistful title and theme of her first book, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, from a poem by African American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar.  As a poor African American girl turned woman from the backwaters of the South, Angelou knew deprivation on multiple levels.

Hildegard, from a wealthy family in Germany, used her privilege to create and defend a group of women religious, but wrote some of her most profound words and theology when her community was deprived of singing in worship by church hierarchy.

I fantasize about the harmony that these giants, Hildegard and Angelou, might make now that both have been “flung up to heaven,” in the words of the title of the latter’s last book, A Song Flung Up to Heaven.

At nine years of age, Maya Angelou chose to go mute for five years after naming her rapist and believing it was her words that killed him. It could be argued that her six memoirs that followed, perhaps all of her writings, were born out of that silence, a kind of self-imposed spiritual discipline that emulates the contemplative silences of the monastic life.

Silence may have allowed her to listen closely to those around her, better able to capture their choice of words and phrasings; to see life for what it was, better able to be a truth teller in a world of denial and deception; to deeply smell and taste and touch the world, better able to depict scents and flavors and textures; and then to conjure her worldly, earthy, and cultural experience in lyrical but accessible language.

Similarly, Hildegard’s contemplative life empowered her to describe her visions, coaching artists in their design, then to interpret “their truth,” their meaning spiritually and theologically, in her rudimentary Latin, the mystical language of the time.

And, of great interest to this writer, Hildegard listened to the music of the soul, creating her own forms of spiritual music that did not follow the conventions of the day, thus creating an ethereal, unearthly music, music that serves as a haunting reminder of the harmonies inherent in Eden (not far from that of angels) and in the unfallen first human creature, of whom she said, “If he had remained in his original state, the weakness of mortal man would not have been able to endure the power and the resonance of his voice.”  I have some sense of this, having heard Maya Angelou speak and read her work with a musical, resonant, majestic intonation.

We are blessed that Hildegard and Maya both found their voice.

I am one of those persons of whom Hildegard writes “sighs and moans upon hearing some melody, recalling the nature of celestial harmony.” Maybe these are echoes of the sound of Eden, as Hildegard suggests, or premonitions of heavenly bliss, or “the music of the spheres.”

I hear that music in lyrical writing, whether poetry or prose. That’s why I was so taken with Hildegard’s prayer, “O ignis Spiritus Paracliti,” which, even without music, sings to me, especially that phrase, “O sweet savor in the breast.” Like the Lord’s Prayer, it would be a worthy part of every liturgy.

Harmony comes from the integrity of body and spirit that I experience with Hildegard in the sacrament of music. Augustine’s reservations about the sensuality of music is the very thing that draws me to it as an instance of the Incarnation of God. Music is the Word made flesh—again.

“The body is the vestment of the spirit, which has a living voice, and so it is proper for the body, in harmony with the soul, to use its voice to sing praises to God,” Hildegard affirms.  Just as for Hildegard encountering one of the Trinity is to encounter all of the Trinity, in my view, to encounter an instance of Incarnation is to encounter all Incarnation.

That’s why Hildegard’s understanding that Incarnation was not the result of The Fall but intended from the beginning makes sense to me, especially as she views Creation itself as an incarnation of God, its fecundity, its greening (viriditas)—in my words, a divine impulse, a holy “oozing,” and the soul’s melody.

And the soul’s melody is not just human, it is in every creature, every atom, in the whole of the cosmos—nothing is truly inert in Hildegard’s view, everything is a “sounding icon” and “vibrations” of God’s self in everything.

As I wrote in Communion of Life:

Our original sin

Is not the seizing of forbidden fruit,

But failing to see

The infinite in the finite,

The luminous, sacred essence

Of the garden;

Failing to revere

The life that gives us life;

Trampling on the taboo,

Sequestering, quantifying,

And qualifying the holy—

The heart of our garden.

Forgive us, earth,

Be merciful in our willful ignorance

As you are gracious in your altruistic nature.

Hold us accountable, and then,

Hold us.

Reading this you will understand why I was so taken with Hildegard’s fresh understanding of human alienation, that the first human transgression was refusing the white flower, the fruit of humility offered by a benevolent God: “Its scent comes to the human’s nostrils, but he does not taste it with his mouth…for he tried to know the wisdom of the Law with his intelligence…but did not perfectly digest it…or fulfill it in full blessedness by the work of his hands. … He did not seek God either by faith or by works.”

  

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Copyright © 2018 by Chris R. Glaser. Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution of author and blogsite. Other rights reserved. 

