“This is not a privatized journey”. I became acquainted with Word of the Week in mid March.  With many of the traditional worship services temporarily discontinued, it seemed like a good time to explore alternatives. I assumed that participating in a prayer group on Zoom would feel lonely. How wrong I was!  I quickly realized that I could feel the silence of the others, regardless of where they were physically located. Week after week, I felt the communal silence and the support of people  I had never met in person.  It became clear that my journey was their journey, a journey shared by all creation. That realization has been the greatest and most surprising gift of this most difficult and unique time. I am grateful to each person who has been part of this gift.

Mary Anne,

 

You were the first person to greet me when I ventured into Word of the Week in mid March. A friend had told me about it, so I took a chance. All of this was new to me: the 25 minutes of centering prayer, the lectio and the sharing. All done in a envelope of silence   I was taken aback when I realized that I could feel the  silence of the others.  Then I was reminded that prayer is energy and it knows no barriers of time or place. After that first time, I could not stay away. The 25 minutes was a struggle for me since I am a person of movement and words. Gradually, I was able to surrender to the quiet within. So, please know that your gentle welcome and  the depth of your own silence made a big difference. And I have registered for the Contemplative Writing  Course beginning next month. Writing is an important part of my journey and, with 9 months of Word of the Week as a starting point, I am feeling ready. So, many thanks for the person you are and the difference you have made in my life. I shall miss you on the Zoom screen.  But, I trust I will meet you in the silence.

“Comfort. Give my people comfort. “. Advent is a season of promise. And the promise of comfort during these times touches a communal longing. During these dark months of the pandemic, the racial unrest, the poverty, the uncertainty, we seek comfort. And so we wait. Wait for that first glimmer of light. The light that tells us that our waiting is coming to an end. That comfort will be ours to receive and to share.

I am a California native. In addition, I spent 8 years in Florida. So, winters in Albany, New York seemed much longer and darker than any other winters I had experienced.

 

It seemed that dusk began at 3 PM and then, ever so slowly, moved into darkness. It was the expectation of darkness, not the  darkness itself, that was foreboding. I often went inside at the beginning of the dusk and stayed there until it was fully dark. No matter the temperature, no matter my mood, dusk always brought chills. The physical shivers as the sun moved lower in the sky and the temperature dropped. But it was the inner chills that were filled with the dread of the unknown, the resistance to the impending  coldness of soul. It was those chills that I could never quite accept or trust. I am back in California now, but I often think of that northeastern dusk as our days get shorter. I realize now that the dusk was an invitation into a deeper part of me and of God.  Perhaps during this  Advent, I will be able to touch that dusky place and learn from it.

“The Incarnation is ongoing”. The mystical body is also a physical body. The body of our brothers and sisters, around the globe and in our backyard. In these times, this body is crying out for attention, for healing, for love. If we are the body of Christ, we must hear and answer this cry.

In his memoir, President Obama describes the generation of Martin Luther  King, Jr as the Moses generation and the current generation as the Joshua generation. It is our sacred duty to always keep the promised land of justice within view. And, with hope, know that the incarnation is ongoing.

During Word of the Week this morning, I learned something important. When a familiar parable is shared communally, first in silence and then with words, something new emerges and the parable becomes richer. Today, I heard: “It is never too late. There is always another chance.  Let no one be locked out”. And “We all run out of oil at one time or another, so let us share what we have with those who have not, without judgment.”  Gratitude to all who shared their wisdom this morning.

I celebrate my birthday on All Saints Day and I have always felt a sacred obligation to remember all of the people in my “communion of saints”. These are people who are mostly unknown, very ordinary and usually overlooked. But they have met me in the day to day “stuff” of life, encouraging me to celebrate the sacred moment by moment. I thank them in a special way today.

As I reflect on hospitality, I realize that I find it difficult to extend hospitality to anyone who offers to help me. I can be fiercely independent and fend off offers of help. I pray that I learn both humility and gratitude as I surrender my pride and graciously accept help when it is offered. In this way, I can extend my hospitality to friends and strangers whenever they offer a helping hand.

I have always belonged to two churches.
The first one is the one I was baptized in. You know the one. The one with an altar, a crucifix, wooden pews and creeky kneelers. It can be judgmental and sometimes exclusionary.
The second one welcomes all comers. No need for genuflections or confessions or dress up clothes. It is a place of great diversity. An inclusive place where I can be myself. A place where a God is present in the most unusual yet genuine way. A place where neglected places and people are nurtured.

As I read this powerful and challenging reflection, I sit in the calm and quiet of my home. I notice how often I stray, my attention wandering away from all that God is doing at this very moment. Then I think of all of those in dire circumstances: COVID-19 victims gasping for breath, humans and animals running from raging fires, African Americans terrified of law enforcement, babies and children held in cages at our border. Evidence indicates that many of these have gone deep inside to find the faith that enables them to live fully or die fully. And I bow in humility at their courage and resolve to be more attentive to each moment. For each is overflowing with God.

Susan Kenney

[Author]

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