Loving Kindness Meditation Press Release 2/1/17
This is a form of Metta or Kindness Practice, a way of expressing deep concern for self and for others: our loved ones, people we hardly know and people who have been difficult in our lives. It is an approach to being active, and a person of good will - without harming self or others. It does not mean that we don’t speak out when appropriate but that we do so mindfully and intentionally.
Ethel Fraga, Contemplative Educator + Mindfulness Instructor
“May these benefactors of the United States of America, sit with us and support us with their deep commitment to equality, nonviolence, presence, simplicity, beauty and service to others: Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, Dorothy Day, Henry David Thoreau, and Maya Angelou. May their best intentions radiate in us - and out of us toward our world. Pause a moment to allow the radiance of their intentions and values to nourish you and then inwardly surround our nation with their best intentions and values.
Compassionately allow thoughts and feelings that arise and gently, and without judgment, return to your wish that the intentions of these elders remain a part of our life as a nation. Then begin these Kindness wishes for self and others.
May I be happy, peaceful, strong, healthy, safe from inner and outer harm; may my heart be filled with joy.
N. B. If it is uncomfortable expressing kindness toward yourself, try linking yourself to others in the human family who feel similarly. Ex: May I, and all who feel concerned, “be happy” etc. as above. Repeat and savor these wishes of love, kindness and personal strength for yourself. Then continue for loved ones.
May my loved ones, family and friends, be happy, peaceful, strong, healthy, safe from inner and outer harm; may their hearts be filled with joy. (Repeat)
May all citizens of my community, my state, my country be happy, peaceful, strong, healthy, safe from inner and outer harm; may their hearts be filled with joy. (Repeat thoughtfully.)
May our political leaders be happy, peaceful, strong, healthy, safe from inner and outer harm; may their hearts be filled with joy. May they be wise in upholding our Constitution and our democratic way of life, thoughtful in working toward world peace. May they serve our nation wisely.
May our journalists and social activists be happy, peaceful, strong, healthy, safe from inner and outer harm; may their hearts be filled with joy. May they serve our nation wisely, without harming self or other.
May our Nation and our world be happy, peaceful, strong, healthy, safe from inner and outer harm; may our hearts be filled with joy.”
Ethel Fraga, Contemplative Educator + Mindfulness Instructor, Taunton, MA
Looking for Silence with Bill Sheehan
By Margery Eagan, This article reprinted with permission from newsletters Crux Now http://www.cruxnow.com/faith/2015/04/15/looking-for-silence-with-father-bill-sheehan/?s_campaign=crux:rss
If Father Bill Sheehan were your parish priest, the pews would be packed for every Mass he said. As it is, he’s in huge demand all over the country to lead retreats where everyone sits for hours a day, eyes closed, in a silent meditation known as Centering Prayer.
And his retreats are packed.
“He’s the best of the best. There’s a light in him and a sweetness and gentleness that you’re very drawn to,” says Nancy Nichols Kearns, a long-time Centering Prayer practitioner and volunteer with Boston’s chapter of Contemplative Outreach, Centering Prayer’s umbrella organization.
Bill Sheehan himself is more modest.
“I just think people are searching for something deeper, and sometimes they don’t even know how to articulate that,” he said at home in Lowell, Massachusetts, where he is a priest with the Oblates of Mary Immaculate. “I’ll be flying to a retreat wearing my Oblate cross, reading or preparing. Inevitably the person next to me will ask, ‘Where are you going? What are you doing?’ ‘I’m going to a retreat center in Amarillo (Texas),’ I’ll say. ‘Oh?’ I’ll tell them I’m a Catholic priest and I’m giving a retreat there and then, boom, Catholic, not Catholic, Christian or not, they want to know all about it.” There’s a fascination there, a curiosity, maybe even a holy yearning like the one he finds among those making his retreats for a day, a weekend, a week or more. At the start of each retreat, he asks participants why they’re there and what they’re looking for. “They’re looking for silence,” Sheehan says. “And they’re looking for a deeper relationship with God. There’s just that attraction.”
As someone who’s felt that attraction, too, I’m amazed there aren’t Centering Prayer groups in every Catholic parish around, particularly now, when we hear so much about the need to slow down, unplug, live “mindfully” in the moment, and meditate. Centering Prayer offers a path to all that. More important to Catholics, as its co-founder the Trappist monk Thomas Keating has said, it offers the chance to experience the presence of God — even if you’re no paragon of perfection yourself.
Perhaps Centering Prayer has struggled in parish acceptance because it’s relatively new and unknown to many priests. Or perhaps it’s because the tradition-bound Catholic Church is not the first place would-be meditators would look for guidance.
Here’s the story, legendary in Centering Prayer circles, about Keating and his not exactly hip and trendy monks being bypassed for the always hip and trendy Buddhists. This was back in the 1970s, though the Catholic-to-Buddhist hipness gap surely remains today. Keating and his fellow Trappists William Meninger and Basil Pennington were living in a community at St. Joseph’s Abbey in Spencer, Massachusetts. They noticed how often young people in sandals and faded jeans were knocking at their door, but not seeking them. No, they were usually lost and looking for directions to the Buddhist meditation center down the road. This — plus a Vatican II decree to clergy to revive the contemplative dimension of the Gospel — inspired these monks to explore and eventually update ancient Catholic meditative practices with roots in the Desert Fathers, early Benedictine monasticism, and “The Cloud of Unknowing,” a late 14th-century text by an anonymous monk.
Thus, in 1975, Centering Prayer was born. Sheehan met Keating and the prayer just a few years later. Keating was wondering then if laypeople, not just nuns and priests, could move into this tradition and invited Sheehan to join a small group at a 14-day retreat at the Lama Center in the mountains of New Mexico.
“Back then, there was no electricity, no indoor water, just outhouses and an outdoor shower. Inside at night it was all candles,” Sheehan remembers. “For the first time, my life was reduced to utter simplicity, just the basics, and it was fine. Then to be plunged into the silence and several hours of prayer throughout the day, with Thomas (Keating), well, it was a very powerful experience.”
That was more than 30 years ago. In 1986, Contemplative Outreach Ltd was formed to share the teaching of Centering Prayer. It is now practiced by tens of thousands in nearly 50 countries and, as I said, in a smattering of American Catholic parishes.
What exactly is it? Most simply, it’s a prayer method where a person chooses a sacred word — Amen, Jesus, Abba, whatever — and sits with eyes closed for 20 or 25 minutes, twice a day, returning gently to the word when thoughts arise. In the beginning, that’s all the time. The idea is to gradually learn to rest in God, to be open to God’s presence, to develop both a relationship with God and a discipline to foster that relationship.
