Pinball Wizard

By Friday night there were easily 2000 people at prayers. Surprisingly, I noticed a spot near the front and settled in, laying my songbook, scripture sheet, journal and reading glasses in a little patch of rug in front of me. We are nothing if not territorial. Someone nearby— someone very nearby— was ripe with epic B.O. I tried not to let it distract me, to think divine thoughts as the odor of a man— it had to be man— wafted across my prayer path. I couldn’t bring myself to look, thinking instead, compassionate thoughts about the long journey he must have driven to get here, the culture of hygiene being different wherever he was from, the obstacles to showering in Taize; still, did he ever stink. I considered moving but the church had already grown so full that they had opened the first set of industrial doors— an ingenious construct that adapted to intimate gatherings or massive celebrations— to expand the space.

I was reminding myself that the discipline of seeking peace was a perpetual challenge when, suddenly, four bouncy and perfectly-glossed teens hopscotched over several adults and took the spots directly beneath the primary icon of Christ ascending. They didn’t look around to see if, perhaps, they were disturbing anyone’s eyeline or personal space. They didn’t say excuse me. I was staring at the backs of their shiny blonde heads and thinking about sin vs. child development theory (Orangina at the Oyak)— wondering if their self-absorption was age or beauty related— when an extremely, tall, broad-shouldered young man, his height and breadth made even more pronounced by his devotion, placed a kneeler directly in front of me and settled in. His upturned size 12 feet were actually laying on my songbook. It was not that I needed to have a perfect view, but I was now 18″— tops— from his back, his blue-striped sweater becoming my own personal icon. There was only one direction in which to scoot over, closer to the source of the B.O. I picked up my things, repositioned myself a foot to the left, and now, daring to look, discovered that the source of the gaminess was none other than Alistair. He didn’t see me, his eyes shut with beatific intensity.

I felt in that moment as if I were a pinball in God’s great game and my job— if I wanted to keep rising— was to find a way to see each person— the blondes, the broad-backed boy, Alistair— the way God would see them. Manage that, and I would be thrust back into play for another shot at deeper understanding; a richer, more fruitful faith. Fail in that, give in to spite, annoyance, aggravation, anger and I would be the one to lose, falling down through that mysterious dark hole.

I started to laugh, not aloud, but deeply as the music began and together we began to sing Bleib mit deiner Gnade (Stay with us, O Lord Jesus Christ, night will soon fall…) The refrains seemed to go on for ever. There was a subtle movement just to my left and I turned. Another young girl, a blond girl, was suddenly overcome with tears. The girl beside her, a brunette, reached over to comfort her, holding her as a mother holds a child, swaddling her tenderly. The sight of them was so moving that it purged me of all my minor grievances and I could do nothing but stare at those two beautiful young girls, so passionate, so caring. The brunette turned slightly to kiss the blonde girl’s head, revealing her face to me: yes, of course, it had to be, the Keeper of the Valuables Counter (Money Changes Everything, Valuables Redux).

Bing, Bing, Bing….the pinball stumbled and I was forced once again to see a person I had begun to characterize through my own selfish terms through God’s eyes. Bing, bing, bing, stay in the game. Stay with us, O Lord Jesus Christ, night will soon fall.

The tall, broad-shouldered boy in the striped sweater now bowed down on the floor, shifting the space, opening anew a clear view of the image of Christ. I thought once again about something Br. John had said on the very first day. God is always the same, and always changing. Bing, bing, bing. Our job is to try to keep moving with his cues.

Valuables redux

To really appreciate this story you have to have read the post “Money Changes Everything.” Go ahead: I’ll wait. Ok, so, where were we. Ah, so it’s Friday evening just after the workshop and the dinner and I needed to go down to the office and let them know about our departure plans on Sunday. It was a beautiful evening, and I felt a certain lightness that led to a burst of spontaneity— I know! How ’bout since I’m down here, and it happens to be the 15-minute window of time that the Valuables Counter is open, and there are only a few people in line, why don’t I just get everything out of there now. The crowds were already starting to grow and I just wanted the whole process to be done with.

“Hello!” I smiled brightly. The stern young girl, whom I’d taken to referring to as German, nodded. “I decided I’d go ahead and pick everything up early.”

“May I have your slip?”

My what? “Um,” I said, fumbling through my little backpack; my belongs had been reduced to such a small selection that there was no clutter to sort through. If there were a slip here, I would see it. “I don’t think I have it anymore.”

“Well I can’t release your valuables without the slip.”

“I think I might have lost it.”

“Well you’ll need to look for it and come back.”

“But what if I can’t find it?” I wondered if this pattern of conversation was sounding as familiar to her as it was to me.

“Why don’t you look for it, and we can see how things stand after that.”

“But you know me. You checked the things in. My passport and my driver’s license are in there. You can match my face to the pictures so you know the right person is getting it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Please have a look and come back tomorrow,” and with that she moved onto the next person.

Gone was the feeling of lightness, of spontaneity. I retraced my steps. If I didn’t have the slip, where was it? It must have been, I decided, in the empty passport case that I returned to my aunt after I’d check everything in. She would have it. I would go back to the room before Evening Prayers and she would have the slip and I would not have to worry about it all weekend. Naturally, worrying and stewing were entirely up to me and not at all in keeping with the Spirit of Taize; what can I say, we mortals get it wrong a lot.

