Spiritual maturity.

I had been reading Flaubert's Madame Bouvary a week or so ago. It is a sad book. The Madame is a superficial, unfulfilled woman who deceives her husband with adulterous relationships. She despises him, and, yet, she remains with him and lives unashamedly in the comforts of the life which he makes possible for her. She represents everything one does not want to do with your life. The more excitement, the less happiness. And when things go wrong, she suddenly becomes very religious - until her next relationship. She is not good company. So I was not too unhappy to finally close the book on her character.

And yet, the book remained in my thoughts. Because of the love of her huaband, Charles. He adored her, never suspected her of being unfaithful to him. She could do nothing wrong in his eyes.

What a character, so consumed by love.

And, finally, there is the climax of the book (for me) when he discovers the letters of her lovers after her death. And the amazing closure when he meets one of her lovers and...

Someone ought to write a novel with him as the main character.

Less love? Over special experiences in a special city....

Innsbruck is a beautiful city. This is the view from our room:







We visited the Stiftskirche in Innsbruck this afternoon. It is a symbol of a time in which the church in Europe had extraordinary power and wealth. I need to think more about this....






In the crypt of the University Jesuit Church, next to the Theological Faculty of the Unviversity, is this simply place where Karl Rahner is buried. His is the middle of the three. Simple. Touching.





One of the colleagues at the university responded to my remark about the candle burning before the crypt that there is almost always a candle or flowers which people bring in memory of a great theologian. Rahner taught in Innsbruck.


The plaque:





Of all our experiences today, this one made me think deep. On our way to supper tonight, this lady was walking in front of us. "Wir lieben unsere Kinder weniger." It translates as: "We love our children less." In a time that we hear of so many children dumping their parents in old age homes or abusing them, this is a sad remark. This is then a mutual thing?


Is there really so little love left? There is, therefore, another side of the story?

Caring for the world in a small way. On an ecological spirituality

The no-waste, no-nonsense card




Nothing just happens here...




Innsbruck is a beautiful, old city, situated between the mountains with only 130 000 inhabitants. We are staying just across the street in the Grauer Bär Hotel, but there is nothing gray about this bear. It is a comfortable hotel, with all the facilities that one associates with a first world country. The conference is interesing with a couple of fascinating papers. One presenter compared the Sinaïticus manuscript of Revelation with the Alexandrinian one, checking where the scribe inserted breaks in the text. He argues that that indicates how the person arranged the material in blocks, which in turn would reflect his understanding of the book. From this, one gets the impression that the Alexandrinus underlined the spiritual meaning of Revelation.

But I am also interested in a more mundane aspect of our time in Innsbruck. When we moved into our hotel, there was no electricity in our room. On enquiring, we were told to put the card for our door in a slot (see photo) next to the door. So, if you leave the room, taking your card key with you, you will not leave lights on and waste electricity. Brilliant.

But also good to experience was when we returned late night to our room and found, as we walked down the passage, that the lights went on in blocks. So, if you had a room close to the beginning of the passages, lights at the end of the passage were not switched on – also saving electricity.

Old news for some, especially seasoned hotel guests. But new for me. Wonderful to think that somewhere some architect who cared designed this building in such a way that it will not harm our planet. He or she had compassion. They wanted to prevent waste and damage. And, some people who pass through this place are going to notice. And will begin to think and help to care for the place where we live.

A spiritual lifestyle, going back centuries, noticeable in small things like the way you transcribe a manuscript or design a hotel room.

Ecological spiritualiy!

Abraham and Isaac. To let go of the knife.... A spirituality perspective on Genesis 22

Rembrandt's painting of Abraham's sacrifice of Isaac


The dramatic Bible narrative in Genesis 22 about Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac tells of Abraham’s obedience to God’s instruction to show his faith by slaughtering his son. It is a strange story. We have two perspectives here: God promised Abraham a future (cf. verse 22) and, in line with his faith, Abraham trusted God to fulfill that promise. On the other hand, one has to imagine the crisis in Abraham’s mind: how can God fulfill this promise if Isaac, the one through whom the promise will be fulfilled, will die?

Abraham gathers wood, he embarks on the long journey, with his son, up the mountain. He lies to his servants (we are going to worship), he lies to Isaac (God will provide). He speaks lovingly with his son – “My son” and Isaac speaks to him, “my Father.” As Abraham takes his son with him, these thoughts must have filled his mind, over and over again. We can imagine the inner turmoil. And imagine, writes Kierkegaard, his immense inner emotions when he looked at his knife and had to decide to take it in his hand. Even more so, how intense was that moment that he realised he now had to lift that knife and slaughter his son.

Verse 10 must be one of the most dramatic sentences in the Bible.

It speaks of faith.

And yet, it may seem so easy: Abraham is like a machine, a robot. He mechanically obeys God and without a question puts down his knife when the angel of the Lord tells him not to slaughter Isaac.

But is it so easy?

Verse 13 tells us that Abraham “looked up” when the Angel of the Lord instructed him to stop and not lay a hand on his son.

He was looking at his son: he was seeing the face of Isaac who was at that stage the victim. His eyes were staring at the son who had been bound on the altar. He knew he would not want to hurt his son. Face to face they encountered each other. And then it happens that Abraham does what is right. He acts ethically. No hand will slaughter his son.

Why? He heard the voice of the “angel of the Lord.” He could have wondered: but can God really change so quickly? Can God instruct me to sacrifice and then, only the next moment, retract? Is this really a divine voice? Is it not a deception – a demonic attempt to rob me of my faith, my trust in God?

But Abraham knew immediately. He must have known even before the voice spoke. When he looked in the eyes of the victim, of Isaac, bound to be slaughtered, he knew.

It is amazing that Abraham recognized the voice immediately and without doubt put the knife down. This is the real dramatic moment. When one acts ethically, see the victim in the Face to Face meeting, feel the mystical power of the presence of the Other, then one acts in freedom. And then one will be able to immediately recognize the divine in your life.

It is remarkable, as Levinas commented on this narrative, that Abraham did not sacrifice Isaak. He, the man of faith, celebrated for his unconditional trust in the Lord, simply did not do what was the most dramatic instruction a person of faith could receive. This is a story not about Abraham. It is a story about Isaac, the helpless one, the Other, bound to be slaughtered.

When Abraham “looked up” he knew what to do. And as he looked up, God confirmed his ethical action. Abraham knew when he looked at the face of Isaac that he could not. This is what the narrative is all about. Faith means to stand before the Other and reach out, refraining from violence and granting life.

Where we do not live from Face to Face, we crucify the Lamb of God.

God is so near, and yet so awesome. On the countenance of the Holy (Mark 1)

When one reads Mark’s Gospel, one experiences the Mysterious Presence of Christ. He is human – he is baptized, tempted, calls disciples. But he is also known as Son “of God” (Mk.1:1). This is remarkable: we recognise Jesus. He talks to us, eats and drinks with us, live among us, and yet, he is Infinite, Other, Someone we cannot fathom.

We meet him in the synagogue. In Mark 1:21-22 we see him teaching in the space where believers meet to speak about the deeper things in life. He is among them, to reflect with them. He is one of them. “They came in Capernaum and immediately on the sabbath he went into the synagogue.”

But this time, it is also different than other times. His hearers are amazed after he speaks. “He teaches like someone with authority, not like the scribes.” The amazement, the awe which will reappear later in this gospel, is, therefore, there from the very beginning. Jesus is one of us, but he is also Son of God. When we are with Him, we are aware of how He, one of us, is the Other.

This is where transformation begins. Where we begin to think and reflect on who we are and how we relate to others. We see Jesus, we see him interact with others, and we realize He is more than simple a copy of ourselves. He is the Other, the Different one, the One we cannot fathom, the One who brings us into a sphere of holiness. And the One who calls us to respond with holiness.

Here lives begin to change. In the presence of the Holy One, people feel an irresistable power. Therefore the impure one calls out: “Stop this, Jesus. I know you, who you are, the Holy One of God” (Mk.1:24). He, the sinner, the destructive one, recognizes in Him goodness, purity, wholeness and healing. He knows it, feels it, experiences it. It overwhelms him.

It is just that he does not want to respond to it. He rejects any relationship with Jesus, refuses to act responsibly to Him. So he calls out: “Go away...”

It would be this type of person who would crucify Jesus, who opt for violence, who finally finds the cross a good solution. He is the One who cannot tolerate the Other, who only has his own needs in mind, who chases the Holy One away. He cannot look Jesus in the eyes, afraid to face him.

The others, though, are amazed. But, even in our relationship with Jesus, our openness to him, we discover our impotence, our lack of knowledge. One moment we recognize the Holy One. The next moment we seek to know more, experience more. We know too little, our words are too few. So we wonder, “Who is this man? What teaching is this?” (Mk.1:27). One moment we are with the Holy, and then, it is as if there is only a trace of the Holy in our lives (Levinas). We understand so little, even though we know we are in the presence of the Infinite, the Other.