Keating, now 92, has written many, many books on the practice. He tells you that your way of seeing reality, sooner or later, will change. It’s like the difference between watching a black-and-white TV and a color TV. Regular practitioners will tell you they experience less fear and judgment and more calm, patience, generosity. They live life more abundantly, as John’s Gospel puts it. Bill Sheehan has told me and others during retreats I’ve made with him that it’s not about my own worthiness, how good I am or am not (what a relief). Instead it’s about showing up to the prayer, day after day, “to trust, receive, let go, surrender.”
“It’s a love story,” he says, “initiating from Him.”
Sitting across from Sheehan in his Lowell office, I can see in his face and hear in his voice what decades of “showing up” has done for him and his own love story. I want what he’s got.
Bill Sheehan is not far from 80 years old. He doesn’t look it. His blood pressure is terrific, he tells me, another “fruit” of all that prayer. “How long can I do this?” he says, referring to flying all around the country giving retreats. “I don’t have a clue. But I say that as long as I’ve got something on the calendar, I’m going to be okay. I’ve put dates down for 2016, and I’ve got some in 2017.
“Let me tell you: At my age, someone’s always asking, ‘Are you retired?’ And I say, ‘Not quite.’ I tell them I’m spending most of my time hanging out with people who are searching for God.”
By Margery Eagan, This article reprinted with permission from newsletters Crux Now http://www.cruxnow.com/faith/2015/04/15/looking-for-silence-with-father-bill-sheehan/?s_campaign=crux:rss
This is a form of Metta or Kindness Practice, a way of expressing deep concern for self and for others: our loved ones, people we hardly know and people who have been difficult in our lives. It is an approach to being active, and a person of good will - without harming self or others. It does not mean that we don’t speak out when appropriate but that we do so mindfully and intentionally.
Ethel Fraga, Contemplative Educator + Mindfulness Instructor
“May these benefactors of the United States of America, sit with us and support us with their deep commitment to equality, nonviolence, presence, simplicity, beauty and service to others: Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, Dorothy Day, Henry David Thoreau, and Maya Angelou. May their best intentions radiate in us - and out of us toward our world. Pause a moment to allow the radiance of their intentions and values to nourish you and then inwardly surround our nation with their best intentions and values.
Compassionately allow thoughts and feelings that arise and gently, and without judgment, return to your wish that the intentions of these elders remain a part of our life as a nation. Then begin these Kindness wishes for self and others.
May I be happy, peaceful, strong, healthy, safe from inner and outer harm; may my heart be filled with joy.
N. B. If it is uncomfortable expressing kindness toward yourself, try linking yourself to others in the human family who feel similarly. Ex: May I, and all who feel concerned, “be happy” etc. as above. Repeat and savor these wishes of love, kindness and personal strength for yourself. Then continue for loved ones.
May my loved ones, family and friends, be happy, peaceful, strong, healthy, safe from inner and outer harm; may their hearts be filled with joy. (Repeat)
May all citizens of my community, my state, my country be happy, peaceful, strong, healthy, safe from inner and outer harm; may their hearts be filled with joy. (Repeat thoughtfully.)
May our political leaders be happy, peaceful, strong, healthy, safe from inner and outer harm; may their hearts be filled with joy. May they be wise in upholding our Constitution and our democratic way of life, thoughtful in working toward world peace. May they serve our nation wisely.
May our journalists and social activists be happy, peaceful, strong, healthy, safe from inner and outer harm; may their hearts be filled with joy. May they serve our nation wisely, without harming self or other.
May our Nation and our world be happy, peaceful, strong, healthy, safe from inner and outer harm; may our hearts be filled with joy.”
Ethel Fraga, Contemplative Educator + Mindfulness Instructor, Taunton, MA
Looking for Silence with Bill Sheehan
By Margery Eagan, This article reprinted with permission from newsletters Crux Now http://www.cruxnow.com/faith/2015/04/15/looking-for-silence-with-father-bill-sheehan/?s_campaign=crux:rss
If Father Bill Sheehan were your parish priest, the pews would be packed for every Mass he said. As it is, he’s in huge demand all over the country to lead retreats where everyone sits for hours a day, eyes closed, in a silent meditation known as Centering Prayer.
And his retreats are packed.
“He’s the best of the best. There’s a light in him and a sweetness and gentleness that you’re very drawn to,” says Nancy Nichols Kearns, a long-time Centering Prayer practitioner and volunteer with Boston’s chapter of Contemplative Outreach, Centering Prayer’s umbrella organization.
Bill Sheehan himself is more modest.
“I just think people are searching for something deeper, and sometimes they don’t even know how to articulate that,” he said at home in Lowell, Massachusetts, where he is a priest with the Oblates of Mary Immaculate. “I’ll be flying to a retreat wearing my Oblate cross, reading or preparing. Inevitably the person next to me will ask, ‘Where are you going? What are you doing?’ ‘I’m going to a retreat center in Amarillo (Texas),’ I’ll say. ‘Oh?’ I’ll tell them I’m a Catholic priest and I’m giving a retreat there and then, boom, Catholic, not Catholic, Christian or not, they want to know all about it.” There’s a fascination there, a curiosity, maybe even a holy yearning like the one he finds among those making his retreats for a day, a weekend, a week or more. At the start of each retreat, he asks participants why they’re there and what they’re looking for. “They’re looking for silence,” Sheehan says. “And they’re looking for a deeper relationship with God. There’s just that attraction.”
As someone who’s felt that attraction, too, I’m amazed there aren’t Centering Prayer groups in every Catholic parish around, particularly now, when we hear so much about the need to slow down, unplug, live “mindfully” in the moment, and meditate. Centering Prayer offers a path to all that. More important to Catholics, as its co-founder the Trappist monk Thomas Keating has said, it offers the chance to experience the presence of God — even if you’re no paragon of perfection yourself.
Perhaps Centering Prayer has struggled in parish acceptance because it’s relatively new and unknown to many priests. Or perhaps it’s because the tradition-bound Catholic Church is not the first place would-be meditators would look for guidance.
Here’s the story, legendary in Centering Prayer circles, about Keating and his not exactly hip and trendy monks being bypassed for the always hip and trendy Buddhists. This was back in the 1970s, though the Catholic-to-Buddhist hipness gap surely remains today. Keating and his fellow Trappists William Meninger and Basil Pennington were living in a community at St. Joseph’s Abbey in Spencer, Massachusetts. They noticed how often young people in sandals and faded jeans were knocking at their door, but not seeking them. No, they were usually lost and looking for directions to the Buddhist meditation center down the road. This — plus a Vatican II decree to clergy to revive the contemplative dimension of the Gospel — inspired these monks to explore and eventually update ancient Catholic meditative practices with roots in the Desert Fathers, early Benedictine monasticism, and “The Cloud of Unknowing,” a late 14th-century text by an anonymous monk.