Being Mindful of the Gaps

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Enjoy this blog more by going to the link provided in the first paragraph!

Recently National Public Radio featured a report about why certain popular pieces of music spontaneously set people to dancing.  The occasion was Pharrell’s “Happy” going viral on the internet as people around the world videotaped themselves dancing to the music, even at risk to themselves, such as in Iran, where six teens were arrested for posting their video.

The neuroscientists interviewed have theorized that it’s the gaps between sounds in certain pieces of music that invite us to move, providing the “space” and motivation for our bodies to respond.  I think something similar happens spiritually in the gaps reciting liturgies or the Lord’s Prayer.

The mantra of the London subway, “Mind the gap,” could become in sacred music and liturgies, “Be mindful of the gap,” the silences out of which spiritual movement comes: the pauses in liturgies and psalms and eloquent scriptures (such as 1 Corinthians 13 or 1 John 4) as well as the intervals between notes and beats and rhythms and vocals in everything from Gregorian chants to Gospel songs. 

In my book, Communion of Life, I named it “the thoughtful pause,” the quiet and the calm required to absorb what has gone before (say, in a poetic or musical phrase) and to respond, anticipating what may come next. I believe prayer, contemplation, retreats, and (I’d like to believe) this blog may serve as “thoughtful pauses” that compel us to dance spiritually.

The lead neuroscientist, Maria Witek of Aarhus University in Denmark, explained during the NPR story that “Gaps in the rhythmic structure, gaps in the sort of underlying beat of the music—that sort of provides us with an opportunity to physically inhabit those gaps and fill in those gaps with our own bodies.”

Surveys found that the most effective drum patterns in getting people off their feet, she says, were “not the ones that have very little complexity and not the ones that had very, very high complexity, but the patterns that had a sort of a balance between predictability and complexity.” That balance of predictability and complexity may be needed in our own liturgies, readings, sacred songs, and sermons.

The anonymous fourteenth century author of the spiritual classic The Cloud of Unknowing (which I’m presently reading in my morning prayers) could be considered among the world’s first bloggers, given the brevity of its chapters. Written for English monks, this mystic observed, “You only need a tiny scrap of time to move toward God. This brief moment produces the stirring that embodies the greatest work of your soul.” (Contemporary English translation by Bernard Bangley.)

Alongside music, the cadences of many preachers, the “call and response” of some African American worship, and the antiphonal responses of the Daily Office may all provide gaps that invite us to fill them with our spiritual dance—and by that I don’t mean “disembodied,” but one that moves our bodies as well as our souls.

When I was in college, the choir of our church sang a catchy Caribbean song. Our staid congregation stayed in their pews, smiling appreciatively, but resisting an urge to rise and sway and clap. To paraphrase Jesus, “If these Christians remain seated, the pews themselves will dance.” That didn’t happen, but when the choir finished, someone spontaneously cried out, “Do it again!”

And they did!

Related posts:

The Soul Feels Its Worth

In Praise of Praise

The Sound of Eden

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You are encouraged to use a post or quotes in personal reflection, worship, newsletters, and classes, referencing the blog address when possible: http://chrisglaser.blogspot.com. Check out past posts in the right rail on the blogsite, catalogued by year and month. For specific topics, use the search feature in the upper left corner of the site.

Copyright © 2014 by Chris R. Glaser. Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution of author and blogsite. Other rights reserved. 

Lauds and Lost

A week ago today I walked toward the St. Bernard Abbey Church for 6 a.m. lauds, the morning service of the Benedictine monastery in Cullman, Alabama hosting a weeklong men’s monastic retreat led by Carl McColman under the auspices of the Spiritual Formation Program of Columbia Theological Seminary.

Then I saw the sun’s first rays midst the mists arising from the pond just to the left of the doors I approached, casting in profile an empty, inviting bench on its shore, as in the picture above, taken the next morning when the mists were not quite as billowy. Mists are a mystical draw for many, accounting for the covers of many books on the spiritual life, including my own Communion of Life, maybe because mist is iconic for divine mystery and metaphor for the unfathomable.

Surrounded by greenery of trees and shrubs and grasses, I sat on the bench awaiting the full penetration through these mists of the light of the red morning sun on the horizon beneath an otherwise clear blue sky.  I heard the day’s opening praise of diverse birds and insects: warbling, chirping, quacking, whooping, thrumming, buzzing, whirring, shrieking, as well as the occasional plip-plop from some unseen and unknown water creatures.