Those who refuse to respond to the Holy, will face the consequences of their refusal. But even those who recognize and accede to the Holy One, need to be watchful. Because the Holy One is so Other, so transcendent. So, let us follow Him, become his disiples, be transformed by his Holiness.

Which is why we need to remain in the presence of the Holy One, hear others speak of that Presence, open ourselves to the appeal of the Other. We may understand so little. We may even have four great stories of Mark, Luke, John and Matthew as they stand before Jesus - countenance before countenance, and yet, it will not be enough. He is, after all, the Holy One, far beyond our human understanding.

"The strage, mysterious things of God." On the divine mystery and a spirituality of new things.

(Bellini's famous painting of the Tranfiguration which portrays the difference between the figures in the middle and the reaction of the disciples).


The Gospel of Mark is known for its strange, mysterious short ending. Chapter 16 ends with “Trembling and bewildered, the women went out and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.”

But this is not the only reference to perplexity, awe and fear in Mark’s gospel. Mark coninually portrays Christ as the mystery, the mysterium tremendum et fascinosum.

At the transfiguration, Peter said to Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here. Let us put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah,” followed by the remark in Mark 9:6, “He did not know what to say, they were so frightened.” Fear and amazement about the mysterious, awesome events in the life of Christ. And in Mark 6:51, after Jesus wakes up and stills the storm, there is a similar remark, “Then he climbed into the boat with them, and the wind died down. They were completely amazed.”

Mark as Gospel consistently portrays Jesus as the Mystery – the One whom his disciples thought they understood, but who in fact failed to fathom Him.

After having been with Jesus for a long time, having learnt to follow and love him, Peter responded so correctly to Jesus’ question: “Your are the Christ” (Mk 8:27). This is a wonderful confession of faith. Nothing wrong with that. Any believer would be right in repeating that today. And Jesus was quite happy with his answer.

Then, just a short while later Jesus, in a mysterious twist, explains to Peter what this means, what it is to be the Christ, the divine Messiah. Peter, angry and upset, refuses to accept this. He knows, he has this firm conviction, the knowledge. He can explain God’s ways.

But, Christ chases him away: “Go away, Satan. You do not have in mind the things of God, but the things of men.”

No wonder they feared. Had Peter but then remembered their awe after the stilling of the storm. How he tried to build a hut for what cannot be contained in human dwellings. Had Peter but remembered how his Master lead them on new roads, along new avenues, teaching them new things, reshaping and rejecting the old traditions.

Karl Rahner once said: “I must confess to you in all honesty that for me God is and has always been absolute mystery. I do not understand what God is; no one can. We have intimations, inklings; we make faltering, inadequate attempts to put mystery into words. But there is no word for it, no sentence for it."

When we understand and experience that the divine mystery transcends all our words, our language, we become, in awe and expectation, humble, aware that God is always busy doing new things. When we visit a grave, think that this is the end of the road, God unnerves us, shows us how power breaks evil, overcomes darkness and changes a world on which we have given up. We are ready for miracles. It brings us close to God, aware that our spiritual journey is an adventure, a dangerous adventure, an adventure during which a Spirit is given to us so that we speak tongues we were not aware of and do deeds we only dreamt of.

Who can understand the way of God?

How hard is it to remain human... The threat of religion to spirituality

“It is a sad thing that so many of us do use to preach our hearers asleep; but it is sadder still if we have studied and preached ourselves asleep, and have talked so long against hardness of heart, till our own grow hardened, under the noise of our own reproofs. Though the head only have eyes, and ears, and smell, and taste, the heart should have life, and feeling, and motion, as well as the head.”
Richard Baxter, quoted in The Minister’s Prayer Book 290.

It is a challenge not to become bored and hardened by our trade. The doctor who sees the patient as another “appointment,” the teacher who sees the student as someone who “studies,” the pastor who sees the funeral as another slot in his or her daily task.

We no longer recognize the one whom we look in the eye as a human being. We see them as “patients,” “clients,” “members.” We do not see a countenance, the call and appeal for love.

There are many reasons why we lose our humanity.

We are blinded by our own needs, our self-defense, our fears, our intolerance. We are hurt and we hit back. We are criticised and we become cynical. We are opposed and we become aggressive.

It strikes me – the hardness that we develop once we have been in our profession for a while. The stars in our dreamy eyes – I can mean something to someone, the warm passion in our hearts – I can alleviate suffering, the ambitions and dreams in our life – I want to make a difference, all these beautiful moments pass by and are replaced by indifference, frustration, disillusionment, and, then, the hardness, the callousness, and our empty, harsh, even blasphemous talk about God.

There are the stinging words. “The noise of our own reproof.” The noise of our accusations and judgments. Our words and thoughts lose life, feeling, motion.

It is sad, deeply sad that the most cruel people can be those who are the most religious. Jesus was cruelly crucified by his own religious peers.

It is not easy to remain alive, to seek life, to hold on to life. It is much easier to let it slip away, to lose it, to let it die under our empty, harsh reproofs.

There is no greater threat to religion than religion itself.

What will keep us from becoming reproachful, bitter, hardened people?

What will make us remain human?

The third life. On Ruusbroec's mysticism

We live in times where Christians are sensitive to injustices in the world. One cannot proclaim the gospel and tolerate structures of injustice. Ours is a life of spiritual activism. And this it should be.

Ruusbroec, one of the famous mystics in Christianity, became a monk at the age of 60 to focus on the contemplative life. Previously he was active in the religious life as a priest. But for him the time was ripe for something more, deeper, different.

He was, amongst others, a spiritual father for De Groote, who initiated the Modern Devotion, which, in turn, produced Thomas a Kempis and his Imitation of Christ.

The New Devotion was an activist movement. But if one reads the Imitation carefully, the influence of Ruusbroec is clear. It is also a book with clear contemplative moments, focussing on the interior life. But even then, it is in general strongly about the art of life and about the praxis of spirituality.

How should one reflect on these two facets? The interiority of Ruusbroec and the praxis of the New Devotion?

Traditionally, mysticism, we say, always reveals a praxis. The encounter with God and union with God shows itself in an encounter with others. Divine love reaches out to others and care for creation.

Here the active live brings, so to speak, closure. Which made me think of Ruusbroec. He is famous for his Spiritual Wedding in which he takes Matthew 25:6 (the parable of the ten women) as point of departure: Look (1), the bridegroom comes (2). Go out (3) and meet him (4). These four aspects function on three levels:

There is first of all, surprisingly, in Ruusbroec, the great contemplative, a focus on the active life. He begins here and not with contemplation. One grows in God’s image in the working life, the via activa. When God touches you, you pursue a virtuous life, struggle against sin, grows in knowledge, learn to know Jesus better. Live from nature and creation.

There is, however, a further dimension which has to do with the inner life. One grows in the image of God through the desire for intimacy. The via illuminativa nurtures friendship with God. Though spiritual exercises are important and the active life necessary, the interior life moves beyond the sacraments and these exercises. One is open for the eternal love of God. Here one sees the soul before God.

But then follows the even deeper level, the via unitiva, the contemplative life. One grows in the image of God when one experiences God in love. One gives up all knowledge to experience complete purity and clarity. But for this one has to wait. It is given, not grasped. One waits by living a life of purity, longing for God with a burning love. One waits for it in darkness by giving up everything that one normally considers as light. One waits for the Son of God who is the light which penetrates and shines in this darkness. This is about eternal life, about the space beyond knowledge. This is where God touches the spirit. This is where one is united with God, bringing complete joy and fulfillment. One is swimming in the ocean of God's being.


Some believers find this too much. Ruusbroec also wrote that this third life is not for all. And we see it, for example, in the New Devotion, who, perhaps because of the exigence of their time, decided that the active life is for them the challenge which they had to opt for.

But in our broken world, where life itself is no longer regarded as life, where activism is mechanical and therefore often superficial and self-serving, we may be called to take Ruusbroec's third life more seriously. Spirituality and mysticism is, after all about the divine intervention, the divine touch, transformation in the image of God. It is to be given the Holy Spirit which speaks in our heart beyond all understanding, bring us into the holiness of God. And, does not Scripture speak of the time when God will be everything in all? Paul's eschatology ultimately comprises being "with God" forever. We will enter the glorious presence of God (2 Thess.1).


Ruusbroec is well known for his remark that the one who contemplates God should respond immediately and reach out when a poor man asks for water. There is, therefore, indeed restrictions to the contemplative life.

And yet, all our activism and works will not represent or create paradise. There is also the moment when we shall finally give up the active life, when we shall be taken up in eternal light. Ruusbroec writes that the One who has experienced God's love, hungers for more. How different would this world be when people of faith will be driven by the deep hunger for love, over and over again.

From Revelation to Rembrandt. A special week in my spiritual journey.

I visited St Petersburg some time ago to teach for a second time. Each time my teaching experience is new, different, exciting.

The schedule is hectic and full. It is a learning experience not only for the students, who are eager to learn, but for me as well. In the course I focus with foreign students on a Biblical text, trying also to illuminate its spirituality.

