I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me…”
– John 10:14 (NRSV)

On a wall near her kitchen table were the words my grandmother prayed each morning as she ended her time of quiet communion with God: “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want ….” That was the image of Christ she carried in her heart and life — the image of the strong and tender Shepherd who will not lose even one of his sheep. For my grandmother, too, was a goodly shepherd, a curate to the world around her, caring for the lost and broken members of God’s own flock.

As a young boy, I spent a good bit of time with my grandmother, often staying the night with her in the little white frame house she called home. During the day I would work with her in the garden, gathering just enough corn for our supper and a basket of tomatoes for canning. In the evenings I would sit by her side as she read from The Upper Room and the bible she so gently cradled in her hands, as though it were a precious thing, treasured and holy. And from those ancient words that spoke of truth and grace, she would weave stories. And from the stories my grandmother told, God would weave healing and hope.

It happened on a dark and dreary day when I was seven, maybe eight years old. I was sitting alone at her kitchen table imagining that the brown china rabbit I had taken from the shelf was a living thing, a real live rabbit hopping through the forest. The rabbit had been a gift to her from a friend — someone very dear to her heart. On days that were dark and dreary, my grandmother would take the little brown rabbit from the shelf in her kitchen, place it in my hands, and begin to piece together a story. It might be the tale of The Hare and the Tortoise, The Velveteen Rabbit, or a story of her own making about a little brown rabbit that lived in the woods. And always, at the end of the tale, there would be a treat — a small glass of milk, a lemon cookie, and the warm and wonderful feeling of being welcome and wanted in my grandmother’s house.

But on that dark day, when I sat alone with the fragile brown rabbit, I imagined it hopping along — which it did, of course, with the help of my hand. But suddenly it “hopped” too close to the edge of the table and fell. When it landed on the old braided rug beneath the table, it was broken in two. And at that very moment, something inside me was broken, too. Everything was broken. After all, the rabbit had been a gift, something precious and dear to my grandmother’s heart, something that could never be replaced. So I ran. I ran and hid behind the old shed at the far end of the garden, where I was sure I would never be found. I sat there crushed and broken inside, mourning the loss of my grandmother’s love and the trust I had broken along with the rabbit. “No one will ever find me here,” I thought. And after what had just happened, I thought I didn’t deserve to be found.

But as the shepherd seeks the lamb that has strayed, my grandmother sought me. I could hear her footsteps coming closer and closer. As she came around the shed, I braced myself and looked down at the dirt, ready to bear the bitter scolding that surely was coming. I was in tears and trembling silently, because I knew that I was about to hear my own grandmother tell me how terribly disappointed she was in me — how ashamed she was to have such a grandson. She would tell me, surely, that I wasn’t welcome in her house anymore, that she didn’t want me to be her grandson, and never again would I sit at her table or hear her stories or know her love.

Ah, but grandma really was like a shepherd. She was like a goodly shepherd who seeks the one who has gone astray. Instead of scolding, she gathered me up in her arms and gently carried me back to her house and into her kitchen. And there on her kitchen table sat the little brown rabbit, no longer broken but all in one piece, as if it was new. She pointed to the rabbit, put her arms around me, and said, “If I had to, I could probably get along without that rabbit … But I don’t think I could ever do without you.”

That day she gave two lemon cookies and a tall glass of milk. And she told me a story about a little brown rabbit that was broken in two and put back together with a whole lot of love … and a wee bit of glue.

And the truth that Christ has woven in my heart from that experience is at the very heart of all the “I am” sayings of Jesus. It is what our hearts most long to hear: “I am with you… I am with you.”

He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep. — Isaiah 40:11 (NRSV)

I wrote these words a few years ago while on silent retreat at Saint Meinrad.

Times of silence, prayer, and holy listening seem few and far between. There is deep within my soul, in my heart of hearts, a hunger for silent communion with God. It is a desire to be known, to be held, to be wholly accepted by God as I imagine a loving grandfather would adore and even delight in a beloved grandchild.

I never knew either of my grandfathers. And yet, I have (since childhood I suppose) held an image of “grandfather” as one who is strong, tender, loving and wise. He is someone who has learned gentleness and peace even though he has known hardship and experienced sorrow. He is one who delights in each grandchild, somehow enabling each one to feel and to think that they are “grandpa’s favorite.” Grandfather’s love is something they treasure, a precious gem, something full of wonder, mystery, and grace. Each grandchild knows him/herself to be the Beloved.

My “picture” or “image” of God looks a bit like this grandfather. This is the experience of God that I long for. This is the acceptance and tender grace for which my heart is longing. I am continually yearning for and continually avoiding this kind of intimate communion with God in Christ. And by this duality I am baffled.

Still the longing remains — and this is pure grace — it is God who creates the longing within me. The heart’s hunger for God is the effect of God’s longing for us. As Father Lambert Reilly (the former Archabbot of Saint Meinrad) would say, “It is the apple that pulls the boy up the tree.” God is the initiator of communion. It is what Father Wesley called prevenient grace, what Kierkegaard described as a “God-shaped hole” in the human heart. Karl Barth (in his Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans) named it Godsickness — a kind of homesickness for God, the heart’s true home.

