Lotus and Lily Field Notes

For some obscure reason (as my colleague Karl-Heinz Finken used to say) I have been tripping on classic English literature lately. First it was Dickens’ Oliver Twist (which I just adored); now it’s on to an even nuttier chestnut, Ivanhoe.  Something about the leisurely periods and formal set-pieces just completely knocks me out.  Probably the same twisted gene that makes me love Gregorian chant and medieval saints’ tales.

But there may be more to it than that.  In the wonderful scene between Ivanhoe and Rebecca that I just read, the debate is about the merit of glorious chivalric endeavor.  Translate that set of issues to contemporary struggles we all face about ambition versus heart, and it’s really quite relevant.  She says,

“Glory?” continued Rebecca; “alas, is the rusted mail which hangs as a hatchment over the champion’s dim and mouldering tomb — is the defaced sculpture of the inscription which the ignorant monk can hardly read to the enquiring pilgrim — are these sufficient rewards for the sacrifice of every kindly affection, for a life spent miserably that ye may make others miserable? Or is there such virtue in the rude rhymes of a wandering bard, that domestic love, kindly affection, peace and happiness, are so wildly bartered, to become the hero of those ballads which vagabond minstrels sing to drunken churls over their evening ale?”

I ponder this as I witness the explosion of increasingly amped up plugged-in-ness that surrounds me every day.  Technology is the new glory.  “Kindly affection, peace and happiness” seem entirely quaint, entirely old-fashioned, and yet I think we are starving to death together without them.

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Some time ago I read someplace that medieval monks imagined that the angels were singing with them when they chanted the divine office.  Recently reading Bernard of Clairvaux’s sermons on the Song of Songs, I found at least one primary source for this lovely idea, in his seventh sermon:

That the holy angels do condescend to mingle with us when we praise God in psalmody is very clearly stated by the Psalmist: “The princes went before, joined with the singers, in the midst of young damsels playing on timbrels. (Psalm 68:26)  He also said, “I will sing praise to you in the sight of the angels. (Psalm 138:1) … Joined therefore as you are in songs of praise with heaven’s own singers, since you too are citizens like all the saints, and part of God’s household, sing wisely.”

I had a remarkable and wholly unexpected experience of singing with the angels last weekend.  I had made my way to St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church in Seattle, looking for a meeting of the Contemplative Wisdom Community.  I inadvertently stumbled into the church’s Sunday evening service instead.  It is a contemplative Eucharist service, so it had the right feel to it, but after sitting a few minutes with the 30 or so people gathered there I began to notice that something was quite different.  Many of the participants–certainly more than half of them–were challenged with some sort of developmental disability or other (I regret that I don’t know the correct terms to describe these things–one man shook very badly, others seemed to have mental disabilities or other forms of non-standard behavior or demeanor).  Here I was, expecting to connect with the super-cool, super-high-functioning mystics, and I found myself instead in the presence of a very different kind of energy: very beautiful, as it happened, and devoted, simple and clear.  The service included a segment for hands-on healing–very beautiful.  The music was simple and sung with gusto–very beautiful.  The responsory portions, the Eucharist passed from person to person (sometimes with shaking hands or the assistance of others)–very beautiful indeed.  My heart cracked open with wonder and joy, my habits of resistance and resentment, my deconstruction of the theology of the texts were washed away, almost miraculously.

There were angels there that day, and I felt privileged to be among them.  Doubtless I am romanticizing what was after all a brief encounter, but in the presence of this heartful childlike clarity I felt convicted (old-fashioned religious term, entirely appropriate) of all the addictions to sophistication and cerebral complications I indulge in.  There’s an Orthodox saying, “the road from the head to the heart is the longest journey.”  That evening I made a couple of steps down that path.  May I have the grace to continue walking!

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