We discuss the difficult book of Revelation. Often misused by readers to calculate the weirdest of timetables and invariably failing to do so. Each time predictions are made with huge confidence. Each time the expected end does not take place.

And yet, all the predictions throughout the ages and their failures have not discouraged people from making new prophecies.

In the process the deep spiritual meaning of the book is overlooked for superficial mind games and disrespectful manipulation of the text.

During the course and the close reading of the text, I am particularly struck by the book's revelation of how corrupt a church can become. John writes, after all, not only about the evil authorities and opponents of God who persecute and kill the saints. He also warns, sternly, the seven churches about corruption in their midst. Jezebel, the prophet, that confident leader of the church, is, in fact, a false prophet and will be judged by God. Evil resides in the church and in its most prominent leaders.

Those who are in the church are, therefore, not immune to evil. Evil can permeate the Christian existence and present itself in a most pious way.

And, at the same time, there is also the beautiful, inspiring side of the Book. It is a book about fearless witnessing. The two witnesses are steadfast in their challenge to the enemies of God. They love God so much, that the worst rejection cannot keep them from proclaiming the good news.

But, more than that, I am struck by Revelation 1:5 and its pronouncements about the One who "loved" us and liberated us from our sins. This book, often associated with a vengeful God, is from the first verses really a book about a loving God. One who cares and wishes to liberate humanity from its oppressive burdens and guilt.

This verse is not the only one which speaks of transformation. If love transforms us, joy expresses the effects of transformation. We often fear the Book of Revelation as a message of judgment and of the anger of human disobedience.

But it also communicates a message of joy. During my teaching week, I focus on this joy - it is too often overlooked, to often left unrecognized. Revelation 19 overflows with joy. Revelation 4-5 speaks of heavenly hymns of joy. It is exuberant joy which celebrates the divine salvation. God reaches out, liberates and purifies us, inspires us and brings us to worship God with pure joy.

It is a book about the church which, in its liturgy, worships God with gratitude and happiness. It is especially striking when one contrasts it with the perverse joy of those who reject the Gospel in Revelation 11.

On the last day of my stay, I revisit Rembrandt's famous painting of the Prodigal Son. I have translated Henri Nouwen's book in Afrikaans and have a particular affinity with it and with the painting which is its subject.

Once again I stand in awe and fascination before this masterpiece, painted by Rembrandt when he was worn out by suffereing and pain. In his dark night of the soul, he pours out all his yearning for intimacy in this remarkable painting. There is the son, kneeling before his father, leaning his head against his Father's breast, whilst the blind Father embraces him lovingly. The light, pure light of love-in-and-despite pain surrounds them in their deep reunion.

Rembrandt, in his time of relentless suffering and pain, creates sheer beauty. It is a painting spelling out love and does it so well because it was painted in love.

I also spend time before Rembrandt's painting of the sacrifice of Isaac and his portrait of the disciples removing Christ's body from the cross (see the photo). How deeply moving is the gentle, loving care of those who take off the body of the master from the cross.

These are all paintings about spiritual journeys, about wounded people, people in pain, alienated, suffering. But always presented in gentle colours, symbolizing the divine presence. Light and beauty permeate the pain and suffering. The divine love interacts with humanity in its desire for intimacy. We never suffer alone. We are never abandoned in our suffering.

There is not only interaction, but also transformation. New life, new hope are born.

The angel has brought a father's suffering and sacrifice to an end. The son is home now, secure in the paternal home. The suffering on the cross is over now. The passion has come to an end.

What an experience to stand before these paintings, to reflect on each character, on the interaction of characters, on the spiritual journey which they are experiencing.

Lectio divina, the spiritual reading of a text, can fruitfully be applied to these paintings. In the close, attentive reading of such a painting, of the spiritual journey embodied in it, something happens. It touches you, it moves you, it affects your spiritual journey. The spiritual journey of the characters, of Rembrandt, illuminates and inspires my own journey.

This is what mysticism is all about: to talk about mysticism, about love, about a painting, is to open oneself to the mystical touch.

From Revelation to Rembrandt. In one week. In Russia.

Amazing grace.

Good triumphs. On spirituality as inspiration.

I keep on reflecting on our visit to the church in Louvain where Damien is buried and where the history of his work among the lepers is expressed in such a moving manner (cf. my blog on “My lepers”).

I am deeply impressed through my further reading with his heritage. This brave, inspired man of God who, in complete poverty and isolation, cared for dying lepers until he himself became a leper and died an awful death from leprosy. At some stage this makes me understand something more about the incarnation.

Damien became one of the great religious figures of our time – I now realize. He is being mentioned together with such inspiring figures like Mother Theresa. Elected by Belgians as the greatest of their countrymen. A humble, leper priest who loved his lepers... A modern mystic.

His life inspired artist of format to paint him. In the church, as I walked out, my eye catches a tapistry, made in 1937 by one of the prestigious ateliers in Belgium from a sketch by Marcel Laforêt. It is called, I read much later, “The triumph of Father Damien.” It represents scenes from his life based on photo’s.

It was produced in soft colours, wonderfully light and bright. You see it as you leave the church, hanging there, almost unobtrusivley. It is not very big, but the pilgrim will not miss it. Its image lingers on, enters you innermost being and stays with you for ever. It brings closure, gives meaning, rounds off.

Look at the whole scene:


I take these photo’s. But, on closer inspection, you notice the beautiful scene of his arrival as a young priest at the colony. The neat young man with a cross and a Bible.

But it is the centre of the image that draws the eye: He sits there, in a white cloak, with a child in his hand. Almost Pieta-like. Around him there are many faces of children.

It is only when you look closer, that you notice the leper wounds on all their faces:



Our of that misery, beauty is born. In the quiet garden on that silent Sunday morning, the resurrected Christ is found, with the wounds of the cross on his hands.


This image of Damien in the middle in turn inspired other artists. It moved them to recreate the moving power of what is being communicated here. There is, for example, a glass window in a church in Ukkel based on it. Inspiration inspires!

Out of leprosy, out of the death of this man of simplicity and compassion, beauty is created and recreated. The inner power of what was present in his life, spirals long after his death.

The heart of humanity recognizes a good person. It wants to celebrate and admire such beauty. We praise the brave life of someone who gave up everything for the sake of others.

But, surely, this is what the Gospel is all about: God so loved the world... that God gave up the most precious, gave up life, unique life. And created new life. And since then, we too, driven by the beauty of divine life, in conformity to Christ, give up the most precious, in order to love so deeply. You will do greater things.

This is the divine. Evil will never speak the last word. Death will be transformed into what is pure and good, death will be replaced by life.

Finally, a sketch by Sir Edward Clifford of Damien - he visited Damien on the island and drew this though he only knew him as a leper!

The tough face of Spirituality - on Benedictine Spirituality

For those who think spirituality is about a woolly kind of feel-good experience, the Rule of Benedict will proved interesting reading.


Waaijman, in his work on Spirituality, describes Benedictine spirituality as follows:


The Benedictine community is meant for those who desire to search for God. They form and live in a place where they can experience God’s presence. They experience the divine presence especially in liturgy with its communal worship. This worship is about awe of God. The other fundamental aspect is that the abbot represents Christ and mediates God’s will.


But God is also present in those who visit the community, in the sick and the young people. Obedience is an important characteristic of Benedictine spirituality. Obedience and discipline are focused on “tasting” God. The communal life also counters selfishness, wants to inspire members to respect each other and intends to lead the soul to God.


There are for this purpose also the spiritual exercises of prayer, fasting and lectio divina which are done in order to be receptive for God’s presence. One is purified by God’s presence. This purity means that one is filled with awe of God in silence, prayer, obedience and the study of Scripture. But purity also comprises a contrite, humble heart which sheds tears, but which is also filled with a deep spiritual joy and peace.


Everything one does is ultimately about loving God and others.


This is a profound portrait of Benedictine spirituality. But these beautiful remarks are linked with a tough, hard spirituality of real life. There is nothing woolly about the contents of the Rule and what it requires of the members of the community.


Some parts of the Rule are extreme. They seem strange, even weird in a modern context, because they stem from an older context in which society was much rougher, even primitive.


The Rule has practical and concrete prescriptions. Some of them even seem cruel. The member who transgressed, we read, must be excluded. No one should have contact or speak with the person. He should work on his own, persisting in confessing his transgressions, receiving meals on order of the abbot only, should not be greeted with a benediction and his meals should not be blessed. There are also prescriptions abot corporal punishment of children and prohibition of hitting a fellow member without permission.


Such prescriptions are often debated. But one should understand them as part of the time in which the Rule originated. And one should also understand the deeper spiritual intention of the concrete prescriptions.


Take, for example, the prescription that a member of the community should be friendly, without laughter and should talk humbly. Should one never laugh then? The answer is clear. The problem is not humor, but the jeering laughter of rejection and humiliation. See for this, for example, the discussion at: http://thewingedman.wordpress.com/2006/10/09/living-a-lay-monasticism-further-thoughts-on-humility-and-the-rule-of-benedict/. In this sense it is a rule of special significance in our judgmental and self-righteous societies.