Thus, in 1975, Centering Prayer was born. Sheehan met Keating and the prayer just a few years later. Keating was wondering then if laypeople, not just nuns and priests, could move into this tradition and invited Sheehan to join a small group at a 14-day retreat at the Lama Center in the mountains of New Mexico.
“Back then, there was no electricity, no indoor water, just outhouses and an outdoor shower. Inside at night it was all candles,” Sheehan remembers. “For the first time, my life was reduced to utter simplicity, just the basics, and it was fine. Then to be plunged into the silence and several hours of prayer throughout the day, with Thomas (Keating), well, it was a very powerful experience.”
That was more than 30 years ago. In 1986, Contemplative Outreach Ltd was formed to share the teaching of Centering Prayer. It is now practiced by tens of thousands in nearly 50 countries and, as I said, in a smattering of American Catholic parishes.
What exactly is it? Most simply, it’s a prayer method where a person chooses a sacred word — Amen, Jesus, Abba, whatever — and sits with eyes closed for 20 or 25 minutes, twice a day, returning gently to the word when thoughts arise. In the beginning, that’s all the time. The idea is to gradually learn to rest in God, to be open to God’s presence, to develop both a relationship with God and a discipline to foster that relationship.
Keating, now 92, has written many, many books on the practice. He tells you that your way of seeing reality, sooner or later, will change. It’s like the difference between watching a black-and-white TV and a color TV. Regular practitioners will tell you they experience less fear and judgment and more calm, patience, generosity. They live life more abundantly, as John’s Gospel puts it. Bill Sheehan has told me and others during retreats I’ve made with him that it’s not about my own worthiness, how good I am or am not (what a relief). Instead it’s about showing up to the prayer, day after day, “to trust, receive, let go, surrender.”
“It’s a love story,” he says, “initiating from Him.”
Sitting across from Sheehan in his Lowell office, I can see in his face and hear in his voice what decades of “showing up” has done for him and his own love story. I want what he’s got.
Bill Sheehan is not far from 80 years old. He doesn’t look it. His blood pressure is terrific, he tells me, another “fruit” of all that prayer. “How long can I do this?” he says, referring to flying all around the country giving retreats. “I don’t have a clue. But I say that as long as I’ve got something on the calendar, I’m going to be okay. I’ve put dates down for 2016, and I’ve got some in 2017.
“Let me tell you: At my age, someone’s always asking, ‘Are you retired?’ And I say, ‘Not quite.’ I tell them I’m spending most of my time hanging out with people who are searching for God.”
By Margery Eagan, This article reprinted with permission from newsletters Crux Now http://www.cruxnow.com/faith/2015/04/15/looking-for-silence-with-father-bill-sheehan/?s_campaign=crux:rss
THE ACTIVIST AS CONTEMPLATIVE -
RESTING FOR SOCIAL CHANGE
BY STEVEN BONSEY
Many of us dream of a different world. A better world. A world of healing and reconciliation, of justice and peace. A world where people live as we are meant to live. Many dream of it. Some dedicate themselves to its realization.
This dedication can offer deeply meaningful and satisfying work, but those who work for such social change, especially those in leadership positions, are vulnerable to disappointment, burn-out, cynicism, or worse. The root causes of these threats reside not only in resistance encountered outwardly, but also in the psychological and emotional programs that drive us inwardly.
As such, those of us who work for a brighter future must be equipped with the world’s ancient spiritual wisdom and traditions, which offer technologies of inward healing and transformation that can liberate us both from the domination of fear-based regimes outside us and from their corollary regimes within us.
These spiritual technologies, as I call them, take the form of simple practices that are accessible to all and that can be taught without reference to religious doctrine or affiliation. Their practice over time changes us—our identities and motivations become less rooted in the ego programs that drive us and are then more connected to the transcendent source of the dreams that inspire us. We come to experience the hoped-for future as a reality coming into being in and through us, here and now. We learn that we can trust this experience, and in this trust, we find deep rest.
Jesus told a parable that speaks to this notion:
Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head. But when the grain is ripe, at once he goes in with his sickle, because the harvest has come.”
- Mark 4:26-29 (NRSV)
The sleep of the farmer in Jesus’ parable particularly fascinates me.
He has sown the seed for his crop, and he rises daily to tend it. The crop could never come to fruition without him, but his labors do not bring about the essential mystery of life. “The seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how.” He cannot cause or control the transformation of seed to stalk to head to full grain. “The earth produces of itself,” and the progress of the harvest is furthered as much by his sleep as by his rising.
I like to picture the farmer putting out his lamp at night, lying back on his pillow and thinking of the wheat growing in the field, his heart resting in wonder and hope, gathering strength for the day when the grain is ripe.
I’ve spent a fair amount of my adult life acting on the illusion that I could push the wheat up from the ground—that is, that I could cause or control the change that I hoped to see in the world. In fact, I considered it my duty to manage the business of social change, and I often judged both the value of my work and the value of myself as a person based on the visible results of my efforts.
About 20 years ago, I took a part-time job as a campus minister. I had a vision for what could be and what would constitute success in growing the ministry. I wanted to build a community of students who cared sincerely for one another and for the world around them.
The results at first were disheartening. I tried everything that I was trained to do and offered a variety of opportunities for engagement, but few students came, and those who came never seemed to connect with one another. I resolved to work harder. I tried to raise money to compensate for more of my time. When the money didn’t come, I worked longer hours without pay and still without improvement in outcomes. I spent long hours sitting alone at my office desk focusing simply on not giving up.
It was at this time in my life that I realized that I needed to learn to pray. I was an ordained minister and the son of an ordained minister, and yet, I had no practice of prayer that could ease the discouragement I felt. I wasn’t looking for prayers that would magically bring success. I was looking for some source of strength and encouragement that would not depend on what happened for better or worse in the world around me.
I made an appointment to talk to a monk. We sat in a small room with two chairs. “I need to learn to pray,” I said to him. If his robe had had lapels, I would have grabbed them. “Please! Teach me to pray!” I was desperate.
There are all kinds of prayer, of course. In time, I was led to the prayer of inner silence, the practice of praying without words—a practice that began to address my need. In particular, I was drawn to centering prayer.
Why did this suit me? I am a person who spends a lot of time in my own head, and my head is filled with words. I tell myself stories constantly—stories of what’s happening to me, what people are thinking about me, what I should be doing, and who should be.
In centering prayer, I try for 20 minutes at a time not to listen to these stories. My mind babbles on, but I let the stories float by like boats on a stream while I sink deeper into inner silence. My attention embarks on the great 18-inch pilgrimage from my head to my heart, the energetic organ of subtle perception. I let my heart simply fill with love, and, gently, my heart opens.
