My first reaction was one of surprise, for I didn't even know this bushland reserve existed. I had walked the trail alongside the Mullum Mullum Creek, but I wasn't aware that it was part of a larger preserved landscape. My second reaction was one of incredulity: it was so quiescent and serene, yet the busy construction site for the eastern link freeway was a literal stone's throw away. What a marvel of serenity and space amid the crowded bustle of suburbia!
After an initial brief session of orientation, the group of which we were a part scattered to all parts of the reserve. In one hand I held a bag with a packed lunch, a Bible, a book, and some writing materials; in the other, a steaming cup of vanilla tea. It was a glorious morning, a quintessentially Autumn day: bright sunshine, blue sky, and crisp air. I wandered along one of the many trails that snake through the reserve, up hill and down dale (as it were), delighting in the scenery and the sheer, unlikely tranquility of my surrounds. Suddenly, I came to a small pool set in a deep, rock-bordered basin, its still surface covered with greenery that looked like a kind of mossy clover. With a contended sigh, I sat down on a hard, flat rock and, sipping the tea, contemplated my chosen locale.
It's hard to articulate the sense of deep fulfilment that welled up within me. Here I was, on an achingly lovely morning, sitting undisturbed in the midst of bush and birdsong. For this precious space of time, my concerns about study and finances and relationships and vocations - all the dragging paraphernalia and baggage of daily life - dissipated into the stillness and peace. Who wouldn't be overjoyed to be afforded such an opportunity for freedom, however temporary?
I opened my Bible to Psalm 23. I know this Psalm is one that is well-known and familiar; so familiar, in fact, that it might almost be considered hackneyed, as though its very lack of anonymity had drained it of meaning or richness. But for me this Psalm has always been something of a talisman, representing my understanding of God and the relation of my humanity to and with the divine. I read the Psalm through, and then re-read specific passages, thinking about them deeply. One of the meditative methods we have been examining in the course is the lectio divina, the practice of deep reading specific passages of Scripture, then re-reading them until a phrase or a word strikes the reader with particular resonance or meaning; the reader then focuses on that word or phrase, using it as the lynch post of their meditation.
Thinking about the specific passages within Psalm 23, I wrote the following:
Psalm 23, v. 1-3
Interesting that verses one and two of this Psalm should talk about the Lord leading the Psalmist beside still waters and into green fields, for here I sit beside the still waters of a pond in a place of beauty and rest. He leads me in right paths for his name's sake, reads verse three; and here I am, though I know not how I came to be here.
I think this passage reflects the unbounded love of God, both in terms of its eternal presence, and how the created order is both wonderful and good. I have often said to others that it just makes me feel glad to know that I live in a universe where such wonders exist: the majesty of mountains, the deep expanse of the oceans, trees so old they reach back to the last Ice Age, and the many marvels of the wider cosmos. I have often felt that I will always envy the generations who come after me, because of the things they will see at which I can only marvel: Jupiter rise over the horizon of Ganymede, for example, or the multitude of wonders that exist both within and beyond the Solar System. And yet I am not envious because I know that, of all the species of life on this planet, homo sapiens is the only one who can appreciate the majesty by which they are surrounded. A tree can live for 10,000 years but never appreciate its own beauty; humans, who live for scarcely 80, see all these things and are struck with awe. I know who is getting the better end of that bargain!
v. 4
Verse four talks about the rod and the staff of the Lord protecting the Psalmist from evil, even though they walk through dark valleys and places of shadow. There is an old Egyptian prayer: May God go with you and stand between you and harm in all the empty places where you must walk. I think that life requires that we must walk in the empty places, even if only the empty places of our inner self, in order that we may find our way back into the fullness of our humanity, and into the fullness of our relation with God.
In this respect, the image of the rod and staff are of particular comfort to me, because they remind me of my childhood reading, especially Ursula Le Guin's wonderful novel, A Wizard of Earthsea. A fantasy set in an imaginary world, it features powerful wizards called mages, who carry an oak staff tipped at either end in bronze, symbols of their power. But the power they carry is not over others, but for and on their behalf. The one character in particular who still stands out in my imagination after many years was called Ogion the Silent, for he was calm and self-possessed, full of deep wisdom, who rarely used his power and when he did,only when it was needful. Moreover, the image of this silent, grave, yet gentle mage has always been for me the representation of the perfect person, whose staff - whose symbol of power - was never a threat and always a place of refuge.
I think this is the kind of refuge of which the Psalmist speaks in verse four.
v. 5-6.
I think verses 5 and 6 are emblematic of the boundless grace of God. A feast is prepared for us even though we are unworthy through sin; but the invitation to participate in that feast is never withdrawn, despite the brokenness of our nature. God's mercy and love are ever present in the subtle and majestic beauty of the created order; and no matter how often I despoil myself in sin, God's grace is never withheld. All that is required is that I respond to the invitation; that I work out my own salvation, as Paul wrote, in fear and trembling. God always keeps open the doors to salvation; all that is required is that I make the attempt to respond, so that,through God's grace, I may dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
When I finished thinking and writing, I was surprised to see that nearly two hours had passed. I ate my lunch and finished my by now cold tea, read a few chapters from the book I had brought with me, then just studied my surrounds. After a while, I eased into a deep meditative state, my thoughts focused on a simple prayer that we had been taught during the course: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. This simple confessional prayer is not meant to induce feelings of guilt or shame or self-hatred: it is nothing more than a profound and beautiful offering to God, a means through which we come before God in humble recognition of our brokenness, of our total dependence on God, and of God's loving grace and forgiveness. And as a focal point for meditation, it is wonderfully effective.
I emerged from my meditation after about 40 minutes, feeling refreshed and discharged of all my emotional, spiritual, and existential baggage. I read a little more, then it was time to head back and rejoin the rest of the group. We debriefed and prayed and discussed our experiences: my impression was that the day had been one of powerful and resonating grace for all the participants.
I think one of the tragedies of the modern church is that we have, in many respects, forgotten Christianity's deep and ancient tradition of meditation and contemplation. Technology and special effects, though wonderful in many ways, have all too frequently taken over from content, so that the "worship experience" has come to mean more than either the content or the purpose of worship and faith. The "buzz" too often means more than whether or not we effect and nourish the indwelling of God in our lives.
For myself, one of the disciplines of my being has always revolved around the preservation of the sacred space within myself, of the "divine emptiness" at the core of my life. Even after I had become alienated from the Catholicism of my childhood and youth, and before I became part of the community of the Uniting Church, I had maintained this struggle through the agency of Stoic moral philosophy; indeed, it was Stoicism that first enabled me to meaningfully clear this space within myself. Faith has not filled this space, but given it richness and dimension. And rediscovering the meditative and contemplative tradition of Christianity has only served to make that richness greater still.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Only in silence the word; only in darkness, light; only in dying, life; bright is the hawk's flight on the empty sky. (Ursula Le Guin)
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