I can imagine how rewarding it would be to reflect on the Rule, now 1500 years old, and spell out in what ways it is still relevant for our spiritual journey today.


The rules are strict and demanding. They spell out a spiritual journey in which a lukewarm, comfortable lifestyle has no place. There is no sentimentality here. Purity, we learn, is not a matter of sweet words, good intentions and exterior piety. It requires dedication, sacrifice, humility, effort.


One of the popular definitions of spirituality is that it is about faith experienced. The experience of faith in a Benedictine context is not about fairy tales. It takes one on a challenging, transformative journey which requires dedication and commitment.


History shows how, time and again, the toughness of the Rule was watered down and how, repeatedly, reformers had to bring back communities to discipline and obedience. And yet, we must keep in mind that the Rule should be experienced in a new way in our times. Someone wrote that today the Rule suggests at least three challenges for contemporary Christians:


The Rule asks, first of all, commitment and involvement – something which is tough in our non-committal, uninvolved lifestyle and society.


The Rule also asks patience in the process of sanctification: to keep on pursuing, every day, the small changes which we seek in our lives. To live a quiet life of peace, to work attentively – even, for example, when we peel potatoes.


It also asks obedience, which is not servile subjection to others, but which means to listen, to hear the other, to be open for the one who is talking to me, to be aware of the other.


We live in a restless society in which chaos often overwhelms us or dictates our lives, where we are not committed to our promises and where integrity has little meaning. We care not much about what we do during the week. Our work is a burden. The TGIF-syndrome runs our lives.


Already from this perspective, commitment, the desire for a mature, holier lifestyle and obedience are invaluable. This is the face of faith experience in the Benedictine sense of the word.

There is nothing woolly about this.

A moral dilemma. To sit or not to sit...

Our family loves animals, especially dogs. Our family history will never be written without the names of our much loved and adored four-legged sons and daughters. So, we are naturally all for animal rights.

I therefore just could not resist taking this photo in Louvain in Belgium last week.

And we love and applaud this free-spirited Belgians who respect and care for their big mate in this special way.

And yet, to be honest, it confronts us with a moral dilemma.

It is now a matter of animal rights pitched against human rights. What is more important?

We decided there is only one way out of this dilemma.

That doggie must be dressed up in pants.

When a train journey becomes a spritual journey

On our way back from a very special conference in Louvain on the reception history of John’s Apocalypse, a young Afro-American soccer player and a local couple board our train.

The young guy, twenty years old, is in Europe to play professionally for a local club. His life clearly is all about soccer. He eats, speaks and sleeps soccer. The young couple, we soon find out, are on their way to a wedding. They simply boarded the train together, shared the same section in the train, started chatting and began to share their journey with each other in an endless, ongoing, spontaneous chatter in which everyone around them was sharing.

They spoke about a whole encyclopedia of topics, about how expensive trans-Atlantic flights were ("We paid 400 dollars. "Man, it cost me 800 bucks"), they shared information about cheap flights in Europe ("remember the name: Ryanair"), then spoke about where the Euro was accepted as currency (and the young man is wrongly told the Dutch do not use it), on racism in the States and in Europe ("I do not care about politics. I do not see a white or black or pink person. I only see a human being."), on countries where one can find beautiful women and then finally they analyzed in depth the ins and outs of soccer (soccer players earn millions and millions), football (in Europe they do not call it soccer), cricket and rugby. Their conversation varied from the sublime to the uninformed.

Then the ticket examiner pitches. He examines the tickets of the three, which, as it turned out, were not valid for the class in which they were seated. So, instead of chasing them out, he friendly pointed out to them the huge numbers, not really to be missed, on each coach which indicated what class they were. As if he and they did not know. But, as the Germans say, his response to them was “toll,”great – so non-burocratic, friendly, non-racist, tolerant, accepting or großzügig. They play the innocent, those who are so unaware that they sinned, those who have never thought there would be a number one or two on a train coach. And the guard, in a friendly mood, play along - so next time just watch out for it. He gives them permission to remain where they are. We are all relieved. This is a good journey.

When he exits, satisfied, they continue with their discussion. The train speeds along, whilst a voice announces every station. Time flies. The chattering keeps on, the contact is intimate and friendly. Until the American looked out of the window at the station where the train had stopped. "This is the station where I must meet my friends," he remarks calmly. "This is right. I need to get off here." He had two bags as big as coffins with him. (A young, twenty year old guy, schlepping all that stuff behind him over a wide ocean and many countries. He is still young, I thought, as I eyed with the experience of a seasoned traveller our small bags with which we crossed the African continent.)

By the time he got hold of his bags, there was that ominous hiss which accompanies closing doors of trains in Europe. And we all know such doors close. Like in the Bible. Do not even think of knocking on the door. The train picks up pace whilst I sweat cold sweat on his behalf.

He now had to pay for the extra leg of his journey, get off at the next station (which was far, given the fact that ours was a speed train), buy a ticket back, find a train, a platform and then hope his friends would still be there to meet him.

So, imagine my suspense and stress on his behalf as I listened to the intensifying problem. What now? How shall we help him? He is in a new country, different customs, different language, strange places, no communication with the friends, alone.

Then comes one of the beautiful moments when one regains, as the worn-out pronouncement always goes, one’s faith in humanity. The new friends, themselves on a long journey, promptly reassured him, helped him take his bags to the train doors and even got off with him at the next station.

As I was looking back at the party on our way to our other train, they were intently studying his travel information. Far from home, unused to the culture of the new place, a scatter-brain who did not even look out for the station where he had to get off, he had people who cared for him, stood by him and helped him out.

People there, at the right time, at the right place to care for someone. His race, the colour of his skin, was irrelevant. For him, but also for them, this was clearly more than a train journey they shared. It became a spiritual journey, filled with compassion for the one in need.

I take a picture from a distance (see enclosed). It is a wonderful study of these three as the, in comeraderie, study the alternatives together, intently, lost in a world of finding solutions, helping out, caring. And, from afar, the observer from Africa drinks in this scenario. A train journey has become a spiritual journey - not only for the soccer player, but for his friends and for those who listened in and were taken up in experiencing humanity.

Can one really be pessimistic about the future?

The winter times in our spiritual journey

During our conference last week, one of the participants spoke, somehow unexpectedly, about the deep pessimism among Europeans about the future. People have little hope, he remarked and the more they talk about it, the more they become pessimistic.

He was worried about it and felt that Christianity promoted rather than opposed this pessimism. And a little later, in the discussion of his paper, he found it so important that he repeated his remarks about this pessimistic outlook.

And to think that this pessimism is so entrenched in Europe! The land of milk and honey where millions of people would die to be no longer provides security. The poor of Africa cross land and sea to enter what is to them paradise. And those who live in paradise are alienated and without hope.

It struck me too. And I kept on returning to his remarks.

Clearly then, there are enough reasons for pessimism. This pessimism has to do with terrorism, with violence, with the lack of security. It has to do with the economic situation. The recession has struck hard and many have lost their jobs. It has to do with our planet: we see our earth being damaged almost beyond repair. It has to do with politics. Our representatives are opportunists, lack leadership, nurture corruption and make empty promises. A satirical election poster here in Germany reads: Nach dem Wahlen kommt Zahlen. You’ll pay after the elections. It has to do with religion: church buildings are empty. The message of the church has become irrelevant. Or preachers proclaim a superficial prosperity gospel which links happiness with material blessings.

There is indeed a deep pessimism in our world.

There are obviously no easy solutions. But if one considers the unhappiness, there is the golden thread that technology, progress, prossessions, education, cathedrals with all their advantages cannot safeguard us against disillusionment. In the dark night of the soul we have no resources left to keep us from becoming desperate.

What will succour us? When our skills, insights, possessions, institutions fail us, what will remain?

It is at this time, that we understand the Biblical message of grace. We are learning the timely lesson that happiness comes from within. It is what comes from inside, the Master said. Happiness remains with us despite our circumstances. It comes to those in Copenhagen and in Cape Town who understand that a simple life of trust in God, a fulfilling relationship with God which brings us peace, relating to the loving God is what matters. If we do not experience it yet, we need to seek it, wait on it, expect it. It comes to us in small ways. It sometimes overwhelms us in its greatness and goodness. It makes no sense to give up on Love. Those who have faith and hope will not be disappointed.


And yet, this is only part of the story. One could also suggest other theological insights that may guide us in our reflection on pessimism. But there is a deeper issue here: Christianity and faith do not by definition imply that we should be optimistic. Surely, there are believers who are "sunny" in their faith. They are what Rahner described as the summery types. They are happy people who smile constantly and genuinely. They are truly happy people. But then, there is the other side of the coin. Faith also roots in the lives of wintry people. They are not necessarily pessimistic or morbid. But they are aware of the coldness of life. They are aware that the spiritual journey often takes place in the harsh, cold times of winter. These are the people who are prepared. They are the five wise ones, who fill their lamps for times of darkness. They are watchful. And they are the ones, when others despair, go out to bring comfort, warmth, consolation. They are conform to Christ. The one who was prepared to be nailed to the cold cross, in complete darkness. Shortly before his resurrection.