The practice is simple, but it is not easy. It is mostly a practice of starting over again and again as I become aware that I have boarded one boat of thought or another and am floating downstream on it. My greatest challenge in the beginning was learning to let go particularly of thoughts about whether I was doing the prayer correctly or not.
The practice has been challenging, but the benefits over many years have been immense. The exercise of letting go, again and again, of whatever is going on in my head makes it more and more possible for me to choose my state of mind. My mental and emotional condition in any given moment depends upon the particular spin I am giving to the raw data of sensation. The spin might be telling myself stories about what the world is doing to me or not doing for me—stories of frustration, resentment, or victimization. Or it might be stories about who I think I am—my triumphs or failures, my glorious future, or my pitiful past. With the practice of letting go through centering prayer, I may find myself feeling anxious or stressed, but I have learned to move through the feelings by releasing the stories that become attached to the more simple sensation of anxiety or stress. By releasing the stories, I am free to welcome the sensations of any given moment, whatever they may be, and to respond to life from a stable and open stance.
The practice also has a cumulative effect that goes to the root from which such stories emerge. I have come to believe that these stories have their origins in deep fear. Somewhere back in the dawning of consciousness the fact of my being in the world as a differentiated human being—cut off from the womb, as it were—filled me with the terror of my vulnerability. I am alone in the world! What will become of me?
In the face of this vulnerability, my fear built defensive walls. The stories I tell myself are the stones I have raised up, one upon another, to build and strengthen these walls. These stories, or stones, form my ego, my “small identity.”
For example, I have a deep fear of isolation: a fear that those I depend on will abandon me, and I will perish. I tell myself stories to comfort myself against this fear. If I am good, I tell myself, behaving well at home, doing a good job in school, or doing important and effective work in the world, then the people around me will see my value, and they will not abandon me. As the story goes, I will be secure if I can just succeed in being good and productive always. And so, I ask myself the anxious question, what good am I?
Obviously this inner program, while useful in driving a strong work ethic, can become problematic when the work I am trying to do simply does not yield the reassuring visible results that I crave for affirmation. True social change consists of the outward transformation of social systems, which, in turn, depends upon the inward transformation of human beings, and I am powerless to cause or control such transformation in other people. I can sow seeds and water them, but I cannot make them take root or grow.
I often think of my father, a parish priest who liked to spend his vacations doing home repairs. He spent his working days dealing with urgent human problems often with no sign that his work would have any effect. Give him a broken toilet any day, and that he could fix.
You see my dilemma—the work of social change is not fixing toilets. The particular fear-based inner program that drives me requires the constant reassurance of results, but the nature of the work that I do will never yield results that are reliably linked to my efforts. Without any resistance from outside of myself, this deep inner battle leaves me vulnerable to discouragement and burn-out.
Through the practice of centering prayer over time, some inward space—a bit of maneuvering room in which I can experience a sense of myself that is not based on the stories I tell myself and not constrained by the walls of my inner defenses—has opened up within me.
For 20 minutes at a time, I can experience what it is to perform nothing, to do no work—what it is to rest. And guess what? I don’t die. Not all is lost. I don’t feel abandoned, isolated, or vulnerable. Through some subtle perception of the heart, I know through the practice that the universe has my back. I am mysteriously sustained in life. Gradually, as each session builds upon another, I come to trust that whatever power brought me into being continues to sustain me and will never let me go. Very gently, this trust heals my fears.
There is ancient wisdom in seeking peace and wholeness through such soulful rest as I experience through centering prayer, and this wisdom lies at the heart of the biblical tradition of the Sabbath. The people of Israel, at the commandment of God, instituted one day of rest out of seven in the week.
On the seventh day, no work was to be done, no buying and selling, and no fires to be lit. The people would remember that they were no longer slaves; they existed for more than mere production. The people would free themselves from the machinery of the market; they were not commodities whose time could be reduced to money. The people would do nothing to alter the conditions of things in the world around them; they were not in control of it all. And so, on the Sabbath, they let the world be. As they let go, they found that somehow the universe carried on of itself.
This last recognition can be deeply humbling. Who wants to imagine that the world will do fine without them? This is the truth we would discover if it were possible to witness our own death—following a brief disruption, the world would carry on.
In the Sabbath-rooted practice of centering prayer, by letting go of the stories that make up my fear-rooted identity, I can let my ego pass away for a moment, and, in doing so, I witness its death. There is both rest and strength found in experiencing something of what it is to die before I die. My inner resistance to letting the ego pass is strong, but if I gently allow it, I find that I have nothing to fear. Through some subtle perception of the heart, I have come to know that if I cease showing up in the world as the person I think I should be, all will still be well not only for the world but also for me. Some deeper more authentic “I” survives and even thrives in a life of work and rest that is free from the grips of fear.
Returning to Jesus’ tale of the farmer, which is known as a parable of “the kingdom of God” or the time and place in which God’s gracious will is done here on earth, we note that the harvest, the time of “the full grain in the head,” represents the day of fulfillment. The farmer, looking at his fields, knows when the grain is full, and “at once he goes in with his sickle” to reap the harvest. He has prepared for this day through the mundane rhythm of sleeping and rising to his chores, but now he sees that the time for decisive action has arrived, and he is ready.
The story of my erstwhile career as a part-time campus minister has a sequel that stands in my memory as an experience of “harvest time.” I initially left the position after four challenging years but returned to it some years later. Everything was different. I was different, and the student community had changed. The Protestant Christian campus ministry world previously had been divided between liberal social action approaches and conservative personal piety stances, but when I returned, students had begun to articulate their desire for the best of both worlds. They wanted the grace of the ancient traditions, but they wanted them in fresh and new forms. They wanted to study the scriptures and have a living relationship with Jesus, but it was clear to them that following Jesus meant living and working in solidarity with the poor, the sick, and the outcast.
In short, I felt a readiness in the students I worked with and a readiness within myself to live into the vision of a new kind of ministry. Doors that I had pounded my head against in frustration now seemed to open of their own accord. I conceived our weekly worship service in an entirely new way. I set out twice the number of chairs, and they were filled with students interested not only in the worship but also in caring for one another and seeking together how they might care for the world. I spent less time sitting at my office desk and more time looking on in wonder as this new community came to full life.
The miracle of this harvest had its day. Soon, I was sowing other seeds and doing the mundane chores of ministry in another place with the usual un-dramatic results. But the experience left its mark on me, and it changed the way I carry out my leadership. I expect now to work within seasons of sowing, tending, reaping, and lying fallow. I have learned to be more patient with times of no visible results and also to be ready to respond when the moment is ripe.
