Meditation #3

Meditation #3 - The third in a series of three meditations for the ECW Quiet Day at Trinity Episcopal Church in Natchez, MS.

Let nothing disturb thee; let nothing dismay thee; all things pass; God never changes. How faithful are these words of St. Teresa of Avila, a 16th century mystic. Let nothing disturb thee; let nothing dismay thee; all things pass; God never changes.

What if…what if…what if in our seasons of transition, in our spaces between places, we held fast to Teresa's words?

Grant us, Lord, not to be anxious about earthly things, but to love things heavenly; and even now, while we are placed among things that are passing away, to hold fast to that which shall endure.

My life has changed quite a lot since those autumns of my childhood, playing knee-deep in the colorful crunch of fallen leaves, clinging to my parents as we hiked all over Sewanee mountain, walking to school through the crisp fall air. I’m a spouse and a parent now, and although I’m back at school I’m a staff member rather than a student. I’ve lived in New York City. I’m a priest in the Episcopal Church, and I actually listen (well, usually!) to sermons instead of using that time to draw on the service bulletin. I learned to like Brussels sprouts and asparagus and knitting. In these and so many other ways, my life has really changed.

A constellation of things, though, have held fast, through all the changes, all the transitions, and all the what-if’s. I have always liked the sound of bells chiming, and I have always liked singing in a choir. I have always liked cats. I have always been an Episcopalian. I have always been afraid of spiders, but not afraid of thunderstorms. And I have always loved the mountains and the fall. These things, and a few more besides, are so familiar to me, like little guiding lights that point me back to myself when I’m on ground I haven’t walked before.

And yet, as I was reminded by another 3rd grader this week, there is only one thing that truly endures. There is only one thing that holds me when I have let go of everything else. How are we like stars rising in the sky? “God is light,” this student said, “and God is in us, and so we become like the stars.”

While we are placed among things that are passing away, may we hold fast to that which shall endure. The spaces between places are not empty, they are not void – they are filled with the presence and promise of God. All things pass – including choirs and cats and churches and mountains and even the seasons themselves. All things pass; God never changes.

Letting go of our what-if’s and our anxieties, releasing our urge to control the rate and direction of our swinging through life, we open our hands to receive the enduring promise of God’s presence that transcends the times and spaces of our individual lives and links us to one another through the open hands of Jesus Christ who called us to be lights in the world. Before we were six decades of stars rising, we were two millennia of saints following, and before that we were counted among the countless stars of God’s promise to Abraham, and before that we were made and called good by the One who moved over the waters of chaos and created the lights and the seasons.

We are not the first to hold fast to our trapeze bars, fearing the leap into the in-between places of life. Moses and Martha, Peter, James, John and Mary and countless other women and men would have kept swinging merrily (or not so merrily) along forever if they could. After all, in real life, there are no harnesses, no safety nets, no guarantees, no insurance policies that can cover our leaps of faith. All we have is God’s promise, I will be with you. All we have is this promise, you are sealed by the power of the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever. And so, with God’s help, we make our leap.

As the last leaves leap from the trees and fall gives way to winter, it looks for all the world like life is lost and death has taken hold. And it is true that we may leave significant pieces of life behind as we move through our seasons of transition. But winter, like grief, is a season in which life has merely gone deep to prepare for a new season of growth. And though we are buried beneath the layers of leaves that were once our playground, we bear that mark of and are held fast by the one who would not be held by death.

While we are placed among things that are passing away, may we hold fast to those that shall endure; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. We are called in this and every season of transition to fasten ourselves and all that we love to the One who endured death so that we might have life. Holding fast to him, rather than to the trapeze-bar-of-the-moment or to the trapeze bar swinging toward us, is the only life that truly soars, the only life that truly shines.

The poem about transitions concludes, “And so, transformation of fear may have nothing to do with making fear go away, but rather with giving ourselves permission to ‘hand out’ in the transition between trapeze bars. Transforming our need to grab that new bar, any bar, is allowing ourselves to dwell in the only place where change really happens. It can be terrifying. It can also be enlightening, in the true sense of the word. Hurtling through the void, we just may learn how to fly.”

Like Moses before the burning bush, like Martha on her doorstep, like the disciples on their way down the mountain, like Mary on her way to share resurrection news, something compels us to let go our anxiety, our earthly worries, our trapeze bars, and to cling instead to God’s promise of care, God’s faith in us that we can fly, that we can serve, that we can love, that we can care. Let nothing disturb thee; let nothing dismay thee; all things pass; God never changes. Teresa’s words echo the earlier 14th century prayer of her sister in faith, Julian of Norwich, who wrote, God, of your goodness, give me yourself, for you are enough for me…And if I ask for anything less, I shall be in want, for only in you do I have all.

I invite you now into our final time of quiet reflection. When the bell rings and we gather again in this space, we will join in a celebration of Holy Eucharist. Our sacraments – those we name officially and those smaller but no less significant outward and visible signs of inward and spiritual grace that we share whenever we stretch out our hands toward another – our sacraments are in between places where we stand with one foot on earth and the other in heaven, experiencing in bread and wine and water the nourishment of our souls.

Let us enter this time of quiet by first saying together our prayer, which may be found at the top of page 234 in the Book of Common Prayer. Let us pray.

Grant us, Lord, not to be anxious about earthly things, but to love things heavenly; and even now, while we are placed among things that are passing away, to hold fast to those that shall endure; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.