Holiness and prayer

We pray with every good intention. Through prayer we want to feel better or want to be better people or want to live a better life.

But prayer, Biblical prayer is about much more than that.

Prayer is to be with God, to experience God.

The Pharisee, Jesus taught us, had this feel-good-about-oneself idea about prayer. I pray to feel good that I am so good. And the tax collector could only cry out in sincere prayer about his despair and his yearning for the forgiving presence of God. All his prosperity, wealth, everything that made his life good, provided no reassurance to him and brought no peace in his conscience.

And yet, we are a bit careful and hesitant to enter God’s presence in prayer. To be with God? That is big. We fear it.

It reminds me of the silly joke about two guys visiting a strip club and ordering something to eat. “Will you say grace for us?” the one dutifully said to the other. “Are you crazy”, replied his friend. “I don’t want God to see we are here.”

Prayer brings us into the presence of God, but this divine holiness can be searching, scorching and searing. It cleanses, exorcises, heals and empowers. And we fear the pain of this process.

This is sad. If only we can realize that God’s holiness does not create anxiety, but awe. We stand in deep amazement before the attractive wholeness of God, before God who is so different than all our smutty talk and thoughts, before the One who is pure light, who lets us bathe in the light of sheer beauty and glory.

The alternative is grey, unattractive and even more painful. To pray to feel good – and to realize that your heart needs more. That all the good, the good, the moral perfection, the do-goodness, all the Pharisaic stuff are really nothing. It is where they come from that matters. It is only the One who is good who really matters and who bring our longing hearts to rest.

To be free, totally free, as God is, freed from our daily jealousies, hatred, envy, meanness, deviousness, anxieties. To be as God, holy, transformed by the divine power into a new life, liberated from sin, in the healing, loving and glorious presence of the holy God. To finally find peace where everything is holy.

Hallowed be thy name...

The spiritual reading of the Bible: devotion to the words of God

Spiritual writers have stressed that a spiritual reading of the Bible means that one becomes involved in a special manner in the heart of God's word. It is all about a devoted reading of the Bible. One grows into Scripture.

This implies a daily, repeated and intimate relationship with the text. As one reads and rereads it, these spiritual authors said, one is led deeper into its beauty and meaning. We are always discovering new treasures, new dimensions, new aspects of the Bible and we are continually transformed by them.

They realized that the Bible appeals in many ways to us as we open ourselves to its working.

Many things can make us grow and mature in our relationship with the scriptural message. It is not simply a matter of reading. Our reading is more complicated than we think. We are influenced in several ways in our rumination of Scriptures. Here are two of the most important processes.

We read the Bible together with others:

We are, for example, helped and inspired by other readers of the Bible. How they read the text, not only makes us understand the text better, but their communication of one small nuance or reception of the text can be so special that it can change our lives.

Thus, someone's painting or sculpture of Biblical texts can determine one’s life forever. What the artist saw in the text, can form us decisively.

If one listens to the reading of Scripture together with others in a liturgical context, one sometimes hears and experiences the text in new ways. And the perspective on the Bible which is shared in preaching can also yield new treasures.

Even the simple reading of the Bible in the worship setting can be transformative - not only for those who listen, but even for the one who does the reading. It has happened often to me as I read Scripture loud in church, that I thought to myself that I am discovering new nuances by simply having to emphasize certain words, pause between phrases or change the volume of my voice.

We read the Bible in new ways by ourselves:

The same transforming process is to be seen in the quiet times of withdrawal where one reflects on Scripture. Here, too, as one’s life enters different phases and one experiences joy, grief, disappointment, despair or concerns, Scripture somehow speaks into those situations. The phase in which we find ourselves, makes us aware of nuance of the text which we have not experienced in other times and conditions.

Gregory the Great wrote about the private reading of Scripture: “The soul, conscious of its faults and recognizing the truth of what it has heard, is struck by the dart of grief and pierced by the sword of compunction, so that it wishes to do nothing but weep and wash away its stains with flood of tears. Meanwhile, the soul is sometimes raptured in the contemplation of higher things, and, in its desire for them, tormented by sweet weeping” (cf. K.M. Becker, Treasure House of Scripture, 56).

Finally, the devoted reading is all about being confronted by the presence of God. It is, ultimately, not merely a matter of reading the Bible, but it is all about meeting God in and through the words of Scripture.

The unexpected touch of God

Sometimes we live a quiet, still existence for years before, one day, we realise that something special has happened to us. Our past lives may have been good and fine with no major or evil deeds. It may have been a life which we enjoyed and which was fulfilling. We can be happily married, have a special family, great kids, have enough to eat, wonderful friends and lack few things in life. There need not be any problem in our lives. And even our spiritual lives may have been good. We may have learnt much about God, found happiness in our relationship with God and enjoyed being active in the church.

And yet, one day, something happens to us which lets us look at life quite differently. We know something has been happening to us. It is as if a spark has ignited in us. We are no longer what we were. Something, someone has changed and transformed us.

It is then that many things happen to us. We begin to reflect on this special experience which we had. Why have I never before had something like this? Why have I not seen life as I see it now? Why is it that what someone said or what I read somewhere touched my innermost being and confronted me in a special way with the divine presence in my life?

It is not that I am so bright to have understood myself better, or that I grew more mature in my understanding of matters. It is not that I am emotional or on a high.

It is a lingering, continuous experience and awareness of love which came to me from outside myself, which touched me and whose presence I keep on experiencing.

It is as if someone throws a refreshing bucket of cold water in my face – making me stand back and wonder about its impact.

I see this Love before me, I feel changed by it, I am no longer what I was. I have been transformed.

I stand perplexed: can I be so privileged? Why was this given to me, this amazing grace? And why only now? How different my life would have been if only I experienced this twenty years ago. How much more love I would have shared with others, how much more I would have loved God, how much more I would have lived without my own little petty pre-occupations and selfishness?

It is then that one finds abiding peace. We have been brought to a place where it is good te be – on the mountain, in the sacred presence. And the only desire that is left is to have more peace, to live closer to God. A deep yearning fills us.

Our spiritual journey, having begun many years ago and having been good and nice and rewarding, is now no longer just another step with God. It is a passion. It brings me to desire the perfect union with God.

This is pure grace. God has touched me in love. Love embraces me. The mystical touch of God makes me call out: let me have more! Let your peace fill me completely.

Augustine prayed:

To late I learnt to love You, o Beauty, so old and yet so new. To late I got to love you! You called me, you named me and made an end to my deafness. You let the light flow out and made it shine over me, my blindness took flight! And you yielded a lovely odour which I inhaled deeply. I longed and desired for you. I tasted You and I and I hungered for You. You touched me and in my burnt a fire to experience your peace.


Too late I learnt to love You, o Beauty

"My" lepers. On love without end.

This is a painting in the church in Louvain which we visited today. There is a major exhibition of the life of Jozef de Veuster, or, Damien, who is much admired in Belgium. As a young man he received a calling and left for Hawaii as missionary.

In 1973, when he was only 33 years old, he was appointed to work in a colony of lepers. They were outcasts there, dumped by authorities and abandoned. No one wanted to work there. Damiaan cared for them as their spiritual father figure, as farmer, teacher and nurse. He made enemies because he fought their cause with so much conviction.

With time he became a Mother Theresa-like figure who began to attract international attention because of his work under the lepers. After 16 years he also became ill and at the age of 49 he dies of leprosy (1889).

In the church in Louvain there are huge pictures – amongst other of him as a youthful person, ready to commence with his missionary work. His face reflects a still eagerness, an inner fulfillment, someone who is ready to serve.

On the opposite side there are pictures of his later life: the misleadingly beautiful scenic setting of the colony. So stunning, until one realizes that the place was a huge jail where these people were dumperd without any care and support.

And then, next to it, a group photo of Damien. It looks like a normal group of people, until one, on a closer look, recognizes the faces covered with leprosy. In the middle sits Damien, no longer the serene young man. Now a suffering leper, covered with wounds, a man of sorrows. He is surrounded by young children with misformed faces. The face is that of a man of wounds, surrounded by death on all sides.

The photo’s I take and the quotations printed under them, reveal a world of suffering.

In one quotation Damien talks about the awful illness of which he also fell prey. But it is not so much the leprosy which saddens or upsets him, he says. He misses it much more that he can no longer serve the eucharist. He was in good spirits, but the spiritual suffering is a heavy burden to carry. And yet, not even this breaks his spirit. “Would I be given the choice to leave here in good health, I would not hesitate for one moment to say: ‘I remain here with my lepers until the end.”

“My” lepers. The phrase hits my in my stomach.