How to know one season from another? I seek whatever data I can, of course, and confer with colleagues and the communities among which I work. I analyze what can be analyzed and listen as deeply as I can. But I also read the inward signs. Through the subtle perceptions of the heart, developed over time in my contemplative practice, I sense the presence or absence and the stillness or flow of energy within and through me and, in a mysterious way, within and through others and the world around me. I have come to know my heart as a place where discernment transcends the boundaries of our divided selves.
The farmer and his crops give a compelling picture, I think, of qualities needed to work for social change. The parable gives us a clear sense of our responsibility for sowing seeds of transformation and for tending to mundane daily work that often has little to show for its troubles. It enjoins us also to rest deeply in the spirit of Sabbath and to trust that the same Source which calls us into being and gives us the dreams that animate us will also sustain us in our work and move through us to bring the dreams to reality.
The ancient spiritual technologies of contemplative practice, including centering prayer, can lead us into the kind of rest that opens the eyes and ears of our hearts and allows us to experience the movement of Source. These subtle perceptions will also give us the wisdom to recognize the seasons for patient labor and the hours for decisive action. As contemplative leaders, we will be proof against the threats of cynicism and burn-out; we will be more present in our work as our authentic selves; and we will be more effective in deploying our own energy and the energy of others in welcoming the day of hope that is the harvest time. §
BY STEVEN BONSEY
Many of us dream of a different world. A better world. A world of healing and reconciliation, of justice and peace. A world where people live as we are meant to live. Many dream of it. Some dedicate themselves to its realization.
This dedication can offer deeply meaningful and satisfying work, but those who work for such social change, especially those in leadership positions, are vulnerable to disappointment, burn-out, cynicism, or worse. The root causes of these threats reside not only in resistance encountered outwardly, but also in the psychological and emotional programs that drive us inwardly.
As such, those of us who work for a brighter future must be equipped with the world’s ancient spiritual wisdom and traditions, which offer technologies of inward healing and transformation that can liberate us both from the domination of fear-based regimes outside us and from their corollary regimes within us.
These spiritual technologies, as I call them, take the form of simple practices that are accessible to all and that can be taught without reference to religious doctrine or affiliation. Their practice over time changes us—our identities and motivations become less rooted in the ego programs that drive us and are then more connected to the transcendent source of the dreams that inspire us. We come to experience the hoped-for future as a reality coming into being in and through us, here and now. We learn that we can trust this experience, and in this trust, we find deep rest.
Jesus told a parable that speaks to this notion:
Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head. But when the grain is ripe, at once he goes in with his sickle, because the harvest has come.”
- Mark 4:26-29 (NRSV)
The sleep of the farmer in Jesus’ parable particularly fascinates me.
He has sown the seed for his crop, and he rises daily to tend it. The crop could never come to fruition without him, but his labors do not bring about the essential mystery of life. “The seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how.” He cannot cause or control the transformation of seed to stalk to head to full grain. “The earth produces of itself,” and the progress of the harvest is furthered as much by his sleep as by his rising.
I like to picture the farmer putting out his lamp at night, lying back on his pillow and thinking of the wheat growing in the field, his heart resting in wonder and hope, gathering strength for the day when the grain is ripe.
I’ve spent a fair amount of my adult life acting on the illusion that I could push the wheat up from the ground—that is, that I could cause or control the change that I hoped to see in the world. In fact, I considered it my duty to manage the business of social change, and I often judged both the value of my work and the value of myself as a person based on the visible results of my efforts.
About 20 years ago, I took a part-time job as a campus minister. I had a vision for what could be and what would constitute success in growing the ministry. I wanted to build a community of students who cared sincerely for one another and for the world around them.
The results at first were disheartening. I tried everything that I was trained to do and offered a variety of opportunities for engagement, but few students came, and those who came never seemed to connect with one another. I resolved to work harder. I tried to raise money to compensate for more of my time. When the money didn’t come, I worked longer hours without pay and still without improvement in outcomes. I spent long hours sitting alone at my office desk focusing simply on not giving up.
It was at this time in my life that I realized that I needed to learn to pray. I was an ordained minister and the son of an ordained minister, and yet, I had no practice of prayer that could ease the discouragement I felt. I wasn’t looking for prayers that would magically bring success. I was looking for some source of strength and encouragement that would not depend on what happened for better or worse in the world around me.
I made an appointment to talk to a monk. We sat in a small room with two chairs. “I need to learn to pray,” I said to him. If his robe had had lapels, I would have grabbed them. “Please! Teach me to pray!” I was desperate.
There are all kinds of prayer, of course. In time, I was led to the prayer of inner silence, the practice of praying without words—a practice that began to address my need. In particular, I was drawn to centering prayer.
Why did this suit me? I am a person who spends a lot of time in my own head, and my head is filled with words. I tell myself stories constantly—stories of what’s happening to me, what people are thinking about me, what I should be doing, and who should be.
In centering prayer, I try for 20 minutes at a time not to listen to these stories. My mind babbles on, but I let the stories float by like boats on a stream while I sink deeper into inner silence. My attention embarks on the great 18-inch pilgrimage from my head to my heart, the energetic organ of subtle perception. I let my heart simply fill with love, and, gently, my heart opens.
The practice is simple, but it is not easy. It is mostly a practice of starting over again and again as I become aware that I have boarded one boat of thought or another and am floating downstream on it. My greatest challenge in the beginning was learning to let go particularly of thoughts about whether I was doing the prayer correctly or not.
The practice has been challenging, but the benefits over many years have been immense. The exercise of letting go, again and again, of whatever is going on in my head makes it more and more possible for me to choose my state of mind. My mental and emotional condition in any given moment depends upon the particular spin I am giving to the raw data of sensation. The spin might be telling myself stories about what the world is doing to me or not doing for me—stories of frustration, resentment, or victimization. Or it might be stories about who I think I am—my triumphs or failures, my glorious future, or my pitiful past. With the practice of letting go through centering prayer, I may find myself feeling anxious or stressed, but I have learned to move through the feelings by releasing the stories that become attached to the more simple sensation of anxiety or stress. By releasing the stories, I am free to welcome the sensations of any given moment, whatever they may be, and to respond to life from a stable and open stance.
The practice also has a cumulative effect that goes to the root from which such stories emerge. I have come to believe that these stories have their origins in deep fear. Somewhere back in the dawning of consciousness the fact of my being in the world as a differentiated human being—cut off from the womb, as it were—filled me with the terror of my vulnerability. I am alone in the world! What will become of me?
In the face of this vulnerability, my fear built defensive walls. The stories I tell myself are the stones I have raised up, one upon another, to build and strengthen these walls. These stories, or stones, form my ego, my “small identity.”
