Crazy Stable

Bridge fragments, Prospect Park

Too many of my friends are struggling and in pain these days, it seems. "Tough economy" doesn't begin to describe what it means to find yourself out of work, interminably, after years of sharing your expertise, experience and dedication. It doesn't touch what it means to drag yourself to a job you live in gut-wrenching fear of losing, or one where the ground feels shaky under your feet. And it doesn't hint at the corrosive anguish of wondering how the hell you will make ends meet, for months or years on end.

This is a "tough topic" in Lent, when we are called traditionally to fasting, prayer and almsgiving. That last one in particular: What are we called to do for "the poor" when we worry about meeting our own needs and those of our families? I sometimes want to shake Jesus and remind him that the "lilies of the field" never had to feed or educate their kids, pay for health care, or survive retirement. Yes, I know—giving alms can involve "time and talent" as well as, or instead of, "treasure." But it can be tempting to despair that your time and talent are valued by no one, at least in worldly coin. No easy answers, except that it sucks, and that by now I have a stumbling hope that God is closest to us when things suck the worst.

Here is a morning prayer steeped in the hope of compassion. As someone who struggles horribly with mornings, I love its acknowledgement that some days will be harder than others. Thanks to Mary Margaret Cannon of my faith community, the Oratory Church of St. Boniface, for posting it online today; it is attributed to St. Boniface, a British missionary to Germanic tribes who once hacked down an oak tree worshipped by pagans and who surely had his share of discouragement.

Eternal God,
the refuge of all your children,
in our weakness, you are our strength,
in our darkness, you are our light,
in our sorrow, you are our comfort and peace.
May we always live in your presence,
and serve you in our daily lives;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Late have I loved Thee,
O Beauty so ancient and so new,
late have I loved Thee!
For behold Thou wert within me, and I outside;
and I sought Thee outside and in my unloveliness fell upon those lovely things that Thou hast made.
Thou wert within me, but I was not with Thee.
I was kept from Thee by those things,
yet had they not been in Thee, they would not have been at all.
Thou didst call and cry to me and break open my deafness; and Thou didst send forth Thy beams and shine upon me and chase away my blindness; Thou didst breathe fragrance upon me, and I drew in my breath and do now pant for Thee; I tasted Thee, and now hunger and thirst for Thee; Thou didst touch me, and I have burned for Thy peace.

That is a prayer by St. Augustine of Hippo (354-430, and no, there is no "1" missing from the beginning of those dates). Check out his burnin' love in this none-too-subtle allegorical painting by Baroque artist Philippe de Champaigne (I love the label, VERITAS, in case we'd miss the point).

St. Augustine, of course, is most famous for the mad sexy sins he described (remorsefully, of course) in his autobiographical Confessions, from which this ravishing prayer is taken. I tried to wade through it once in my teens, like a lot of readers, expecting it to be a bit more salacious than it was, but I never forgot this prayer. I love the lush antiquarian cadence of this translation by F.J. Sheed (of the Catholic publishers Sheed & Ward). But if you prefer a version without "Thees" and "werts," this English translation was given by the Vatican when Benedict XVI quoted the prayer in an address in 2008. It still, fortunately, includes "panting."

Late have I loved you, beauty so old and so new: late have I loved you.

And see, you were within and I was in the external world and sought you there, and in my unlovely state I plunged into those lovely created things which you made.

You were with me, and I was not with you. The lovely things kept me far from you, though if they did not have their existence in you, they had no existence at all.

You called and cried aloud and shattered my deafness. You were radiant and resplendent, you put to flight my blindness. You were fragrant, and I drew in my breath and now pant after you. I tasted you, and I feel but hunger and thirst for you. You touched me, and I am set on fire to attain the peace which is yours.

To start the week, a prayer from beloved spiritual author Henri Nouwen. I often actually find my fists clenched and find it almost impossible to relax my hands, even at rest; I am loathe to speculate on what this implies about my spiritual life, but this beautiful invocation may help.

Dear God,

I am so afraid to open my clenched fists!

Who will I be when I have nothing left to hold on to?

Who will I be when I stand before you with empty hands?

Please help me to gradually open my hands

and to discover that I am not what I own,

but what you want to give me.

And what you want to give me is love—

unconditional, everlasting love.

Amen.



Henri Nouwen (1932-1996) was a Dutch-born Catholic pastor, professor, and author of more than 40 books developing his "theology of the heart." His is a radical spirituality, not watered-down therapy. For example:

"Maybe someone will say to you, 'You have to forgive yourself.' But that isn’t possible. What is possible is to open your hands without fear, so that the One who loves you can blow your sins away." For more of his wonderful insights on unclenching our fists, go here. If you, like Henri and me, have struggled with depression, you might want to start wtih The Inner Voice of Love: A Journey Through Anguish to Freedom, one of his most intensely personal works. Have a blessed week!