In that one phrase one recognises the meaning of life. This man and his life is about love, intimacy, close-ness. He believes and lives love which transcends all the safe boundaries around us by which we keep the unwanted away from us and out of our sight. We do not want to be near them and we do not want to see them. His is a life which says the opposite of those who reject and abandon the needy and the destitute. What others chase out to far away colonies of leprosy, his love embraces and draws nearer.

For some reason or other, this phrase makes me think of Salvador Dali’s painting of the cross. It is as if the “my” lepers sheds new light on what Dali painted. He portrayed Christ on the cross from the perspective of heaven: here God is looking down on the still face of death, on the mystical Jesus whose head hungs forward, in death. There is no blood, no suffering, no ugly misformed body. God looks at the Son in love, in deep unity, in true intimacy. “I have called you by the name. You are my Son. I delight in you.”

No leprosy, not even death can eliminate the beauty of those who give in love.

There is another quotation of what Damien said shortly before he died: “Look at my hands. My wounds are coarse and they are turning black. It is a sign that the end is near. Look at my eyes. I have seen so many dying lepers. I am not making a mistake here. Death is not far. I wish I could have seen the bishop one more time. But God calls me to celebrate Easter with Him.”

Coarse, black wounds. Breaking eyes. And yet, the awareness of the Divine Invitation, the prospect of being released, of being healed, of celebrating the conquest of death and the new life. The resurrection. Easter.



The young Damien



The colony in the stunning setting:


Group photo of lepers in colony:



Damien the leper's face.

The heart and the resurrection...

We have a royal time at our meeting. Exceedlingly royal. The spirit is good. Everyone is enjoying themselves. In the meantime we are also hard at work with highly technical academic work. The knowledge of many a lifetime is exhibited here. We are impressed and we learn alot. Theology can be profound and deep.

One of the colleagues has two of his latest books with him. The one, I see, is on the resurrection. I am immediately interested, also because we had a long, most enjoyable and intense discussion the previous night which made me reflect on many things. And now I am surprised to see that he has also written about the resurrection.

How come, I ask him?

His father, he immediately tells me, died four years ago. Soon after that he also lost both his in-laws. And not only he, but his whole family was confronted with the reality of death. And to bring clarity in his own mind, what better than to write a book? Then he spent three years on it and at last the product is finished.

This is the experiential reality out of which theology is sometimes born. The direct, naked confrontation with the last, big enemy. It is an existential struggle. After years of having been engaged in theology and years of writing learned books, this happens. You are brought to standstill. The answers are not yet there. How do you respond to the harsh realities of life? What does your theology tell you in such a situation? How do you speak to the little ones in the family when they are struck with the deadly blow of losing the dearest and the loveliest in their lives?

The answers are not ready, you discover, surprised. You must sit, patiently, reflectively, struggling to formulate the cries of your heart. The brain is waiting. And this happens even after 25 years of theology.

I want to read that book. The feastly atmosphere and the deep discussions are nice and good. I am learning a lot. The brian gymnastics makes me mentally fitter.

But I want to reflect on the deeper issues, I want to meditate on the greater things. My heart asks for more, desires beyond..... I want to listen to the experience of faith, feel the touch of the Spirit.

Zacchaeus

On spirituality as friendliness and kindness.

We often think that spirituality as the art of life in love has to do with “friendliness.” Paul, we know, reminded the faithful to let their friendliness be known to all. And we also think that we follow him when, in love, we tolerate everything. As spiritual people we like to think that finger-pointing is out, embracing the other is in. Spiritual leaders nowadays tend not to preach hell and damnation, shout at the church members or instruct them what to do with their lives.

We often think that a spiritual person is a friend of all. We are careful to speak our mind which we so often prayerfully weigh in terms of the mind of Christ. We are hesitant to criticize where we feel God’s will is not being done. We would rather keep silent than risk our opinion. We would rather accept what makes us feel uncomfortable than speak out about our innermost feelings.

It is true that spirituality is about being considerate and non-judgmental. Kindness and friendliness are beatiful virtues. All human beings deserve to be respected for their inner dignity. The other person has an own responsibility for his or her life. It is only the busybody who pokes her or his nose in someone else’s business. One should not judge too easily and too quickly. We allow a space for all within which they can discover a meaningful existence. Everyone has the potential to be a Zaccaeus.

But all this does not mean that one should quietly accept everything others do. Spirituality is more than a faith that is always accepting without ever revealing one’s own reservation and concerns. And, in addition, our kindness towards others often entails more than mere caring and sharing for them, more than motivating and supporting them. There is a moment that they need to know what we really think.

We need to remember how easily our friendliness is a way to increase our popularity. Then our friendliness serves our own ends. We gain recognition and acceptance by being friendly, not saying a word when things go wrong, or when we are too afraid to speak out.

The great mystics did not hesitate to speak their minds and did not fear opposition or rejection. Often they witnessed unto death. They consoled, they comforted, they supported. But they did not hesitate to talk openly about their convictions and beliefs. There comes the time that the believer has to say what is on her or his mind.

Serving God by caring for the little ones....

German television today broadcasted a program on someone who works in a hospital with chidren who were born prematurely. He is part of a specialized group, but the program is only about him and his work. The crew follows him in his daily routine. He patiently explains what he is doing, how the ward functions and how these babies are treated from a medical point of view. Quiet, informed, knowledgeable, he talks about his work. It is awesome to see such a big, tall man working with almost miniature babies. They are small, frail and always at risk of losing their lives.

And every moment of this program reveals how this big man cares for what he is doing and especially for children.

The babies lie in beds which look like space age contraptions. Each has its own bed, linked to every conceivable device with cables all over the place. Inside, clearly visible, but cut off from the threatening contamination of normal air, lies the small ones. They hardly cling on to life.

Every now and then an alarm on the machines goes off. Then the caring man has to investigate what needs to be done. He remains at the bed, sometimes picking up the body, breaking a wind, talking gently as he handles the alarm.

He baths the babies, illustrates to their parents how to handle them, feed them and hold them. Look, he explains at the bedside of a small little creature: if he moves his small tongue like that, he has hunger. They are sometimes so small, so almost infinitely tiny. One of them has a hand as big as a finger nail.

At some stage the interviewer asks: Now how did you become involved in this work? He explains that he studied at a university for two years, but at no stage did he really liked what he was doing. His studies promised a lucrative career with lots of money. But that was not what he wanted to do with his life. In those years, he says, my relationship with God was not right. In this non-religious program, this remark rolls spontaneously off his lips. It is accompanied by a quick movement of his eyes upwards, to heaven. He went home, he continues, and studied medicine for two years. In Bible classes he gradually began to understand what he wanted to do. So ultimately, he took up his position in the ward, caring for babies who could not speak or look after themselves and who needed utmost care. In that place he found his happiness and fulfilment.

Each day, this grownup man, works with highly specialized technology. He cares for little babies who, some years ago, had no chance of surviving if they had been born at such an early age. Today they survive because of this technology. Today, little children survive with hands as big as fingernails due to huge progress in medical science. And, also, thanks to those who provides the technology with an indispensible, necessary human face. So he baths the little, helpless ones, chats with them, patiently holds them up to break winds, show their parents to prepare their food and change their dirty napppies. And in his humanity, his friendliness, his patience, he does not only give life, but he gives hope and inner calm to concerned, alarmed, worried parents.

This is praxis, the practice of faith – in its most concrete, self-sacrificing form. To make things right with God in an act of faith, putting on an apron, kneeling and washing the feet of others.

Humour: mistaken compassion....

The following story is a new one for me (taken from today's Rapport).

The guy, drunk as a sailor, takes a shortcut on his way home after the good night out through the graveyard and falls into an open grave. Later on in the night it starts to rain and he shivvers heavily from the cold. He begins to shout for help.

"Help, me thomeone, help me, itth damn cold down here." Another friend in crime, also happy as a sailor, walks by and hears the cries. He peers down the grave and starts to fill it in with sand, while he says with compassion:

"O.K. Don't worry. It'sh allright. No wonder you'r sho cold. You kicked yourshhelf open."

The risks of God’s grace. On Zacchaeus and spirituality (3).

Having written about Zacchaeus in the previous entries, I stumbled across this beautiful entry by Neil Thorogood (cf. further below) on what is otherwise an interesting website from his college in Cambridge (with such writings they can do with more entries - ). It helped me developed my understanding of this passage in Luke 19:1-10 even more.

Thorogood’s contribution reflects on one particular aspect of the story in Luke 19:1-10 which I find intriguing. It relates to an important aspect of spirituality. The life changing touch of God comes to us without warning, unannounced, often unexpected, (Paul on the way to Damascus), but always beyond any human contribution, : the divine outreach to humanity cannot be forced, earned or deserved. We can only wait on it. It is given, free, out of grace, as it behoves....

