Lessons from the Birds on a Snowy Walk

With the warmer weather the birds are really beginning to chirp and warble. Toward the end of my time at the Jesuit Center, the winter storms had past and the sun had begun to come out. With the end of the bluster the birds began coming out from all of their hiding places. So did I and I took a snowy walk around the grounds which was much more leisurely in the absence of the tempest.
I am a birder of sorts. I set out hopeful for some good pictures. Especially because my friend Scott always gets some really nice ones and I wanted to share.
As I have said, a part of Ignatian spirituality is seeing God in all things. Here is how God and I had a conversation through the birds on my sun dappled snowy walk.
I set out eagerly and am looking up in the trees and in the fields for my "conquest"- birds ready for me to encounter them.
I hear them but the sun is bright and with the reflection off of the snow, I can not see what I hear, so I have to keep on.
Maybe there will be a better spot.
Then the wind blows and birds scatter.
Finally, I happen upon a lovely group of bluebirds- they are cheerfully engaged in their activity and are just beyond my range.
Determined to get closer, I scare them off.
Time and again until I give up and just watch. Watch as they call to each other and as they rejoice in the day.
Then I hear a tap-tap-tapping and look up to see a resplendent flicker, but he is always angled so that I cannot do the "glamour shot." The flicker is oblivious to my being there- so engrossed in his own search. There are no other birds with him but he cares not at all. Another bird finally joins but he moves on- and in his own flurry to "do" startles away the chickadee.
Are there times we become so committed to "our work" that we fail to see we are not community? Do we chase off others in our enthusiasm?

Further on there are more chickadees- but in flight are the crows.
Loud, dominant, and overwhelming. They dash the hopes of the little birds as they descend. Too much.

I sit in the esplanade and decide I cannot will the birds to stay put or pose "just right" and that fortunately I chose to enjoy what they were doing rather than just focus on what I wanted.

I know this is simplistic, but often it bears repeating.
Then I hear two birds engaged in a "call and response."
Bird one: I do this
Bird two: I do it back. And I add something.
Bird one: I try my pattern again- I do what I did
Bird two: I repeat what you did.
Bird one: I do this, but Bird Two comes in and cuts me off.
Both stop.
After a pause this pattern repeats
Bird one decides that "I can't get you to follow me and you can't get me to follow you"
Both fly off.

This pattern happens to people too.
Whenever our community is more about "me" than "us."
When it is not about discerning God's will together.

When we forget what the core really is.
We all do this.
And I ponder how I do this.

Who is Christ for Us?

One of my favorite places at the Jesuit Center is the main chapel. Above the altar is a radiantly beautiful mosaic of the scene of the crucifixion. I suppose that sounds a little inconsistent- radiant beauty/crucifixion.
This depiction of Christ has a duality to it- brilliance and praise, exuberant colors, but in the midst of these vivid hues, there is Christ on the cross, pale, dying and suffering.
I know that this mosaic like many depictions, in some way is an effort for us to beautify the horror of the factual act, to cover up the horror of what we, humanity have done. And yet, in the midst of this pale suffering one, there is a glow to Christ. Depicted as the Jesus we know and yet not just Jesus we know.

At different times of the day the chapel may be bathed in light streaming through the stained glass windows, or deep still darkness, almost like a tomb. For most of the time, the chapel mosaic is lit. In the midst of those deep darkness times, it almost leaps off of the wall. When it is dark and the mosaic is not lit, the space is somber yet compelling.
One of the other retreatants had shared with me that there is a tiny balcony on the third floor of the building. When you are there it seems as if you are floating above the chapel space. At the same level as the mosaic, but at opposite ends of the nave.
I looked at the mosaic the first time- there are the three crosses. On the left, the thief to whom Jesus has said, "Today you will be with me." Beneath him are onlookers who are walking away- though one has his head turned back toward Jesus. They have decided Jesus' death means nothing to them.
Beneath Jesus in the center are the Marys and John, and on the right, the other thief and the soldiers who have cast lots.


That first time I focused on the onlookers for whom this meant nothing worth sticking around for. Then I focused upon Christ.
What does it mean that Jesus died for you?
Who is Christ for us?

The second time, I returned when the chapel is in utter darkness- all I can see are layers of shadow. Places where nothing is clear and I am seemingly alone-places we have all felt in our lives. That proverbial shadow of the cross. Can I still sense Christ in that space?
Not by seeing, or by touching, or hearing. Not by anything overtly physical.
Yet still in this space, and maybe especially here, where I have stepped out of all that surrounds me- there is only God.

Henri Nouwen lifts up this experience -
Solitude "shows us the way to let our behavior be shaped not by the compulsions of the world, but by our new mind, the mind of Christ."
Silence "prevents us from being suffocated by our wordy world and teaches us to speak the Word of God that emerges from the silence."
Here in this space, where we can engage in unceasing prayer, such prayer gives solitude and silence "their real meaning... we descend with the mind into the heart-through our heart into the heart of God who embraces all of history with His eternally creative and re-creative love."


The third time I returned, after praying for awhile, focused upon Christ, I was drawn to the kneeling Mary Magdalene as I became aware that someone was in the chapel below who was crying. Mary is on her knees at the foot of Christ's cross, with her head in her hands, sobbing.
"Were you there when they crucified my Lord?"
"Who was the guilty? ... I crucified Thee."
I looked back at Christ who though pale and dying has a rainbow of waves and gold rays emanating from behind him in the mosaic. Pale but powerful. Each wave or ray touching one of the others at the foot of the cross.

Forgiveness.

Now I look at the onlookers again- walking away- walking away from forgiveness.
Are there things I hold onto that exhibit walking away from, or refusing to accept forgiveness?


In Christ there is that radiant light. The sky around him of vivid blue and gold may seem lovely, like all that calls us away, but in the end, it is a dark sky. Christ is the light in that deceptive darkness. Calling us to live in the knowledge that we are given the ability to not be stuck on our knees, sobbing, but to be re-created in newness by that pale yet powerful, suffering yet triumphant One who touches us across time and space forever.

Patient Trust

I decided to make this retreat as a way of stopping and taking stock of my internship year at the mid point. As it turns out, I have completed seven months as of the weekend of my time apart. A time to reflect and pray about all that has gone on my life these last seven months in a large parish that has been around since 1730 with a staff in the double digits. There is a very different perception of time and of timing.
A vicar's time in the parish is short- a year.
The ongoing work of the collective body spans a much larger and longer spectrum. Vicars spend time in class preparing to integrate learning.
Time in the parish shows that the flow of integration in real life in the parish is vastly out of sync with the world of the semester. None of this is earth-shattering news, and yet reality "on the ground" must be processed.
Where are the joys and moments of God's grace?
Where are the challenges and how might God be speaking in them?

"Patient Trust"
by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S.J.

Above all, trust in the slow work of God.
We are quite naturally impatient in everything
to reach the end without delay.
We should like to skip the intermediate stages.
We are impatient of being on the way to something unknown, something new.
And yet it is the law of all progress that it is made
by passing through some stages of instability-
and that it may take a very long time.
And so I think it is with you;
your ideas mature gradually-let them grow, let them shape themselves,
without undue haste.
Don't try to force them on,
as though you could be today
what time (that is to say, grace and circumstances acting on your own good will)
will make of you tomorrow.
Only God could say what this new spirit gradually forming in you will be.
Give our Lord the benefit of believing that His hand is leading you
and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself in suspense and incomplete.