Wading into Lent: An Ignatian Adventure

I'm easing into Lent this year.  Instead of gorging on chocolate or getting some Scrabble games lined up, I'm slowly clearing out some space, physical and spiritual, around the season.  I cleared out my prayer space, now that I can kneel again (woot!), and this weekend I began to walk the path of the Exercises again, in the company of Kevin O'Brien, SJ's The Ignatian Adventure (the book is here and an adapted version is here at Loyola Press' Ignatian Spirituality site, I'm using material from both.)

This time the adventure I'm headed into is not the immersive version of the Exercises envisioned by Ignatius in the 20th annotation, nor is it the embedded version he lays out in the 19th, but this extended retreat in daily life is informed more by the spirit of the 18th annotation in which Ignatius suggests that those who cannot (for many reasons) benefit from or undertake the full Exercises, might still be given that which may help them.

So, with a little encouragement and prayerful support from Patient Spiritual Director, I am diving into and out of the material that make up the Exercises, committing to spending 30 minutes in prayer with it each day from now through the octave of Easter.

There was a plane in the Hudson river?

Four years ago I missed the inauguration.  Entirely.  I didn't hear the president's address, see the photos, or know who sang the national anthem (the Navy Chorus - I just looked it up on Wikipedia where it turns out everything I might want to know, and somewhat more, is collected).  I was away making the Spiritual Exercises and so wasn't watching TV, trolling the webs or even seeing the newspaper.  At the time I remember thinking it was strange that so many people were watching this event, and I was not.¹ Shortly after I got home, I read the inaugural address, but I didn't do much else to catch up on the news that I had missed.

Fast forward to a year later, when I sat down with my tea and turned to page two of the newspaper to find a photo of a plane in a river. What??!  And what was it doing on page two, and why hadn't I heard anything about it on the radio?² Because it was the anniversary of the event and the entire news cycle had come and gone while I was holed up at Eastern point on retreat.  Which was somewhat of a relief, I will admit.

This year I listened to the inaugural address on the radio, and saw it through the eyes of Crash who walked from WJU to the Mall to see it.   But as I sit here, on the edge of Lent, it has me wondering what I'm looking for in the news (and despite my abstinence from television, make no mistake about it, I am a news junky), why do I read it?  It's clear that the universe will continue to turn whether or not I know about it.

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1.  I also missed the SuperBowl, but didn't think about that until just this minute.
2.  Full disclosure, I don't watch TV³ even when I'm not on a 30-day silent retreat.  It not a political or any other kind of statement, I just slowly fell out of the habit about fifteen years ago.
3.  Well, I do watch the occasional series on the interwebs.  Downton Abbey.  Mad Men.  Scandal (!)

Homilies: What does Joe Six Pew hear?

Several friends have been reflecting about the homilies they heard this weekend.  Some of them heard homilies that challenged them (though one certainly not in a way that was helpful) and others homilies that failed to.

The conversations reminded me of an article in the Irish Times a few years back, sparked by the publication of some guidelines for effective preaching by Archbishop Nikola Eterovic, where reporters evaluated homilies at ten parishes: Did the homilies deliver a relevant message, did they connect with congregations, and did they follow recent Vatican guidelines on sermons?

A sample:

"The message : The celebrant spoke in very abstract terms on the topic of forgiveness. To believe in sin, he argued, one must believe in God. A non-believer has a conscience. But while a believer can ask and receive the Lord's forgiveness, a non-believer must live with his guilt for the rest of his life. This, he speculated, must be a great source of pain and unhappiness to the non-believer. 

The timing : At three minutes and thirty seconds, it was actually well within the eight minute time limited suggested by Archbishop Etervoic. 

The delivery : The celebrant spoke without notes and maintained eye contact with the congregation throughout. His delivery was faltering, however. Seated in the middle of the church, I could not decipher all of what was said. 

Did it feel like a weeks work? Frankly, no. The gospel was the parable of the Prodigal Son. If the celebrant had wished to reference contemporary social issues, there was much to work with. Instead, he confined himself to generic observations on a perennial theme. His sermon referenced no contemporary social issue or even that days gospel. "

A couple of years ago, I wrote a short piece which appeared on the PrayTell blog about what I thought constituted a good homily in which I suggested that it might be useful for homilists to ask their congregations what they heard — and what they didn't — in a homily.

