Dance while standing still

     

One of my all-time favorite Bible verses—the one I have most often shared, and prayed over—comes from the King James version of Isaiah 30:15: “In quietness and in confidence shall be your strength.”

Another rendering adds the word trust, which I welcome. And reinforcement also comes in a passage from Hebrews 10:35, which urges, “Do not throw away your confidence; it will be richly rewarded” (New International Version).

      No doubt about it. Confidence that springs from the spiritual reality of our strength and wholeness as God’s flawless offspring is empowering.

      Earlier this year I swapped three weeks of winter in Boston for three weeks of summer sunshine in South Africa. This turned out to be less cunning escapism than an exercise in quietness, making spiritual vision a priority, as I chose to rejoice in God’s ever-present goodness, rather than mindlessly accepting flawed information from the material senses—a source often proved to be unreliable.

      My dip into the Southern Hemisphere was prompted in some measure by an essay by columnist and spiritual writer Richard Rohr in which he explored the desert Christians’ search for God and especially the lifestyle of Saint Francis.

      Rohr explains that Francis didn’t want a stable form of monastic life; he wanted to mix with the world and find God amidst its pain, confusion, and disorder: “For me, that is still the greatest art form,” says Rohr, “to dance while standing still!” And few people I know do that better than Rohr himself!

      He points out that, as in the early church, the desert Christians were concerned to “grow” people capable of love and community. They were firmly committed to Jesus’ teachings and approach to healing, and their chosen solitude and silence were not anti-social but a way to become better at seeing God clearly and loving God deeply. 
      Speaking of the relationship between contemplation and action, another of my favorite spiritual writers, Diana Butler Bass, describes the natural flow from solitude to prayer to active love: “For those who went to the desert, ‘come follow me’ [Matthew 19:21] was not an escape; rather, it served as an alternative practice of engagement—the first step on the way toward becoming a new people, a universal community of God’s love“ (A People’s History of Christianity, Harper One, 2010).

      Those thoughts from Rohr and Bass flavored two moments during my South African celebration of quietness.

      The first came one evening as I watched the moon rise over a rolling, crashing Indian Ocean that was just far enough away to emit no sound at all. Overhead, the Southern Cross lay unthreatened by cloud or wind, and beyond the reach of turbulent thinking of any kind. 

      Isn’t this form of mental stillness the goal of most of us as we plow our fields, listen to the birds, step into school classrooms, touch our laptop keyboards, or ease a babe in arms into a warm, comforting bathtub? 

      My second epiphanic moment came one morning on the Natal coast as I looked into the branches of a giant fig tree and found myself companioned by a young eagle owl not more than twelve feet away.

      He (or she) had his back to me but I suspected he was well aware of my presence, which was confirmed when he turned his furry head around and showed dark eyes that suddenly gleamed gold in the strengthening 7am sunlight. He appeared unafraid. Maybe curious. Certainly peaceful. Hunting was over for the night.

      The owl and I were both ready to focus on the new day—in respectful silence. No other bird spoke, not even the crested barbet which I knew would have plenty to say during the rest of the day.

      We tossed silence between us. Neither of us moved. On tiptoe, I fetched my camera from the living room. The owl watched and waited. I imagined he might even be smiling. We continued to communicate in silence until breakfast got the better of me.

      End of story. The best moment of my day. My first exchange with an owl, and it couldn’t have been more beautiful or inspiring. Or peaceful.

      During those shared moments I suspect we might both have felt just a bit like desert Christians.