The incense of the day was a blend of recently cut grass, distant manure, brackish water, wisteria, and dewy freshness. I looked down at my feet to discover a mosaic of moss, roots, sandy soil, seed casings, stones, grass, and shimmering water. I took deep breaths not only with my lungs but with all of my senses.

O Lord, open thou my lips.

And my mouth shall show forth thy praise.

The next morning during our full day of silence I went for a run through the forests of the monastery’s extensive grounds. I began near the pond as a long, thick snake quickly slithered across my path from shore to shrubs, my first sign of danger on the grounds. For the remainder of my run, I carefully scanned the path in front of me and avoided planting my feet in piles of leaves or thick grasses that might conceal another unwanted surprise.

The paths were wide and shady, and seemed well-marked, giving me a false sense of confidence. Monastic modesty prevented stripping off my shirt till I was well into the woods. Passing two fellow retreatants further assured me that these trails were friendly. Following “The Big Loop,” I assumed it would provide an ample run as well as a safe return to civilization, emboldening me to take a narrower side path that diverged from the main trail.

But that was not my first mistake.

My first mistake was not looking at the map of the trails provided in the guest house. I’ve walked and run solo many a trail, from my days in a junior high nestled among foothills to high school and college walks, hikes, and runs on the cliffs, beaches, mountains, and deserts of California, and since, in multiple venues that travels and speaking trips have afforded. But as I passed again and again the same landmarks, uncertain where to turn or run, I grimly noted the irony that this is also what happens in the spiritual life. We fail to check the maps others have provided.

I was lost.

Adding to the challenge was one stretch of road I passed along several times where a buzzing bee or wasp, presumably protecting a nearby hive or nest, kept bumping into me, buzzing my face, shoulders, and chest. The last time I was stung, though by an African hornet, my entire body broke out in scary, reptilian scale-like hives, rushed to a hospital by an EMS unit. My EpiPen was home in Atlanta. I used my t-shirt to keep brushing it away, careful not to do so violently enough to prompt it to sting, ultimately sprinting for all I was worth each time I passed.

I knew I had to go downhill, but the rivulets where waters had run were misleading, as were the up-and-down trails. The main stream was my clue to the flatlands, but I was not always beside it. I had (unintentionally) been running more than two hours, so the sun was directly overhead, unable to give me direction. Earlier I had followed a trail labeled “Farm Road,” which I presumed led to the farm on the grounds of the monastery, but I had been dissuaded to pursue it by an official-looking locked gate with no pedestrian access through or around it.

Now I was trying to find that gate again, but I couldn’t quite remember where I had passed it. Intuition told me that road would lead me home.

I broke my silence and said loudly, “Can anybody hear me?” hoping that someone else was on one of the nearby trails. In a whisper I prayed, “Please God help me!”

O God, make speed to save us.

O Lord, make haste to help us.

Following a counter-intuitive urge, I went a different way on this road too often travelled and stumbled onto the gate again. This time I ignored its authority, climbed it and ran further down the road. Soon I was rewarded by the sound of a passing car. I came upon a highway, and across a field, saw three people consulting over farm equipment. One of them crossed the field to give me directions. I was four miles from the monastery.

I began running, but fearful of dehydration, also thumbed for a ride. Though my shirt was back on, how many people want to pick up a sweaty runner? Finally a local man looking for work offered me a ride. Though the evidence was clear he enjoyed smoking, my gasping lungs were grateful he chose not to. After driving me deep into the monastery grounds, out of his way, he offered me his hand and said his name was Lance Jones. I told him I would pray he finds a job. 

I will never forget his name.

Because we were still observing silence, I went directly to lunch unable immediately to tell my companions about my fearful adventure. No one knew I had been lost. One of my fears had been that, when I was finally missed, they would have to waste time to find me.

O God, come to my assistance.

And my mouth shall show forth thy praise.

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I will be guest preacher during this coming Sunday’s 11 a.m. worship of Ormewood Park Presbyterian Church in Atlanta.

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Progressive Christian Reflections is an authorized Emerging Ministry of MCC.

You are its sole source of financial support. To donate, click here. Thank you!

You are encouraged to use a post or quotes in personal reflection, worship, newsletters, and classes, referencing the blog address when possible: http://chrisglaser.blogspot.com. Check out past posts in the right rail on the blogsite, catalogued by year and month. For specific topics, use the search feature in the upper left corner of the site.

Copyright © 2014 by Chris R. Glaser. Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution of author and blogsite. Other rights reserved.