For example, I have a deep fear of isolation: a fear that those I depend on will abandon me, and I will perish. I tell myself stories to comfort myself against this fear. If I am good, I tell myself, behaving well at home, doing a good job in school, or doing important and effective work in the world, then the people around me will see my value, and they will not abandon me. As the story goes, I will be secure if I can just succeed in being good and productive always. And so, I ask myself the anxious question, what good am I?
Obviously this inner program, while useful in driving a strong work ethic, can become problematic when the work I am trying to do simply does not yield the reassuring visible results that I crave for affirmation. True social change consists of the outward transformation of social systems, which, in turn, depends upon the inward transformation of human beings, and I am powerless to cause or control such transformation in other people. I can sow seeds and water them, but I cannot make them take root or grow.
I often think of my father, a parish priest who liked to spend his vacations doing home repairs. He spent his working days dealing with urgent human problems often with no sign that his work would have any effect. Give him a broken toilet any day, and that he could fix.
You see my dilemma—the work of social change is not fixing toilets. The particular fear-based inner program that drives me requires the constant reassurance of results, but the nature of the work that I do will never yield results that are reliably linked to my efforts. Without any resistance from outside of myself, this deep inner battle leaves me vulnerable to discouragement and burn-out.
Through the practice of centering prayer over time, some inward space—a bit of maneuvering room in which I can experience a sense of myself that is not based on the stories I tell myself and not constrained by the walls of my inner defenses—has opened up within me.
For 20 minutes at a time, I can experience what it is to perform nothing, to do no work—what it is to rest. And guess what? I don’t die. Not all is lost. I don’t feel abandoned, isolated, or vulnerable. Through some subtle perception of the heart, I know through the practice that the universe has my back. I am mysteriously sustained in life. Gradually, as each session builds upon another, I come to trust that whatever power brought me into being continues to sustain me and will never let me go. Very gently, this trust heals my fears.
There is ancient wisdom in seeking peace and wholeness through such soulful rest as I experience through centering prayer, and this wisdom lies at the heart of the biblical tradition of the Sabbath. The people of Israel, at the commandment of God, instituted one day of rest out of seven in the week.
On the seventh day, no work was to be done, no buying and selling, and no fires to be lit. The people would remember that they were no longer slaves; they existed for more than mere production. The people would free themselves from the machinery of the market; they were not commodities whose time could be reduced to money. The people would do nothing to alter the conditions of things in the world around them; they were not in control of it all. And so, on the Sabbath, they let the world be. As they let go, they found that somehow the universe carried on of itself.
This last recognition can be deeply humbling. Who wants to imagine that the world will do fine without them? This is the truth we would discover if it were possible to witness our own death—following a brief disruption, the world would carry on.
In the Sabbath-rooted practice of centering prayer, by letting go of the stories that make up my fear-rooted identity, I can let my ego pass away for a moment, and, in doing so, I witness its death. There is both rest and strength found in experiencing something of what it is to die before I die. My inner resistance to letting the ego pass is strong, but if I gently allow it, I find that I have nothing to fear. Through some subtle perception of the heart, I have come to know that if I cease showing up in the world as the person I think I should be, all will still be well not only for the world but also for me. Some deeper more authentic “I” survives and even thrives in a life of work and rest that is free from the grips of fear.
Returning to Jesus’ tale of the farmer, which is known as a parable of “the kingdom of God” or the time and place in which God’s gracious will is done here on earth, we note that the harvest, the time of “the full grain in the head,” represents the day of fulfillment. The farmer, looking at his fields, knows when the grain is full, and “at once he goes in with his sickle” to reap the harvest. He has prepared for this day through the mundane rhythm of sleeping and rising to his chores, but now he sees that the time for decisive action has arrived, and he is ready.
The story of my erstwhile career as a part-time campus minister has a sequel that stands in my memory as an experience of “harvest time.” I initially left the position after four challenging years but returned to it some years later. Everything was different. I was different, and the student community had changed. The Protestant Christian campus ministry world previously had been divided between liberal social action approaches and conservative personal piety stances, but when I returned, students had begun to articulate their desire for the best of both worlds. They wanted the grace of the ancient traditions, but they wanted them in fresh and new forms. They wanted to study the scriptures and have a living relationship with Jesus, but it was clear to them that following Jesus meant living and working in solidarity with the poor, the sick, and the outcast.
In short, I felt a readiness in the students I worked with and a readiness within myself to live into the vision of a new kind of ministry. Doors that I had pounded my head against in frustration now seemed to open of their own accord. I conceived our weekly worship service in an entirely new way. I set out twice the number of chairs, and they were filled with students interested not only in the worship but also in caring for one another and seeking together how they might care for the world. I spent less time sitting at my office desk and more time looking on in wonder as this new community came to full life.
The miracle of this harvest had its day. Soon, I was sowing other seeds and doing the mundane chores of ministry in another place with the usual un-dramatic results. But the experience left its mark on me, and it changed the way I carry out my leadership. I expect now to work within seasons of sowing, tending, reaping, and lying fallow. I have learned to be more patient with times of no visible results and also to be ready to respond when the moment is ripe.
How to know one season from another? I seek whatever data I can, of course, and confer with colleagues and the communities among which I work. I analyze what can be analyzed and listen as deeply as I can. But I also read the inward signs. Through the subtle perceptions of the heart, developed over time in my contemplative practice, I sense the presence or absence and the stillness or flow of energy within and through me and, in a mysterious way, within and through others and the world around me. I have come to know my heart as a place where discernment transcends the boundaries of our divided selves.
The farmer and his crops give a compelling picture, I think, of qualities needed to work for social change. The parable gives us a clear sense of our responsibility for sowing seeds of transformation and for tending to mundane daily work that often has little to show for its troubles. It enjoins us also to rest deeply in the spirit of Sabbath and to trust that the same Source which calls us into being and gives us the dreams that animate us will also sustain us in our work and move through us to bring the dreams to reality.