I have never been in a parish where that is a regular practice, and yes, yes, I can imagine all the horrible things that might happen (since my teaching has been regularly evaluated in narrative form — not little check boxes — by my students for the last 25 years).  People might (will!) say all manner of things, from the innocuous (and singularly unhelpful) "good homily" to the "should never be permitted in the pulpit again."  But this is more than an exercise in humility or delight, for along the way, if one has "ears to hear," there is much to be learned not only about your teaching/preaching, but about the community you serve.  What are the words they need to hear?

Since I think it unlikely that many parishes offer the opportunity to give feedback, I'll make the invitation here: what did you hear preached this weekend? What did you wish you heard?  Perhaps if I ask this question every week we can start a groundswell, not of complaint, but of prayerfully reflecting back the Word as it did, or did not, take flesh each week in the homily.

One ground rule:  please don't identify the where or the who; you can comment anonymously on this blog to avoid inadvertently doing so!

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Who is Joe Six Pew?  The "man in the pew" at ePriest's homily builder (which will let you click off on a menu and print out a homily — though I would be hard pressed to call it "your homily" as the site does).  Joe has helpful feedback for the homilist constructing a homily such as:  "If you give me too many practical applications, I may end up trying to bite off more than I can chew. Are you sure you want to take the risk?"

Don't need a customized homily?  You can buy full texts "poignantly written to help make a meaningful connection with your congregation" here. $8.95 gets you 618 words for the funeral of a child.

The Irish Times article is alas behind a pay wall.  If you want a copy, send me an email!

Read some of Fr. Jim McDermott SJ's reflections on what it is like to be on the other side of the pulpit:

• What do you want in a homily?  
• Homily Surprise
• The Homily:  Ouch

Re-boot

Always, we begin again.  Conversion, in the Rule of St. Benedict, carries the sense of circular motion.  Conversio, a coming back again to the work at hand, to the life of the monastic community.  I may return to the new day with my relationship with God yet deeper, I may return to try again where I have missed the mark.  Each day, I begin again.

It's rather like my computer, when all else fails, I re-boot it, stopping what is in motion, clearing out the memory cache.  Begin again.

To begin again implies stopping, perhaps even resting.  I started physical therapy for my ankle this week (which has also has me thinking about the inflicting of sensible pain, but that is an entirely different post!).  As ligaments and bones begin to knit and range of motion has increased -- and as swelling has gone down, yesterday I did what I haven't done in a month.  Put on a left shoe. And walk without the orthopedic boot.  2500 steps.

At the end of the day my physical therapist looked at my swollen and once again black and blue ankle and re-booted me.  Stop,  rest.  Wear the boot.  And today, I begin again.

Downtown Abbey and Star Trek: A comparison of methods for obtaining aqueous extracts of Camellia sinensis

It was a gray day in Philadelphia, the fog never quite lifted, making the view from my study window look like a black and white photograph. Layer upon layer of trees stripped bare by winter fading into the mists. I was writing, working on an essay due later this week, and when the middle of the afternoon rolled around, I wanted a cup of tea.

As I made up a tray in the kitchen, warming the pot, and filling the sugar bowl, I imagined what it might be like to live at Downton Abbey. I would ring the bell and tell Carson that I'd like tea. It would arrive steaming hot on a silver tray, irregular lumps of sugar piled in a bowl, lemon slices fanned out on a tray. Carson would slide the tray onto the table next to the desk and quietly pour me a cup before easing out the door.

Or perhaps I have a post on the USS Enterprise. I could say to the air, "Tea. Assam. Hot, with sugar and lemon." A sleek white mug would shiver into being in the replicator slot in the wall next to my desk, steam curling above its surface. A discrete chime reminds me to grab it before it gets cold.

Instead, I put the tea pot on the tray and carefully carry it up to my study, where I pour a cup and sip strength from its steamy caffeinated contents. I'm Daisy, Carson and the Dowager Countess, all rolled into one.  But the tray is silver (for which I paid $1 at the thrift shop, #lifeonthemainline)...

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I once stayed in a house that had "staff" while traveling with my parents.  (My father was on business and I was being a companion to my mother.  The company he was visiting put us up there.) After a rather formal dinner, I was asked if I wanted coffee or tea on my morning tray.  "Tea, please."  The next morning, while I was in the shower, a tray appeared with a pot of tea.  Hot.  This, is my view, was the height of luxury.