This longing of the heart cannot be satisfied by a single encounter with God, just as a life cannot be sustained and nourished by a single meal. The yearning is part of us. The heart’s longing for God is “natural” (in the sense that it is truly human nature). It is part of our make-up, as much a part of who we are as our need for water, air, acceptance, touch. Perhaps this is, in part, what it means to be created in the image of God — to have within us this deep, natural longing for communion with our Creator, as though the heart is shaped for God, the spirit imprinted with the image of God. For God alone is our home, our resting place, our habitation. As our ancestor in faith, Saint Augustine, said so well, “Thou hast made us for thyself, O God, and our heart is restless until it rests in thee.”

Lord, in your mercy, hear my prayer…

The pews in this church are like shelves on the walls of the potter’s house, each of them holding earthenware vessels, old clay pots. The vessels are alike, but not entirely. All are formed from the earth – all given birth on the same potter’s wheel, all made complete in the same potter’s fire. They are all made for a purpose. Each vessel is made to be filled, to be emptied and then filled again. And for this task they are well suited.

But they are earthen vessels. They are jars of clay with flaws and imperfections that give each its own character and uniqueness among the many vessels that come to rest within the potter’s house. They are flawed and imperfect and easily broken. When broken, these vessels can do great harm. Their rough edges can wound. Jagged pieces and shards, though hardly visible, can easily hurt and scar any who touch them.

Even so, there is something good and lovely and precious within them. We have within these flawed and fragile vessels a great and wonderful treasure. For like the vessels of the altar, they carry life. The One who is life, dwells within them, no matter how imperfect they may be. In them is God’s Beloved.

Like an old clay pot, a vessel of the altar, you are called and chosen not to be perfect, but to carry the grace of God in Christ to others like you – to those who are flawed, fragile, imperfect and beloved.

Grace & PEace,
Tom

For Catholics in Ireland, November 9 is the feast of Saint Benen, the successor of Saint Patrick as Archbishop of Ireland. It is also my “feast day” as a Benedictine oblate, having chosen the name Benen as my Benedictine name.

Benen, also known as Benignus, was the son of Sessenen, a chieftain near Duleek or County Meath, as the area is now known. Sessenen and his family, including young Benen, were converted and baptized by Saint Patrick. Tradition has it that Patrick, exhausted from his travels, sat down to rest in a quiet corner of the family’s garden after the baptism.  The young Benen, who regarded Patrick as a hero, wanted to do something to honor him. As Patrick slept, he noticed that the dust clinging to Patrick’s clothes was attracting insects, so he quickly gathered some fragrant flowers and placed them over the slumbering saint like a blanket. Later, when his parents had discovered what the child had done, they chastised him. But Patrick intervened, “Please, don’t send him away. He is a good boy. He will do wonderful things for the Church.”

 Later, when Patrick was rested and ready to continue his journey, the boy tightly hugged his hero’s feet and begged to travel with him to Tara. Sessenen and the boy’s mother were embarrassed. Benen was too young. He was just a boy, not nearly mature enough for such an undertaking. But Patrick assured Benen’s parents that the boy would do well. So their young son became Patrick’s disciple and apprentice, and he grew to become the saint’s closest friend.

  Benen developed a deep love for music as well as the scriptures. In fact, he was known throughout Ireland as Patrick’s “psalmsinger.” He sang at every mass Patrick led. And as he did, he developed his skills for teaching and preaching and drew thousands of souls to Christ with his beautiful singing voice. Benen was ordained as a priest and eventually succeeded Patrick as Archbishop of Ireland. He was known far and wide for his gentle grace, his love of scripture, and his sweet voice.

After a time of prayer and meditation, I chose to receive the name of Benen at my final oblation because I felt a strange sort of “connection” with the saint. In part, I suppose  this is due to my Irish heritage. But there is also something of a deeper and more personal connection. Benen was a young boy when he came under the influence of Patrick, becoming something very much like an oblate when his parents put him under Patrick’s care. That he was taken under the great saint’s wing at such an early age is what continues to draw me to Benen. For something like that happened in my own childhood. though the saint who received me into her care was my grandmother. It was through her that I experienced God’s strong and tender heart. She introduced me to prayer – even praying the scriptures or, as she put it, “shaping her prayers after the scripture.” And as she quietly and gently sang hymns in her devotions, and even while she went about doing her daily chores, she nurtured my love for music. I was, in some ways, an oblate under the care and instruction of an “abbess” called Grandma.

My grandmother died in 1976, when I was a senior in high school. It has been thirty years since her passing. But I still meet people who speak of her gentleness and goodness. She was, both in their eyes and mine, a disciple of Jesus – a woman who loved others and treated others with grace and respect. Even strangers felt welcome and wanted in her presence. Like Saint Benen, her desire was to receive others as Christ himself.

My desire, even as a child, was to live with that same heart – to be gentle, kind, and loving – to “sing” from the heart and live from the heart. This is still my longing. It is still my hope.