But then, how does this free gift of divine grace looks like practically? It is sometimes given to some without them having to wait too long. Others have to wait for years while they travel through dark nights of the soul, crying out for the divine touch. For some the touch is given in the overwhelming fire of pentecost, for others like Zaccaeus it comes amidst everyday life, amidst the hectic crowds, when a Man of Love stops and calls them by their name. Practically it came in “Jesus calling to Zacchaeus in his tree and, without it seems discussion, inviting himself in to this man’s home for food and fellowship and a conversation that will change life for a sinner,” as Thorogood remarks. But now, even more significantly, it is given in such a remarkable manner without any condition. No catechism! No reciting of a confession of faith! No theological cross-examination... It is just given.... away... Without calculating the risks.

The touch is recognized, it is felt, and it has life changing consequences.

And yet, God’s grace is about God taking risks, about God daring to love. There is, after all, the figure of Judas and the treason of Peter.

What I like most in Thorogood’s remarks is the challenging, but especially practical way in which he reflects on the consequences of the free gift of divine grace to Zacchaeus. This story challenges us: do we dare to love conform to Christ’s example? And do we dare to do so in our professions and jobs – in the prison where we work with abusive, hard, merciless people? Like Zacchaeus? Is the chaplain really serious when it is said: “And as we talk faith in this place begins to unfold as he speaks of value, worth, humanity and the inexhaustible grace of God that can transform the most powerful evil and claim shattered lives”?

This is truly conformity to Christ – experienced by someone in a prison as chaplain, nameless in this story, with no reference to his anxieties, his fears, his prayers, his exhaustion during all the times he dares to love, dares to speak of Christ, dares to seek the Zaccaeus solution. Dares to take the risk.

This is true spirituality. Such a risk was never an easy option – as Jesus found out when the crowds began to grumble menacingly, and, later on, killed him (Others you saved...) . It still is not the easy road, as Thorogood’s many questions at the end of his remarks reveal.

But it is the way of God – the journey of adventure, taking risks.


Here is the reference to the blog entry of Thorogood:

http://www.westminster.cam.ac.uk/index.php/reflect/27-reflections-on-my-first-visit-to-wayland-prison

Reflections on my First Visit to Wayland Prison
Written by Neil Thorogood
Arriving on a grey day I’m immediately aware of scale. A vast and featureless wall, rounded and bulging at its peak, shuts out the world of prison from my world. There’s a neat car park with small trees off an unremarkable country side road, and this great wall. In the gate house I’m warmly welcomed and my passport is checked. They’re expecting me. The strangeness is calmed a little by being expected, my name on a list, my reason for being here understood. But I’m conscious of fidgeting and turning pages without reading the magazines as I wait for the chaplain to see me through the gates. And I think of prison as a place where God is. I recall that role of apostles, and Jesus, heading into the cells. They were captured, or handed themselves over, alive in faithfulness. I think of Daniel. I think of Bonhoeffer. What might it mean for me to bring my faith into prison? What faithfulness will I meet here? How is God busy?
Then we’re in, surrounded by the hardness of concrete and stone, the clanging shut of gates and the endless clinking of huge bunches of keys. There are dogs with handlers in the exercise yard. But otherwise it is empty and the chaplain and I make a lonely procession towards the normality of his office and a welcome coffee. And as we talk faith in this place begins to unfold as he speaks of value, worth, humanity and the inexhaustible grace of God that can transform the most powerful evil and claim shattered lives.

Root is carved from a great block of limestone. It has been worked on, yet retains much of its original form. It isn’t hard to think of it still as just a block of rock. Yet there is also transformation here with twisting forms and a whole language of tiny marks incised on its sheen as if it is some sort of Rosetta stone remembering another language, offering a voice into the stillness around it.

In Wayland I encountered people who carried still the weight of evil done. I talked with some who have hurt others beyond imagining, and some who hurt themselves beyond enduring. They carry scars, a language of broken lives like the marks of the chisel on the stone.
I find myself drawn to glimpses of salvation; Jesus calling to Zacchaeus in his tree and, without it seems discussion, inviting himself in to this man’s home for food and fellowship and a conversation that will change life for a sinner, and for a community that must welcome back a sinner (Luke 19:1-10). Jesus makes the approach, but Zacchaeus eagerly responds to it. A way is opened, but a step over the threshold is taken. I encountered in chaplaincy this willingness to constantly open a way: a way into relationships; a way into honesty; a way into giving an account; a way towards taking hold of consequences; a way towards God. Some of the prison officers, I gathered, saw chaplaincy as the feather bed offering a place of comfort for anyone with the wit to befuddle the chaplains. But in the chaplains I found a realism about the possibility of being lied to by prisoners gifted in dishonesty, yet a conviction that following Christ here meant always risking. Zacchaeus has to re-enter his community able to demonstrate change, yet unable to remove the past. He carries the scars and, maybe, every day has to live out being forgiven all over again. How does that work with a convicted sex offender contemplating release into a society hostile? What would ministry mean for me in a congregation welcoming Zacchaeus yet also upholding the victims of deceit and abuse? How do I now understand what Jesus means when he speaks of seeking and saving the lost?
Neil Thorogood (February, 2009)

Quadruble love. Zacchaeus in Luke 19:1-10. On Spirituality and Praxis.

Zacchaeus's story is actually remarkably simple. It is a story without any formal or express words of repentance. There is no dramatic confession, “I have sinned...” Zacchaeus simply does what Jesus asked him to do. He climbed down the tree, quickly, and received Jesus with joy. Their meeting upsets the bystanders. It is sinful, they say, to associate with the unclean, to share the presence of those who have committed wrong. Then, with a murmuring crowd in the background, Saggeus speaks for the first time in the story. He, the rich and powerful man, will give away half of his possessions to those from which he stole. And he will do so fourfold.

Three moments of this action are striking:

Firstly, Zacchaeus showed that he desired to live according to God’s will. His life has been transformed. His own desires and greed are no longer in the center of his existence. God's will has become the desire of his heart. He appropriates Exodus 22 which calls on those who have harmed others to compensate for it. Now that the Lord has entered his home and into an intimate relationship with him, his wealth has presented the opportunity to him to live a life pleasing to God. He changed from someone who mercilessly enriched himself by extorting money from the poor, to one who, for the sake of God, gives up his belongings (Thomas a Kempis, Franciscus of Assissi!). It was not a decision that many followers of the Galilean took. Here one senses in the background the story of that other rich young man who ultimately could not give up his riches, could not follow Jesus and become his disciple. Here Zacchaeus, the rich and powerful man, however, becomes more than just a follower of Jesus. He gives out of his own, without being asked (like the rich young man), voluntarily.

He becomes a Christ-like figure. From his intimate relationship with the divine, he is empowerd to live in the divine will. Not my will...

Secondly, he shows how abundant his transformation is. He understands how horrible his life was in the past. He understands the gravity of his past crimes and transgressions. He has come to himself – like the Prodigal Son in the pig sty. And he indicates how he desires his life to be totally different and new. The Old Testament tells us that the nature of a crime determined the compensation he had to pay. Zacchaeus knew this. He was, after all, though a tax collecter a child of Abraham! Ao he measures his transgressions and does not spare himself. There is a deep consciousness of evil and darkness, only overshadowed by the deeper urge to compensate for it. He remembers what faith is all about, how faith cannot tolerate injustice and hatefulness. He appropriates this word of Scripture, the divine will to do good, without any command of Jesus. Let me be different, just very different than the hateful, bullying extortionist I had been. Does this reflect something of the transformation in glory?

And thirdly, he shows that he understands the gospel of Jesus. It is a gospel to the poor. He, the rich and powerful man, does what Jesus has been asking his disciples and the crowds all through his ministry. He who abused and extorted, now reaches out to his victims like Jesus did all his life. This is all about conformity to Christ: the shape of his new life takes the form of Jesus' life. His encounter - only at a distance, but then, in growing intimacy with Jesus as Jesus enters his home, the intimate sphere of his life, brings him to compassion for others which is in the image of his Master’s compassion and mercy.

How beautiful to meditate on this: the thoughts in Zacchaeus’ head while he sat near Jesus, looking at that face, recognising him for “who He is”, talking with him, listening to him talk. And his inner sorrow: “If only I had never done that, the extortion, the lack of compassion and mercy – so different from what I am receiving now. If only I could be like this Man! For my life to be completely in God's will, to be like the Christ and to care for the silent, the meek, the little ones, the oppressed, the exploited, the dehumanised of our world.”

Zacchaeus is ultimately, the mystical story of a rich, powerful man in a tree who climbed down to spend precious time with the itinerant preacher. He becomes the itinerant one, exploring the streets to search for his victims, those he exploited and terrorized. His relationship with Jesus brings him to move out to those who have nothing. It is the last phase of spirituality, the ongoing praxis, where faith hits the streets and reaches out in compassion to God’s world. Transformation ends in praxis.

