Miracles

“A cancer inexplicably cured. A voice in a dream. It is possible to look at most miracles and find a rational explanation in terms of natural cause and effect. It is possible to look at Rembrandt’s Supper at Emmaus and find a rational explanation in terms of paint and canvas.”—Frederick Buechner in Beyond Words (HarperOne, 2009).

Caravaggio . The supper ar Emmaus

I believe in miracles. Once a week I step into a room full of people who are themselves miracles. It is a 12-step recovery group of people who once were crippled by an addiction and now are “happy, joyous and free.” They talk about what it was like then and what it is like now. I have heard some of their stories hundreds of times; but each time I see a few more similarities to my own story and identify more closely with theirs. Sometimes a person’s story is so similar to mine that I think: That IS my story. The differences begin to blur. Everyone in the room is a miracle, and I realize that I am as well. And so, each time, I leave that place profoundly grateful.

I see other miracles every day. Someone calls or comes for a visit. I just listen and listen. In my mind, I have no idea what to say. Sometimes words come out of my mouth that seem to help my friend. I am in the dark as to where a particular idea might have come from. I know that its flashing into my mind was a miracle not of my own making. Some would call it the Spirit working in our lives.

I see people living for many years through cancers that in the past would have killed them in months. These are all miracles. Indeed, people who find cures are miracle workers. Often they have been inspired by seeing patients die of a certain disease, and they are determined not to experience that again.

I remember a conversation with my grandmother when I was a junior in medical school and we were riding together in the back seat of a car. She told me that she could not understand how people aren’t convinced of miracles when they see a newborn baby. I just smiled, but in my mind I was thinking: “Grandmother, I know how babies develop. I know all the secrets and the stages of how they come to be born. These are all facts of science.”

Now, fifty years later, as I have seen so many sick newborns, I know my grandmother is right. The birth of every baby is a miracle.

I also know what Buechner is talking about when we see Rembrandt’s Supper at Emmaus at the Louvre in Paris. Rembrandt has captured the miracle. So many other works of art qualify as miracles as well. They connect us to the God of our understanding: Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son at the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg; Caravaggio’s Supper at Emmaus in the National Gallery in London; Georges de La Tour’s The Repentant Magdalen at the National Gallery in Washington, D. C.

Buechner challenges us to remember the many works of art that speak individually to us and to look at them anew. Do we recognize the miracles offered to us in art books—or even better, might we plan a pilgrimage to go see these masterpieces for ourselves that we are learning are miracles?

Joanna joannaseibert.com

Kanuga Chapel

“The God who existed before any religion counts on you to make the oneness of the human family known and celebrated.” —Archbishop Desmond Tutu.

The Chapel of Transfiguration at Kanuga Conference Center in North Carolina has always been a place where the family of God is celebrated in so many ways. I love the outer and inner appearance of the chapel, as it is made of southern Carolina white pine from trees downed in a severe storm in 1936.

My mind always wanders as I sit in the chapel waiting for any service to begin, and I remember more. The wood for the chapel was not pretreated, so there are these unusual dark oval markings on the wood, left by the oiled fingerprints of the workers. The simple prints are more prominent on the ceiling, where it was more difficult for the builders to work.

When I am in the chapel, I feel surrounded not only by the thousands of prayers of people on retreat who have worshiped here, but also by the hands of those who labored on the building.

I think about our own fingerprints and where we leave them as well as the fingerprints of others and how we have been touched by theirs. I especially remember the day sitting in the chapel when I had just found out that my fingerprints for my TSA Pre-check did not go through strongly enough. That meant I would be investigated by the FBI before I got my Pre-check, which would delay my receiving my traveler number! This is the identification you carry in order to go through a special security lane at airports. It allows you to avoid taking off your shoes or coat or putting your laptop out separately. I walk with a cane and have special long lace-up shoes that are difficult to take off and on; so getting my traveler number is significant for me.