The ancient spiritual technologies of contemplative practice, including centering prayer, can lead us into the kind of rest that opens the eyes and ears of our hearts and allows us to experience the movement of Source. These subtle perceptions will also give us the wisdom to recognize the seasons for patient labor and the hours for decisive action. As contemplative leaders, we will be proof against the threats of cynicism and burn-out; we will be more present in our work as our authentic selves; and we will be more effective in deploying our own energy and the energy of others in welcoming the day of hope that is the harvest time. §
Centering Prayer and Prison Ministry
Some years ago, I was sent to St. Louis by the Boston chapter of Contemplative Outreach to prepare to serve as a Certified Prayer Group Facilitator or, one who trains others to lead Centering Prayer groups. The training took place over the course of one week within the context of a retreat. People came together from all over the world and we were trained by the most senior people of Contemplative Outreach. There was classroom instruction, Lectio Divina, Centering Prayer, and time for silence and solitude. One day, I was speaking with a man from Texas who shared with me that he had served in prison ministry. I asked him, what was that like? I can’t remember his response but a seed was planted; a seed that would grow beyond my expectations. During the time I was preparing to be a spiritual director, from time to time the suggestion was made that we could serve in prison ministry. I began to entertain the thought of serving in prison ministry but had no clue how to enter such a ministry. So the seed was watered and cultivated and, as graduation time approached, I received an invitation to serve in prison ministry at a medium security facility. With this invitation, I knew that the seed which was planted some years prior had now sprouted.
I began a new journey and was asked to facilitate a prayer group. I said to myself, “I’ve done this for years” but came to know that this prayer group would be very different. Our time together in the chapel is limited to approximately 50 minutes. We begin with Centering Prayer for just a few minutes because I’ve come to know that when the men come from their units they are really wired and need to settle down in a safe and comfortable environment. Then we practice Lectio Divina using the Scripture for Sunday’s Gospel. And naturally, go to open discussion. The men are invited to discuss openly what is important to them and how the Scripture readings may pertain to their lives. Stories are shared that one could not begin to imagine in the context of our lives. But, they are real examples of the pain and suffering that Christ endured for us all. Most of our discussions cannot be completed. When our time together is up the men are called by the correctional officer in a loud and intimidating voice to “line up”. It’s time for them to return to their units and the reality of their ‘time’. It is a culture with a military flavor. I’m left empty.
I attend mass with the men on Sundays. Father Donald does a wonderful job using Lectio Divina to discuss the Scriptures of the day with the men. They are engaged and involved but not always reverent. From time to time the sacraments of Baptism, First Communion and Confirmation are administered. It is a touching scene of hope to witness how the Spirit reaches out and touches us all. I’m reminded of
the story of the prodigal son and how God’s hand is always extended to us; all we have to do is respond to His calling. I also serve at a less secure or, pre‐release facility. At this facility live men with lesser offenses as well as those who have been transferred from the medium security facility to prepare for their release. It is here that I meet with the men on a more personal level. There are no cells, the men are not locked up, they can roam the facility freely, and I can mingle with them. Mass is at 2 o’clock on Saturdays but I get there early and stay later as the need arises. As men wander into the chapel, I greet them and introduce myself. Some share their complicated and painful stories which become lighter each time we come together. As time goes on, I begin to see some relief on their faces as the pain and anxiety becomes tempered. Since I have the freedom to roam as well, I wander into the units to speak with the men on their turf. Some are curious and want to talk. Others are in deeper pain and walk the other way. Some want to talk of their anxiety related to their release or upcoming court dates. Most times, the best I can say to someone is: “don’t ever forget that God loves you and you have already been forgiven”.
Prison ministry is about being present to those in need. We are all children of God but sometimes lose our way. How do we get through the regret, the loss of self‐esteem, the embarrassment at having to face family and friends? There is no easy way. We each have to ‘do our time’ in the human condition. So we can never truly know how the Spirit works in others or ourselves. It seems as though we are always being prepared to do something of God’s work. He really does have jobs for us. Will we be able to cooperate when He calls? How do we discern a calling? Using the example of Mary of Bethany we can listen and be attentive to the voice within. Seeds are planted when we least expect and it may take years before they begin to sprout. Each of us has a calling and a ministry in which to serve and participate in the Mystical Body. We have to sort it out. This can be done through prayer, reflection, spiritual reading and, most importantly, speaking with someone we trust for guidance with the process of discernment.
Now that I have discerned and have entered the ministry, my prayer has changed. I find myself asking for the guidance to continue to listen to the Spirit, the grace to cooperate with His plan and be an instrument for His use. Most importantly, I offer prayers of gratitude at having been given the grace and the calling to serve in prison ministry. Please keep us all in your prayers.
Ray Palmer, Lay Cistercian of Gethsemani, Class of 2012.
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I began a new journey and was asked to facilitate a prayer group. I said to myself, “I’ve done this for years” but came to know that this prayer group would be very different. Our time together in the chapel is limited to approximately 50 minutes. We begin with Centering Prayer for just a few minutes because I’ve come to know that when the men come from their units they are really wired and need to settle down in a safe and comfortable environment. Then we practice Lectio Divina using the Scripture for Sunday’s Gospel. And naturally, go to open discussion. The men are invited to discuss openly what is important to them and how the Scripture readings may pertain to their lives. Stories are shared that one could not begin to imagine in the context of our lives. But, they are real examples of the pain and suffering that Christ endured for us all. Most of our discussions cannot be completed. When our time together is up the men are called by the correctional officer in a loud and intimidating voice to “line up”. It’s time for them to return to their units and the reality of their ‘time’. It is a culture with a military flavor. I’m left empty.
I attend mass with the men on Sundays. Father Donald does a wonderful job using Lectio Divina to discuss the Scriptures of the day with the men. They are engaged and involved but not always reverent. From time to time the sacraments of Baptism, First Communion and Confirmation are administered. It is a touching scene of hope to witness how the Spirit reaches out and touches us all. I’m reminded of
the story of the prodigal son and how God’s hand is always extended to us; all we have to do is respond to His calling. I also serve at a less secure or, pre‐release facility. At this facility live men with lesser offenses as well as those who have been transferred from the medium security facility to prepare for their release. It is here that I meet with the men on a more personal level. There are no cells, the men are not locked up, they can roam the facility freely, and I can mingle with them. Mass is at 2 o’clock on Saturdays but I get there early and stay later as the need arises. As men wander into the chapel, I greet them and introduce myself. Some share their complicated and painful stories which become lighter each time we come together. As time goes on, I begin to see some relief on their faces as the pain and anxiety becomes tempered. Since I have the freedom to roam as well, I wander into the units to speak with the men on their turf. Some are curious and want to talk. Others are in deeper pain and walk the other way. Some want to talk of their anxiety related to their release or upcoming court dates. Most times, the best I can say to someone is: “don’t ever forget that God loves you and you have already been forgiven”.
Prison ministry is about being present to those in need. We are all children of God but sometimes lose our way. How do we get through the regret, the loss of self‐esteem, the embarrassment at having to face family and friends? There is no easy way. We each have to ‘do our time’ in the human condition. So we can never truly know how the Spirit works in others or ourselves. It seems as though we are always being prepared to do something of God’s work. He really does have jobs for us. Will we be able to cooperate when He calls? How do we discern a calling? Using the example of Mary of Bethany we can listen and be attentive to the voice within. Seeds are planted when we least expect and it may take years before they begin to sprout. Each of us has a calling and a ministry in which to serve and participate in the Mystical Body. We have to sort it out. This can be done through prayer, reflection, spiritual reading and, most importantly, speaking with someone we trust for guidance with the process of discernment.
