Who are the Poor?

I found this story attributed to Fr. Jerry Orbos. (via and via)

There is a story about a rich father who takes his son on a trip to the countryside to show how poor some people are. The child is quiet through the whole trip. On their way home, the father asks his son what he learned from the trip, to which the son responds: “Dad, I saw that we have one dog, and they have four. We have a nice swimming pool, but they have a nice creek. We have fancy lights and lanterns, but they have countless stars at night. We have high walls for protection, but they have friends. Thanks Dad for showing me how poor we are.”

With the comment appended to the story: “Poor indeed are those who do not let go of their comfort zones and let God into their lives.”

But to go a level deeper, those who try to let God into their lives and are poor in spirit recognize the simple truth that all is gift and nothing belongs to them.

The Summons

My penance from a recent Reconciliation was to pray and reflect over this song from the Missal/song book:

Will you come and follow me if I but call your name?
Will you go where you don’t know and never be the same?
Will you let my love be shown? Will you let my name be known,
will you let my life be grown in you and you in me?

Will you leave yourself behind if I but call your name?
Will you care for cruel and kind and never be the same?
Will you risk the hostile stare should your life attract or scare?
Will you let me answer prayer in you and you in me?

Will you let the blinded see if I but call your name?
Will you set the prisoners free and never be the same?
Will you kiss the leper clean and do such as this unseen,
and admit to what I mean in you and you in me?

Will you love the “you” you hide if I but call your name?
Will you quell the fear inside and never be the same?
Will you use the faith you’ve found to reshape the world around,
through my sight and touch and sound in you and you in me?

Lord your summons echoes true when you but call my name.
Let me turn and follow you and never be the same.
In Your company I’ll go where Your love and footsteps show.
Thus I’ll move and live and grow in you and you in me.

ARRR

Looking through the Bible in my classroom, I found this scribbled on a notecard inside:

When faced with anger and/or frustration, say “ARRR!”

Acknowledge the emotion.

Relate it to others. Relate it to God.

Receive graces. Be open.

Respond not from judgement, but out of love.

“I Have Searched You and Known You”

I am not sure where I caught sight of this book, Letters from the Desert by Carlo Carretto, but it is a jewelle. Each facet of its short reflective chapters shines a different light into the mysteries of faith, prayer, love, and of course, God.

The description on the back of the book cover explains the situation best:

At the age of 44, after a prominent career as a Catholic activist, Carlo Carretto was summoned by a voice that siad: “Leave everything, come with me into the desert. I don’t want your action any longer, I want your prayer, your love.” Carretto responded by leaving [Europe] for North Africa, where he joined the Little Brothers of Jesus and embraced the example of Charles de Foucauld.

I have heard that the harshness of the desert sharpens ones awareness to a razor edge. This is evident in Carretto’s writing. Each sentence, paragraph, and page is dense and rich in meaning. The stark contrast of the desert has taught him to emphasize and highlight the really essential features of the spiritual landscape.

From the chapter “Toward Prayer” (emphasis mine):

Understanding prayer well means understanding that one is speaking with God.

Thus there are two poles. One very, very tiny and very, very weak: my soul. One immense and powerful: God.

But here is the first paradox, the first surprise: that he who is so great should have wanted to speak to me, tiny as I am.

It is not I who wanted prayer. It is he who wanted it. It is not I who have looked for him. It is he who has looked for me first. My seeking him would have been in vain if before all time he had not sought me.

The hope on which my prayer rests is in fact that it is he who wants it. And if I go to keep the appointment it is because he is already there waiting for me.

God loves me, little ol’ me. That in itself is an amazing and overwhelming fact. All is gift—everything! That too just pushes my comprehension to the infinite horizon. But to know, to realize truly in my heart that God wants to talk with me!? That is too awe-some, too awe-inspiring, too awe-full. It takes my breath away. I am awestruck in silence.

God is just a prayer away.

What’s in the Temple?

In the quiet spaces of my mind a thought lies still, but ready to spring.
It begs me to open the door so it can walk about.
The poets speak in obscure terms pointing madly at the unsayable.
The sages say nothing, but walk ahead patting their thigh calling for us to follow.
The monk sits pen in hand poised to explain the cloud of unknowing.
The seeker seeks, just around the corner from the truth.
If she stands still it will catch up with her.

Pause with us here a while.
Put your ear to the wall of your heart.
Listen for the whisper of knowing there.
Love will touch you if you are very still.

If I say the word God, people run away.
They’ve been frightened—sat on ‘till the spirit cried “uncle.”
Now they play hide and seek with somebody they can’t name.
They know he’s out there looking for them, and they want to be found,
But there is all this stuff in the way.

I can’t talk about God and make any sense,
And I can’t not talk about God and make any sense.
So we talk about the weather, and we are talking about God.

I miss the old temples where you could hang out with God.
Still, we have pet pounds where you can feel love draped in warm fur,
And sense the whole tragedy of life and death.
You see there the consequences of carelessness,
And you feel there the yapping urgency of life that wants to be lived.
The only things lacking are the frankincense and myrrh.

We don’t build many temples anymore.
Maybe we learned that the sacred can’t be contained.
Or maybe it can’t be sustained inside a building.
Buildings crumble.
It’s the spirit that lives on.

If you had a temple in the secret spaces of your heart,
What would you worship there?
What would you bring to sacrifice?
What would be behind the curtain in the holy of holies?

Go there now.

— Tom Barrett