It’s been a heavy season of late. Funerals, hospice, medical, pastoral, for friends and family. When things are heavy, I often seek solitude and frequently that leads me to find some space in Oxford, the town where I grew up and continue to grow.
A couple Sundays ago, after our church services were done, I drove down to Oxford. It ended up being Plein Air day and the town, and the park where I often sit, were full of people. That and the park benches being in full sun, I walked to the end of Market Street, where there is a shaded bench next to Town Creek.
I sat quietly for a while, breathing and feeling a welcome breeze on my face. And then I pulled out three books I’ve been working on:
“Theo of Golden” by Allen Levi
“Four Quartets” by T.S. Eliot
“What Grows in Weary Lands” by Tish Harrison Warren
“Theo of Golden” is a novel that has been making its way around our congregation, talked up, talked about, and sometimes copies are passed around. A friend sent me a copy a few months ago, which I started, loved, and then reading for sermon prep, small groups, etc., took over, and I have been happy to pick it back up.
Getting to the end of the chapter I was reading, Levi wrote:
“There was, and would be, much to ponder.
Much to cherish.
Much to lament.”
I put the book down. That’s life. Every single day. We have much to ponder, much to cherish, much to lament. It is always a gift, each of those things, because to lament is wrapped up in loving. Loving opens us to lament. When we can love and cherish this life, we are fully living. Lamenting is a part of all of that, knowing that our time here is limited.
I read more in each of the books, enjoyed the company of other Market Street walkers who stopped and sat on the bench and enjoyed the shade and the breeze, and then moved along.
Among my practices for solitude is walking or running and that day was a walking day. I walked down Banks Street, cut onto Tilghman Street, and up Stewart Avenue, walking by a house where a friend and Little League baseball teammate lived, and it was his house where I first watched the slasher film classic, “Friday the 13th.” As all 11-year-old kids should (kidding).
Oxford is a town made up of memories for me, where the present and the past blend together. I wrote something about that in the August issue of Tidewater Times. Though the town has changed, it still feels like home, which is part of why I am drawn there.
I walked up onto The Strand and found a tree to sit under near the Oxford-Bellevue Ferry Dock. There I dug further into Eliot’s “Four Quartets.” I have lost count of how many times I have read this poem/book, it is one of a handful of books (mostly poetry) that I can and do carry in a backpack for quick and frequent access. Break glass/open book in case of existential emergency, or for inspiration, or to ponder, cherish, lament.
“Four Quartets” is divided into four sections, and I try to read a full section at a time. That day it was “East Coker.” Here is a stretch that jumped out at me:
“… Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.”
I try to keep the wisdom of humility close to my heart day to day, moment by moment. If you are a follower, or even a fan of Jesus, humility was part of the marrow of his Incarnation. If you look back over the history of humanity, when we lose humility, we lose ourselves, and one way or another, individually and/or collectively, a crash/fall is in the works.
Eliot’s “Four Quartets” teaches or reminds me of something every time I pick it up. If I string things together, actively pondering, cherishing, and lamenting should keep us humble.
Though I also read “What Grows in Weary Lands” on my Oxford walkabout, the chapter that connects here is one I read a few days later on our back porch.
Tish Harrison Warren shares a wisdom story from the sayings of the Christian Desert Fathers and Mothers. It’s the story of three friends who were monks, who were all earnest and faithful:
“One of them, motivated by the call in Matthew’s Gospel to be a peacemaker, chose to spend his time seeking to ‘make peace between people who were at odds.’ The second monk, motivated by Christ’s concern for the vulnerable, decided to ‘visit the sick.’ The third chose to ‘go away to be quiet in solitude.’
“The first monk did some good helping others to reconcile, but he grew sad over conflicts he could not solve. He felt ‘overcome with weariness.’ So he went to visit his friend who was tending the sick, only to discover that his friend, too, was ‘flailing in spirit.’
“The two men visited the third monk and told him about their exhaustion and sense of futility–what today we might call burnout.
“The third monk sat silently for a long while, then he poured water into a cup. ‘Look at the water,’ he said. The water was murky with silt. But after they sat together for a while, the water settled. ‘See now, how clear the water has become. So it is with anyone who lives in a crowd; because of the turbulence, he does not see his sins: but when he has been quiet, above all in solitude, then he recognizes his own faults.”
Loving, helping, and caring for others is part of why we are here. And if we are constantly focusing on others, we can lose ourselves, the things we need to work on, our own shortcomings, and also our own connection to and relationship with God.
Of course the monastic Desert Fathers and Mothers are going to drive home the need for solitude. And it is a teaching and message that resonates with my soul.
Warren brings the point home:
“This story implies that solitude and silence are our orienting goals, the re-humanizing rhythms that teach us that we are not, in fact, machines, but creatures–creatures with faults, limits, beauty, and worth, creatures made to dwell deeply with God.
“If we see solitude and stillness primarily as a means to more productivity, we will try to get by with just enough to keep us going and no more. But if these practices are essential to our very being, to our purpose and humanity, then we will orient our work and our days, our weeks and our years, around them.”
That’s what I was looking for in my Oxford walking, sitting, and reading. That’s what I look for in centering prayer, in mornings on the back porch–“to dwell deeply with God,” to rehumanize.
We have four-week small group studies of Warren’s book coming up in August at Christ Church Easton and I am looking forward to our discussions and how we might help ourselves reconnect and dwell deeply with God, especially during seasons where that can feel difficult.
Goals for any/every given day: ponder, cherish, lament, mind the wisdom of humility, dwell deeply with God.
To do these things, solitude, silence, and stillness are required.