Now that I have discerned and have entered the ministry, my prayer has changed. I find myself asking for the guidance to continue to listen to the Spirit, the grace to cooperate with His plan and be an instrument for His use. Most importantly, I offer prayers of gratitude at having been given the grace and the calling to serve in prison ministry. Please keep us all in your prayers.
Ray Palmer, Lay Cistercian of Gethsemani, Class of 2012.
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Connecting Centering Prayer and The Spiritual Exercises
William Sheehan O.M.I.
Two watershed experiences in my own spiritual journey were a 30-day retreat at Eastern Point Retreat House in Gloucester, Massachusetts in July, 1976 and a 14-day intensive centering prayer retreat that took place at the Lama Foundation located in the mountains of northern New Mexico in 1983 led by Thomas Keating, O.C.S.O. In this article I would like to identify some points of convergence that I experienced between the spiritual exercises and the practice of centering prayer. These points of convergence have become more apparent to me as I reflect upon some of the more recent insights in the writings of Keating.
THE INNER ROOM
Seeking to identify a core scriptural text that supports a contemplative practice like centering prayer, Keating points to Matthew 6:6, “But when you pray go to your inner room, close the door and pray to your Father in secret, and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” With this foundational text he raises an important question: if we feel attracted to the inner room, then how do we begin to access it? In other words, how do we begin to go beneath ordinary psychological awareness to a deeper level of spiritual attentiveness where we experience our union with God? Keating points out that if we desire to enter our inner room, we need to embrace a spiritual practice like centering prayer that will begin to move us from the head to the deepest level of the heart.
Once we begin to access our inner room through the practice of centering prayer, Keating raises another significant question. “What begins to happen when we enter our inner room?” He describes three moments that begin to unfold. The first moment is that we allow God the opportunity to affirm us in the very core of our being. Through its receptive nature, the practice of centering prayer allows us to receive, that is, the consent to the continuous inflow of God’s love that is being shared with us at each moment. The only activity in centering prayer is consenting to the love, presence, and action of God within us and to let go of all thoughts and jut be.
RECEIVING AND CONSENTING
It is in this initial moment of being in the inner room that I experienced the first point of convergence between the spiritual exercises of Ignatius and the practice of centering prayer. I recall that during my thirty day retreat, as I prayed over the principle and foundation, I was encouraged to pray for the grace to accept the gift of God’s unconditional love. As a I prayed over Scripture texts like Psalm 139, Isaiah 49 or John 15, the power and presence of God’s Word seemed to seemed to bring me to “my inner room.” The awareness of God’s unconditional love, revealed through God’s word seemed to arise now from within my heart. There came a point in this experience that I was given the grace to accept, or as Keating would say, to consent to the gift of God’s unconditional love. It was as though I experienced a “transfiguration moment” in which I felt a deep sense of God’s love. For me this moment was an acute awareness of being radically connected to God and creation. This was a special grace as I felt very secure and a new kind of communion with God.
GROWING IN TRUST
The third moment in the inner room comes when we allow God the space to begin to “soften up” the hard core of the false-self system. In centering prayer and the Spiritual Exercises the false-self is seen against the light of God’s unconditional love. This brought for me a recognition of my need for healing. Keating describes this healing in the book Open Mind, Open Heart. He states that there are various types of thoughts that may occur in centering prayer. One type of thought is psychological unloading. This has to do with the hurts we have absorbed in a lifetime. These undigested or unprocessed hurts remain buried within our unconscious. These hurts become interior blocks that can hinder the free flow of God’s love. In the practice of centering prayer God begins to soften up the hurtful material of our lives which have been absorbed in the body. This material begins to emerge to the level of conscious awareness in the form of highly charged emotional thoughts. As we become engaged in these thoughts, the practice of centering prayer encourages us to let go of these emotionally charged thoughts by returning ever so gently to our sacred word, the symbol of our consent to the love, presence, and action of God. The practice of returning to the sacred work gives God the space in our minds and hearts to heal the wounds at their very core.
Another way that Keating describes this same process is that Jesus as Divine Healer invites us to accompany him back through the stages of our human growth and development. With our consent in the practice of centering prayer Jesus begins to heal the wounds we may carry within a particular stage. As I mentioned above, these developmental wounds begin to emerge on this level of conscious awareness in the form of highly charged emotional thoughts. We acknowledge these emotions and thoughts, then let go of these through the use of our sacred word. In doing this we again allow God the interior space to heal these wounds.
SINFULNESS AND HEALING
In the third moment in my inner room I experienced another point of convergence between centering prayer and the Spiritual Exercises. Keating’s teaching on psychological unloading and Ignatius’s encouragement to pray for the grace to experience one’s own sinfulness are very similar. During my 30-day retreat I was able to experience a renewed connection with the gift of God’s unconditional love. My director encouraged me to pray for the grace to experience my own sinfulness. In response to this grace a painful memory began to emerge before me part-way through the retreat. This memory involved a breakdown in a family relationship because of a natural misunderstanding. As this memory began to surface with all of its emotional intensity I began to relive this past experience. My director suggested that I was being asked by God to forgive the one who contributed to such hurt in my life. I could feel the emergence of a strong resistance to forgive. Again the director encouraged me to pray for the grace to forgive so that I would be healed of the hurt that was deeply embedded in my psyche. Fortunately, working through the exercises brought about divine healing for me. This was very much like Keating’s description of psychological unloading
I have been practicing centering prayer since 1983. Consistently I notice the overlaps with the Spiritual Exercises. Both of these prayer forms have reinforced within me the sense of being deeply loved by God. The fact that I have been able to rely on both forms of prayer has provided me with a level of spiritual strength to trust God. Such trust has allowed for other healings in my life. Now 24 years later I am profoundly grateful to God for the blessing that these prayer forms have been for me. Not only have they enriched my life as a religious and a priest, but they hve substantially strengthened my conviction that God-in-Christ is experienced in living life to the full.
RECOMMENDED READING
Barry, W.A. God’s Passionate Desire and Our Response. Notre Dame, Indiana. Ave Maria Press, 1993.
Barry, W.A. What Do I Want in Prayer? New York: Paulist Press, 1994.
Keating T. Intimacy with God. New York: Crossroads, 1999 Lantern Books, 2005
Keating, T. Manifesting God. Lantern Books, 2005
Keating, T. Open Mind, Open Heart: The Contemplative Dimension of the Gospel. New York:
Continuum, 1992.
