by Lee Goodwin & Lynn Ramshaw

October 24-28, 2005

"O living flame of love
that tenderly wounds my soul
in its deepest center! Since
now you are not oppressive,
now consummate! if it be your will:
tear through the veil of this sweet encounter!"

What strange contrasts John explores in his poem. To be tenderly wounded seems like a strange affliction indeed. The flame of love could be tender or wounding, but both? And then,

"O sweet cautery,
O delightful wound!
O gentle hand! O delicate touch
that tastes of eternal life
and pays every debt!
In killing you changed death to life."

Such mysterious combinations. What wound is delightful, and how can touch "taste" of anything? How does killing change death to life? Why was I drawn to this poem in those two days of silence at the recent Midwest Shalem Regional Gathering? Surely I had carefully girded myself with books aplenty, why then this one short poem?

In advance I had wondered about those two days, 48 uninterrupted hours of silence. Wondered if they would need filling, need my careful, calculated management. Wondered if the silence itself would seem strange, like a friend whom I had not seen for some time. But, the silence proved to be no stranger. Very much like that old friend whom you see again and take up right where you left off. Thomas Keating says that even after a time away from contemplative practice, you pick up right where you left. Nothing is lost.

Still, this is not to say that this old friend and I did not wrestle some. After all I did have my plans. But the silence came like the Jews traditionally describe the Sabbath-as a queen or a bride. The unfilled time and space had its own personality. It was a sovereign who deserves, even demands honor and respect. And the silent presence was like the lover, playful and free.

I walked, and read and memorized that ancient poem:

"O lamps of fire!
in whose splendors
the deep caverns of feeling,
once obscure and blind,
now give forth, so rarely, so exquisitely,
both warmth and light to their Beloved."

A labor of love it was to learn these words by heart and so to carry and be carried along. The silence, the poem, companions on the way.

Now, thankfully, answering the "why?" seems to matter less. It was one of those gifts which was given without accompanying explanation or obvious usefulness. Like the great silence itself, it was one of many gifts given in that sacred, modest place in the otherwise hurried suburbs. Silence given-between the lines of a preacher's often noisy life.

In The Hidden Wholeness: The Journey Toward an Undivided Life, Parker Palmer likens the soul to a wild animal: tough and resilient, capable of survival in difficult places. The "wild animal" soul is also shy, often preferring to remain unseen, unidentified. Perhaps this is why John's poem has echoed through the centuries. Perhaps only paradox is capable of conveying the mystery of a Spirit-life which has to do with what is tender, yet wounding, wild and shy, dark and light, drawing us into death and life. The Spirit that uses Tibetan singing bowls, ancient icons, labyrinths and silent community has shown an inclination for using the finite to reveal the infinite. And all of it drawing us toward our truest selves that are in God. The Great Silence "speaks" of what is finally really real: being in God, with God and of God all at once.

--Lee Goodwin. Lee is an ELCA parish pastor in northern Wisconsin and a graduate of Shalem's Leading Contemplative Prayer Groups & Retreats, 1996, and Spiritual Guidance Program, 1999.

Poetry is from John of the Cross, "The Living Flame of Love," The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross.

"Be the authentic word God creates you to be," I heard myself say. I was one voice among many; we were responding from that place where Love's contemplative knowing, "unpossessable," endless and direct, resides. Tilden Edwards suggested it's the knowledge found within us, midway between our culture's "mind accumulation" knowledge and the utter "unknowing" of The Cloud. It comes from being known and being aware that we are known. Bill Dietrich reminded us of St. Irenaeus' prayer:

It is not thou that shapest God,
It is God that shapest thee.
If then thou art the work of God,
Await the hand of the artist
Who does all things in due season.

For four days, we lived together in the awareness that we are being formed by God.

How wonderful if we could always do that. Being formed as contemplative folks seems an oddity in our fast-paced world, and yet for some, the inner yearning is undeniable. We need not only acknowledge, but then nurture our desire... or let it be nurtured, as it turns out. There were more than forty of us, including several very able staff, and we came from perhaps 15 different denominational and non-denominational affiliations; how rich that is! After hearing Tilden's presentations on the qualities of spiritual leadership and the social vision that emerges from the contemplative life, we responded with nearly as many additional qualities as there were people in the room. So many prayerful approaches, responses, desires and hopes, all grounded in being, just being, in God.

The communal power is particularly evident in being silent together. I love silence and am privileged to live in it a good portion of each day. But this was different. There is a depth that comes in being still, in God's presence, together.

St. Paul talks about our spiritual union in the Body of Christ, and of the essential participation of each member, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Here, the gentle silence of each one nurtured the stillness of the rest; we heard, saw, tasted of God supported by and in one another's vulnerability.

And so, we were fed. The convenient location of the Cenacle Retreat House and Spirituality Center in Warrenville, Illinois, contributed to the overall hospitality of this event. These particular grounds were conducive to lots of walking in our quiet time, and some of us found the labyrinth out among the trees. Somehow the centrality of Christ in all of life came so clear to me, this time around. No matter what is happening, Christ is at the center... no matter what... really! I wondered, with Him, can I be an "authentic word" that reveals Him?

People obviously have prayed at the Cenacle for a long time, and the result is the intangible witness of folks who have gone before. We discovered and added new ways to respond to God in prayer. There were several opportun-ities to listen and notice: seed mandalas, Ignatian meditation, Taize, lectio divina, prayerful conversations, prayer of gratitude, so many. All nurtured our opening to the contemplative gift. We were encouraged to attend these listening and noticeing opportunities only if we felt drawn; they were there for us, not expected of us. Freedom just to be, however we wanted. This freedom might be the most nourishing aspect of such time.

Throughout, we were carried in a rhythm that seemed to meet all needs. Knowing the inclination of human-kind to talk incessantly, even about nothing, the first day and a half were given over to lots of words. Heard and spoken. Not only were there several presentations providing much food for prayer, there were opportunities to share in small groups. We were given words on paper, words from each other, words from speakers, lots of words. I love words but began to not even like them, although all were good, insight-ful, revealing, important. Then, we entered the silence.

It profoundly balanced the conversation; the exaggerated contrast revealed that both are essential to our being. Several folks used the word "dance" to describe our experience in our time together; there was the dance between personal and communal, between listening and speaking, between comfort and challenge. In our day-to-day living, we need to find a different sort of rhythm, though; how can we discover rhythmic dance in our ordinary lives?

I drew a picture of the invitation for me: a woman, vulnerable, firmly planted in the hand of God, surround-ed by several silent faces behind resistant pairs of hands. I was remind-ed of the words given me the night before: "Be the authentic word..."

This is God's invitation to me. To be one authentic word among some people who still have not heard Him. All of us were renewed in our call to that speaking out, somehow. By who we are, by what we say, by what we do, each gifted for our particular oblation. St. Irenaeus' prayer continues:

Offer God thy heart, soft and tractable,
And keep the form in which
The artist has fashioned thee.
Let thy clay be moist,
Lest thou grow hard and lose
The imprint of God's fingers.

This is where our authenticity originates. If we are to speak with the words God gives us, then we are to offer ourselves continually into God's loving hands. Somewhere during the week, Tilden said, "Jesus never had an identity; He always was receiving it." He always was "available in the mo-ment for who knows what." That is our call and our gift; to be always "available in the moment for who knows what." And then to let God do it, through us. Thank you, Shalem, for your profound and faithful reminder.

--Lynn Ramshaw. Lynn is a graduate of Shalem's Clergy Life & Leadership Program, Class of 2003, and a UCC Pastor.