Back in the room we set out on a hunt for the empty passport case which I was now certain had the slip in it; half an hour later, with the room upturned, we could find neither the case nor the slip. A trip to the Lost and Found would now be needed. I would go right after the service. I would close the loop and find peace. And so it was, with my head full of sturm und drang, I entered the sanctuary for prayers.

How do we hear His call?

By the weekend the 5:45 workshop options had multiplied. I chose “God at work in us: how do we hear His call?” and found myself in a large room filled almost entirely with twenty-somethings. Was the question of vocation simply more relevant to the young, or was it that older people had stopped asking questions they didn’t want the answer to— or maybe felt they already had. The idea of calling was profoundly important to me. I had read Parker Palmer’s book Let your Life Speak many times— even led a retreat based on the material— and was now eager to hear what a brother from Taize would add to my growing understanding.

He was late. And when he did finally arrive, he seemed unprepared. He had the jittery, showy energy of a street mime, making fun of the title of the workshop, I suppose as a way of endearing himself to the young people. I tried to remind myself that the brothers were there, first and foremost, to live our their vows to Christ and the community, and second, to reach the young. Whether or not I liked him was of absolutely no consequence. Still, there were two things I remember well from that hour:

First, the Brother referred us to Matthew 19:17, the story of the wealthy man who feels he’s done everything right, has kept all the commandments, and now wants Jesus’s assurance that he will have eternal life. “If you want to be perfect,” Jesus says to him, “go, sell your belongings and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” (Matthew 19:21) Part of the Brother’s point in recounting this story was to show how the man, who had approached Jesus with the term “good teacher,” was not being sincere. He was trying to use earthly ways, such as flattery, to sway him. The second point was that the wealthy man claimed with confidence that he had kept all the commandments, an unlikely claim, and one that would not be for him to judge— again, arrogance where there should have been humility.

But I think the most essential point was the question of whether or not the man really felt he was being “called’ to the next level of commitment, or if he were simply looking for a blanket “no, you’re good, you’re great” that would cover him for the rest of his days. What opened up to me as the Brother spoke was this: If the desire to know the answer was sincere and had been planted in the wealthy man’s heart by God, then the man would not have had any trouble accepting Jesus’s invitation. Even though he had great wealth, that would pale in value to the opportunity to live out his personal calling.

“Most of us,” he said, “Think our Call is supposed to be big and flashy and long-suffering, but that is not the case.”

He went onto tell a story of how he had been doing service work at an orphanage in India and there had been a young Westerner there volunteering. It was clear that he was miserable. He didn’t like the Indian people, or the food or the flies; he didn’t seem to have any gift for working with children, or for tolerating discomfort of any kind. Most of his summer was spent griping to whomever would listen. When the Brother suggested to him that he really shouldn’t be there, the young man said, “But isn’t this what we’re supposed to do? Help the poor?”

It was a valid question, and it reflects a mistake a lot of us make. I frequently feel that if I were really, really committed, I would been in that orphanage with him, doing the hard, messy, selfless, service work. But I would likely be as unhappy as he was, because there is nothing in me that points in that direction. None of my gifts, none of my life experience, none of the things that give me joy. Trying to live out someone else’s vocation— no matter how cool or impressive it sounds— doesn’t honor God, or the individual.

Here’s what the Brother suggested: If you want to practice serving the poor, start small. Help your poor mother with the dishes. Help your poor father with the yardwork. Help your poor neighbor with the kids when they seem overwhelmed. Start there and see what grows. This is how your ears will become better attuned to God.

Alistair the Barrister, redeemed

….It was hard to imagine getting our little ragtag group back to a comfortable level of dialogue, let alone a fluid, exultant exchange, but that one simple question, asked after an instant of prayer, transformed everything. How does the life of Jesus change your understanding of God? The answers came, one after another, from Val and Hele and Michael and Rasmus. We talked about how, were it not for Jesus, we would see our spiritual interactions as being all about us and our connection to the divine source of power. How without Jesus, God was distant, removed, maybe even gone altogether but with him He became immediate, intimate, instructive. But mainly we talked about how Jesus’s life modeled for us how to live with one another: how to serve, to love, to show mercy, to defend, to build up, to listen to and be patient with.

One of the small groups I led back home— all women, most successful in worldly terms— had coined an expression that always made us laugh at ourselves. “It’s easy to love people….as long as you aren’t trying to get anything done.” A companion adage might be, “It’s easy to love people….as long as you don’t have to spend much time with them.” But here in Taize there is no getting away from people, not if you’re heeding God’s call through Christ to work in, with, and through them, to be both blessed and blessing, which can only happen in relationship with others. This is the difference that the life of Jesus made in our understanding of God.

Alistair cleared his throat.