Crazy Stable: Crazed Catholic Lenten Prayer Edition completes its first full week! I've posted a kickin' old-school prayer (almost) daily since Ash Wednesday and am just warming up. If I pull this off, blogging may join fasting, prayer and almsgiving as a Lenten discipline, and you will know whom to thank.

Technically, I believe, Sundays are not part of Lent. But since I missed posting yesterday, I'll share today the only prayer I remember to say with any regularity: one for children from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, given to me by my dear friend Merian after my daughter's birth. She referred to herself as an Anglican, so including this prayer in a Catholic context reminds me of the bar owner in The Blues Brothers who assured Jake and Elwood, "Oh, we play both kinds of music: country and western!" 

I pray it when my daughter sails out of the house each morning, but now I'll include this sweetheart: Melven, the little guy we just sponsored through the Christian Foundation for Children and Aging. This is a fantastic organization, for which our former pastor now works; they spend their money wisely in the developing world, and the kids and elderly folks sponsored really do exist. Melven is 6, likes "maths" and dancing, and has a little sister and a dad whose income as a security guard "is not enough to maintain basic expenses." Curiously, his dossier also states that Melven is "willing to become a doctor." Since I live in Brooklyn and he in India (two places where nothing is impossible), someday I could look up from a gurney in my blithering old age and see those gorgeous eyes looking down at me from over a surgical mask. There are lots more kids (and dear, needy old folks) waiting; go here if you can spare $30 a month to sponsor one of them!

Here is that beautiful prayer for our children, spiritual and otherwise; for girls, please swap in "her" for "him" so I needn't burden the syntax.

A Prayer for A Child

Watch over thy child, O Lord, as his days increase. Bless and guide him wherever he may be. Strengthen him when he stands; comfort him when discouraged or sorrowful; raise him up if he fall; and in his heart may Thy peace, which passeth understanding, abide all the days of his life, through Jesus Christ Our Lord. Amen.

"Ten Lepers" by James Christensen

To know me, is to know how much I love the gospel story of the 10 lepers healed by Christ (Luke 17:11-19). I love it so much I named my graphic arts enterprise "Tenth Leper Press." And now I have discovered this enchanting painting by Mormon fantasy artist James Christensen. I am reproducing it without permission, so maybe if I link to his gallery where you can buy a copy, they will forgive me.

The story obsesses me for many reasons. One is the rough mathematical accuracy (in my experience) of "one out of 10 lepers says thank you." The story acknowledges the pain of all unthanked healers and givers ("Were not all ten cleansed?" Christ asks, a question that always pricks my heart.) It also reflects how often we cut and run after fate seems to deal us a break; sometimes, you just don't want to be reminded of your old self, or how bad things might've been. The Tenth Leper, who comes back and "falls on his face," does more than thank; as Mark Lane, C.O. of the Oratory of St. Boniface has pointed out, this guy must now grapple with a new identity as a healthy person, and (as happened in Monty Python's Life of Brian), he may now be out of a perfectly good job begging piteously. Healing can be scary; it brings a whole bunch of new expectations.

But gratitude is something we can get right even when we're too dysfunctional to accomplish much else. If you are blessed with a human healer in your life, let them know. (For an awesome tale in that vein, see below.) Here is a prayer that channels the Tenth Leper. I honestly don't know where it came from. 

The Prayer of the Tenth Leper 

Jesus, Master, have pity on me.

Touch me in my isolation.

Heal me of my afflictions.

Free me to serve you with a glad heart,

And draw me back always to thank you

For your infinite mercy and love. Amen.

The Grateful Patient: An Uncanny Tale

'Ten Lepers Healed' by Brian Kershisnik (another Mormon, interestingly)In a previous post, I posited only half-kiddingly that my dad, a Catholic convert with a  bottomless heart, was a bona fide saint. Here is, perhaps, a bit of evidence for his "cause" (as Catholics call the project of getting a saint canonized): When my dad died of leukemia in 1985, the hematologist/oncologist who had cared for him, and all of us, with great compassion was unfortunately traveling in his native Italy on medical business. We stumbled out of the hospital in a fog of grief, and I never got a chance to thank that physician for all his care. I meant to call, really. Years passed. Twenty years, actually, and then some. One day, on a guilty whim, I googled the doctor, who was still in practice, and e-mailed him a note of thanks.

The doc promptly replied, saying he was touched (if, I suspect, a bit puzzled) to have gotten such a note so long after losing his patient. He admitted that he did not recall my father individually after all these years, but vividly recalled the week following his death; when he was to have flown back to New York, he changed his flight on an inexplicable, strangely persistent hunch. Doing so, he recounted, may have saved his life, since a terrorist attack tore through the terminal from which he would have departed, killing 16. I learned two things from this interchange: (1) Yeah, Daddy's first miracle, and try convincing me otherwise. (2) Cool things can happen when you swallow your pride and say thank you, even when it's ludicrously overdue.