I have a new appreciation for the builders of this chapel, who must have been so much stronger and would have been tightly holding onto the wood in order to leave their prints in this sacred space.

I remember other services in this chapel that I wanted never to end. I have memories from a preaching conference, dancing around the altar with Barbara Brown Taylor as I offered the bread and she followed with the wine. I see Bishop Tutu dancing on the green after an amazing closing Eucharist at a retreat led by Trinity Wall Street. Priceless. I remember two Lenten retreats during which we were snowed in. Breathtaking.

I played my harp at one of the retreats that Phyllis Tickle led in this chapel because the scheduled musicians could not get here; and I played at the closing of our spiritual direction class at the Hayden Institute. A privilege.

Thin places like Kanuga can offer us a full album of memories to go back to and remember times when God’s presence and love were immanently present—or, as Gordon Cosby would tell us, times when we lived in the real world.

Joanna. Joannaseibert.com

Grisham: Ignatian Discernment, Peace of God

Guest Writer Lowell Grisham

Loyola Jesuit Institute

No one has done more work on the discipline of discernment than the Jesuits, the monastic descendants of Ignatius of Loyola. Although I can’t recall who taught it to me, for many years I’ve used an Ignatian discernment method from time to time when I’ve been faced with a choice between two options. Here’s the way it was given to me:

In a battle in the early 1500s, Ignatius was seriously wounded. (I believe his leg was shattered by an artillery shell.) He spent months of painful convalescence. He found that his pain was relieved sometimes when he would go into periods of active imagination. He imagined what his life would be like when he was healed and released from the hospital. He made up stories about his future life, using all of his senses to place himself into the future. He created scenes from his imagined future and experienced them vividly—with sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell—thinking and feeling what his new life might be.

Whenever Ignatius was actively imagining, his pain would decrease and the time seemed to pass more quickly. He discovered that his imagination gravitated toward two narratives. In one narrative, he would experience himself becoming a great, chivalrous knight, doing valiant deeds of courage and winning the hand of a noble maiden. In the other narrative, he would experience himself becoming a knight for Christ, boldly taking the gospel into the most remote or challenging or needed places.

While in active imagination, Ignatius experienced relief with either narrative. But he noticed a significant difference about where his spirit went afterwards, in the time when he was just taking care of business in a normal state of consciousness.

He noticed in the hours following his narratives about becoming a great warrior knight, that he experienced a sense of turbulence, discomfort, and even desolation. But he noticed in the hours following his imagining about becoming a knight for Christ, that he experienced a sense of consolation, harmony, and especially peace. Ignatius interpreted the sense of peace to be the presence of God, drawing him into God’s will for him, helping him to discern the direction of his future. He embraced the vision of that second narrative, and became a great knight for Christ, desiring to undertake the greatest service possible to the Church and the world.

The presence of peace is a sign of God’s will. In the chaos and storm of a decision, when there are two potential options or directions, I will sometimes use a form of Ignatian discernment practice. I’ll set before me the two options. One day I will spend some time actively imagining myself living into the first option, using all five senses to create scenes from that future possibility. Then I will go about my normal daily activity, but I’ll keep a bit of attention directed to notice where my spirit goes. Another day, I’ll spend time in active imagination living into the other option. Then I will pay attention to my spirit, mood, and intuition during ordinary business. What after-effect is there following each separate scenario?

If I sense some form of consolation and peace in the ordinary time following active imagination with one narrative, and if I sense some form of turbulence in the ordinary time following imagination with the other narrative, I’ll accept that as a sign of God’s will. The presence of peace is key.

Where does the peace of Christ lead us, especially when our boat seems tossed and we’ve lost control of our direction? A sense of peace can give direction toward God’s will for us and for the fullest exercise of our creativity, courage, freedom, and service. Sometimes a little active imagination can lead us toward discernment.

Lowell Grisham

When someone comes for a visit for discernment, this is what I first offer. It was loaned to me by Lowell Grisham, retired Rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas.

Joanna joannaseibert.com