“I work long days,” he began. “Legal consulting,” he added vaguely. “And when I get home, I like to have a few glasses of wine to relax.” The group froze, did not lean in closer so as not to unnerve him in any way. “It’s not that I drink too much — I don’t— that is not the issue, but I work very hard all day, and I need that downtime.” The group was ready to leap over, to hug him, to nod in agreement, but he continued. “But sometimes I wonder if having my wine is being unfaithful to my obligations as a Christian, because, it’s occurred to me — it’s never happened, but I’ve wondered about it— if a friend were to call me at 10 or 11 with a flat tire, or after a row with his wife, or there was some emergency with a family at church— would I be able to help or advise them to the best of my ability. And the answer to that, I’m embarrassed to say, is no.”

Like bees to the hive we swarmed, kissing his wounded spirit with gratitude for his honesty, his humility, and maybe even more than that, for his holding up a mirror for each one of us. I, too, was a high-achiever who enjoyed a glass of wine in the evening to wind down. “I just need to be off duty sometimes,” I confessed. Val seconded the motion, and Michael, from the confines of his wheel chair and the torments of his wracked body shouted out, “Yes!” There was a sense that each one of us, to a greater or lesser degree, carried with us some guilt over not being able to be “good enough” servants; that even when we took our rest, we suspected we could be doing better.

In that, I realized, we were all missing the most important way in which the life — and death— of Jesus changed our understanding of God: that we are forgiven. And that our endless human mess, as we had all just had the good pleasure to witness, could be endlessly redeemed in Him.

Amen

Alistair the Barrister

After our morning Bible study, one of our new English friends dropped us off in the nearby town of Cluny— home to the first Benedictine monastery— for a walk-about and some lunch. We scrambled to get a bus back in time for our afternoon study group, which was now comprised of me, Michael, who could not communicate on his own, Rasmus, Michael’s main helper, Michael’s second helper, Hele, a nice Danish woman who spoke limited English, my aunt (who felt like taking the afternoon off), and Val, who had joined us the day before. She was one of those lively, chatty, country women who lived either in Scotland or France or both —it was hard to track all the details with her— but whose joyful spirit was a welcome addition. We had just found our little spot on the lawn when a new man approached. He reminded me of an oversized Colin Firth, simultaneously awkward and pompous. We welcomed him and, after learning that his name was Alistair and he was from Britain, we dove right in, turning to a quote by Father Basil Gondikakis. He was the abbot of a monastery on Mount Athos, who used mystical, poetic language to express his thoughts.

“With the example and the help of the Virgin, every peaceful and transparent soul, open to the divine will,
can become a Mother of God, according to grace, conceiving and giving birth to a little joy that transcends death.”

Beautiful, I thought, as the circle fell silent, pensive, grateful for the words. “Alistair,” I said, wanting quickly to engage him, “What do you get from this passage?”

He shifted his bulky frame in the small metal folding chair and said, “Well I don’t think there’s much to get. It’s fairly superficial.”

“Really?” I said. “How so?” I began to fear that he was so much brighter and more advanced theologically than the rest of us that my delight in the passage was about to be shown as folly.

“Well it’s about parenting, obviously. And I suppose that’s helpful for some. I mean, I know people who are always looking for parenting tips in the Bible and of course there aren’t any.”

I didn’t know where to start. The entire group fell dumbstruck. I don’t think I’d ever led a group of adults in which someone had missed the mark by that much. “I’m not sure it’s really about parenting,” I said gently. “I think it’s trying to say something about how each one of us —men and women alike — can give birth to a special kind of joy and hope, if we’re willing.” I quickly turned to the others. “That’s just my thought. Did anyone else have anything?”

“Well, I agree with Heather,” Val said, which didn’t seem to please Alistair. She then went on for another 7 or 8 minutes expanding —but not by much —on what I’d already said. Michael, usually a vocal contributor declined to add anything. Hele and Rasmus smiled vaguely as if a pleasant expression might help quell the growing tension. Alistair did not look at Val as she spoke, but when she was done he turned to me with his hand on his chin, his index finger posed along his cheek as if preparing to say something snide, or perhaps, have a photo taken for a book jacket. “How is it that you came to be the leader of this group?” he asked. “Are you a part of the Taize community?

“Oh, no,” I said, starting to wish I had stayed in Cluny, enjoyed another glass of Pouilly-Fuisse. “I’m just a visitor, like you.”

“I don’t understand, then, why are you leading this group?”

“Well, I guess, someone has to. I just got things started earlier in the week and it’s sort of stayed that way.”

Val chimed in, her hand on my back. “Heather does an excellent job. We’re very glad to have her.”

“Would you like to lead instead, Alistair? I’d be happy to have you do it.”

“No, no,” he said. “That wasn’t my point.”

“Well, would you like to pick the next discussion question?” This would be hard for him to do, as he had not read any of the material in advance, not because he didn’t have time, but because he seemed to find it all, in the words of Family Guy’s Peter Griffin, a bit “shallow and pedantic” for his tastes.

“No, no, you go ahead,” he said, and returned his attention to the patch of grass at his feet.

I looked at my lap, thumbed through the question prompts and the short readings, prayed silently for guidance. Looking up I decided we’d get a fresh start. “Let’s move onto Br. John’s questions for a minute. Question 1: How does the life of Jesus change our understanding of God? (to be continued)