The famous church father, Clement of Alexandria, later wrote that Zacchaeus took Judas's place as an apostle and was given the name Mattias. Whether this is true, nobody can ever say. But it shows just how this story of his transformation impressed readers of Scripture. And maybe, who knows, this man, because he experienced the loving, life-giving countenance of Jesus, feeling the love he so desired and which his cold possessions could not give him, maybe he did indeed crisscrossed the streets, seeking out the poor, giving them what they needed. With his sharp, discerning insight (I even climb a tree to see him ...) he remembered their faces, found them and, perhaps, gave them much more than the money he stole from them. Maybe they saw in him the love and countenance of Christ, an intimate friend of Christ, a disciple. And maybe they did thinkg that he should be there for everyone to see as the thirteenth apostle. Who knows.

And yet, it makes no difference. His life, on the day of his transformation, was conform to Christ. And by reading this story, we feel it too.

Luke does not moralize the figure of Zacchaeus. One cannot express the divine-human relationship in laws and commandments. His is a story of a man who was dead and is now alive. A man who bore the burden of external riches and possessions and was liberated. His is a story of how compassion brings compassion. Love leads to abundant, quadruple love. Four times, four times more I want to do for Christ’s sake than ever did for myself. Four times.

(Tomorrow: a famous painting of Zacchaeus).

Spirituality, emotions and experience

Spirituality is often linked with emotions. It is then seen as a development which reacted against an overemphasis on reason, on intellectuality. Faith, we say, is not only about the brain, but also about the heart.

And this is certainly true. Faith touches not only our understanding, but it also has to do with our feelings.

The problem is that we too often mistake our emotions and feelings with our moods. Then we may easily regard spirituality as something which helps us to get out of our bad moods. Spirtuality, we may then argue, provides happiness, makes us joyful, excited.

This may also be true. Faith has its extraordinary happy moments, its ecstatic times.

But often we can experience inner peace and calm when we are not in a good mood. Biblical characters like Paul exemplify this when they sing songs of praise in prison. We can still, in the difficult times, experience the kindness and love of God, realize that we have been granted the extraordinary gift of faith from above. We “know” it, “realize” it, “experience” it, even though we may not necessarily “feel” it in the happy sense of the word. Experience does not need to imply “feeling” good or happy. Experience means that our faith is a reality, God’s love is with us.

Our faith does not per definition bring us into a good mood. Good feelings may even threaten our faith – because when they disappear, we get frustrated, depressed or confused. Why did I feel so close to God, but now there is a huge distance between us? Have I lost my faith now that I feel gloomy and far from God?

Faith does not come and go like our moods swing between bad and good. Nothing can separate us from God’s love, certainly not our bad moods.

We are as human beings by nature instable and fickle. It is our fate to also by times to feel like we are battling to survive stormy seas. Peter felt it: one moment he ecstatically felt like walking on water, the next moment he was sinking in desperation. And yet, he remained a disciple and continued with the spiritual journey.

Spirituality focuses on faith in God, keeping the eye fixed on the One who leads us to life. It focuses on on Love, on the One who personifies mercy, compassion, care. It has to do with Someone who reaches out to us. Faith means to look up to Him, to experience that my life is not determined by my moods, but by my experience of intimacy, nearness. Someone greater than my emotions is there to be with me.

Thomas A Kempis writes about this in The Imitation of Christ 3.34. He quotes Matthew 6:21-23. 1For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. 22"The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eyes are good, your whole body will be full of light. 23But if your eyes are bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light within you is darkness, how great is that darkness!

This is the challenge: to look beyond our moods, our fickleness. To look away from my dark depression, from myself. To remember in the moments of sadness to keep an eye on the Son of Man who is the light, the One whom I should desire. Nothing can eclipse this great light of love. As Thomas asks: we need to direct our eye toward the one, never-changing beacon of light – the Christ of faith. If we do, the whole body will be full of light. If we do not, how great is the darkness which overfalls us.

Yearning for God - the life experience of Zacchaeus

The Zaccheus story in Luke 19:1-10 remains one of the most beautiful stories in the New Testament and in Luke. If one reads it from the perspective of spirituality, it yields the following two fascinating perspectives.

1. The divine-human relationship.
Jesus, the intinerant, wandering preacher, on his way through Jericho, tells the children of Abraham, his Jewish compatriots, about God’s new plan for the people of Israel. He has a new message about God. He speaks of a God in language that they find difficult to understand. His God looks a bit different than the God they are used to pray to. Their neat ideas about God differ from who God really is, says Jesus. God “now”, “today” includes the outsiders. The divine love invites also the despised into the family of God. Things are changing, nothing will ever be the same. God is doing the unthinkable. Those who shouted at the tax collectors, who regarded Zaccheus as the enemy of God, must now hear that he is also a “son of Abraham.”.

This is so important that the whole life of Jesus consists of proclaiming this message: The Son of Man came to seek and save those who are lost. The whole life of Jesus is focussing on embodying this message. He seeks the lost, he travels to embrace them, to bring them back into the fold. This is his life, his message, “who He is.”

This is beautiful, especially for us who know how people can draw boundaries around themselves to keep out the “intruders,” the marginalized, those that they find unworthy of them. We as believers appreciate this wonderful image of the divine outreach to humanity which tolerates no discrimination.

And yet, after my reading of mystical literature over the last number of years, it is something else which intrigues me in the episode. For just as fascinating as the reaching out of God, is the reaching out of humanity to God. There is not a one-sided traffic in the relationship of God and humanity. Like God reaches out for us, we too yearn for God, like Zaccheus. On the surface of things, this is the last one expects of him. He who had everything in life, who was a powerful rich figure who could abuse others without fear of consequences, his existence was empty. His life no longer had meaning. We see him, the powerful, rich one, running desperately after an unknown man, a prophet of all people, one who does not mix with the powerful of this world. He, who is clothed in linen, who sleeps in the softest of beds, desires to see this man who travels with a simple message about God, who ownes nothing and who does not even have a place to lie down his head.

The strange desire for the deeper things breaks power to pieces and makes wealth and riches meaningless.

Zaccheus heard of Jesus, he heard enough to fill his thoughts. Over and over again the story plays out in his mind (lectio). Somewhere in his inner being a prayerful longing for God flamed up. Note the languageof Luke: “I want to see him.” And then the key addition: I want to see him, “who he is.” It is not mere curiosity. It is a yearning to experience, to see his countenance, to look the prophet in the eyes, to see infinity, to open the heart. The desire consumes him. He fights, in vain, to get to Jesus through the crowds. And then, desperate, he runs to a tree, Luke writes. He knew, he planned (meditatio!), he worked out Jesus’ route, he considered the options, he thought deeply about what to do – he wanted to see Him. It is a deep desire, flowing from his innermost being, this desire for the divine. His climbing the tree is his oratio, his prayer, his fragile reaching out to the “One who Is.”

2. The transformation
The moment of recognition happens. The paths of God and humanity cross. Note how the relationships are dramatically reversed. The rushing Zaccheurs, panting and sweating up in the tree, sees how the Human One, The Son of Man, stops at the tree. He wants to see Jesus, but Jesus looks up at him. And then, the most intimate moment in the story: Jesus calls him by his name: Zaccheus. I know you. “I have called you by your name....”

In meditiaton on this passage one could think of many things: the thronging crowds, Jesus walking through then, then the place under the tree, Jesus standing still, looking up, the crowds staring up in total surprise at the peering tax collector, falling silent as Jesus begins to talk to him. And, then, Jesus quietly talking to him, calling him from under the tree. The hated tax collector who abused and deceived so many, sitting in a tree, looking down at the face of the Man. The face to face meeting, ultimately initiated by the One who Is. At last Zaccheus sees who He is. He is the One who know me without me having seen him....

And the intimate moment is intensified when Jesus says to him to get down “quickly”. What a response! Quick to embrace, this is how we know God. There is no mocking from Jesus. Not like what happened to him when he was up a tree and despised by the crowds. Here is compassion, outreach and love. Quickly Zacchaeus, quickly, let us meet, the divine heart is impatiently looking out for you. My desire is greater, more urgent, deeper and stronger than your quest for me.

But the deepest moment is in the mystical: “I must stay with you today.” The contemplatio, the visio Dei, living in the presence of God, at home with the Father. The running Father embracing and kissing the Prodigal Son.

And then the dark side. The embrace comes at a price, Luke tells us. The dark shadow of the cross falls menacingly over the two who embrace, because the darkness cannot stand love. Luke pictures Jesus as the one who loves the sinners and who shares God’s grace with them ( The Son of Man saves, you are a son of Abraham who belongs to God as well). So the expected happens where people do not “see who He is”: the crowds murmur and complain. The pious and the religious prescribe to Jesus. They stand in stark contrast to Zacchaeus who desires to “see” Jesus. How soft is the profile of Zaccaeus suddenly: the one who yearns stands in contrast with the ones who hate and reject. So, the one who is transformed, who feels the embrace of God, is the one who waits for God.

But, even then, there is still the deepest moment in those unfathomable words of Jesus: “I must stay with you today...” Who is Jesus? wonders Zacchaeus. He is the divine One, answers Luke, who must reach out. His divine father heart drives him. He cannot but reach out. He is driven by merciful love. He “must” do it. “The son of Man must....”

So much to add about the story’s remarkable end. Hopefully some day more...