Now. Here. This.
October 11, 2009
The Bible reading from Mark 10:35-45 brings us James and John asking Jesus to assure them that they’ll be at Jesus’ right hand. This extraordinary goal—whatever its motivation—was not well received by the other apostles. They did not appreciate this vying for personal advantage. They might have considered the request a confusion of spiritual and worldly purposes—seeking greatness rather than truth. In other words, they may have thought the two brothers were getting ahead of themselves. In his response, Jesus refers to the trials he himself will endure and reminds James and John that whoever will become the chiefest will be the servant of all. In that moment, in asking for Jesus to grant whatsoever they desire, they were veering off that path of principled service to seek equality—to promise equal sacrifice, hoping to radiate equal glory with Jesus.
And Jesus said in essence that what they were asking was not his to give. "And what you ask, asks much of you."
They knew where they wanted to be and we can all understand that. A "keep looking toward the horizon; –eye-on-the-prize" focus can inspire our daily steps. Still, if the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step we need to understand that the truest part of our journey is that it is just one step at a time.
It’s pretty much one step after another for a very long time. Now. Here. This. Now is the moment here is the place and this is my next step. Here goes. (I saw a bumper sticker recently that said, "I’d rather be right here doing this." This captures the idea!)
"Now. Here. This." is a framework I found in a journal passage written by Thomas Merton, a Trappist monk whose life evolved one-step-at a time into a combination of solitude and accessibility to the concerns of the world. He was a peace and Civil Rights activist and I heard a lot about him in my youth and at various times thereafter. I thought he sounded wonderful and I bought his books. Every time I saw them on the shelf, I felt like I was looking at something profound. I read the jacket cover and intended to read the rest of it. At last--What I did in my summer vacation 2009 was to actually read some of Thomas Merton’s writing. I read essays written about him, I read his journals. I learned at last about this monk I had idealized without really knowing why.
Thomas Merton was a man who left a well and wildly explored worldly paradigm for a life of prayer, poverty, chastity, community, and solitude. I read and re-read passages, genuinely connecting with him this time—and yet at times I stood apart—appropriately in awe of the ideals he wrestled with in humility on a daily basis as his sincere commitment to God.
"Now. Here. This." for Thomas Merton was his lifelong quest. He desired to live his life honestly, to delve into the wonder and horror of human pursuits humbly embracing his role as the one who would comment on what he sees. On September 30, 1960 he writes: "Who am I? A priest and a writer. One who has the gift of speaking intelligently, I hope. Hence, I must also think clearly and pray and meditate and, when circumstances require it, to speak to as many as will listen to me about things concerning their happiness, their destiny, along with my own. In a word, about their salvation."
In prudence, in humility, in service. Now. Here. This.
What is the opposite? Later—over there—What’s this? Something like that; Something less than conscious, anyway, less than connected.
Now. Here. This. reminded me of a passage in a book called, Playing Ball on Running Water by David K. Reynolds in which directions on a conscious, deliberate life are offered. Step one: Eat your breakfast. Each bite. Aware. Don’t read, watch television, share focus with anything. Now. Here. This. Eat your breakfast. Step 2—take a walk in your neighborhood. Again, each step calling forth attention and a clear understanding that the purpose in taking a walk in your neighborhood has a connection to God.
Eleanor Roosevelt once said, "You must do the thing you think you cannot do." For so many of us, truly encountering the demands of the present moment, weighing its possibilities, and making a choice in conscious and prayerful manner is something we find difficult to do. And we must find a way to do it. Because that moment we call now is really all we have. In the now we may choose to have a conversation with someone instead of exiting in a pre-occupied flurry. It may mean that we reign in our myriad concerns and agendas to simply focus.
One busy day a couple of years ago at RCC, where I teach, I swept by the cafeteria looking for a student. A colleague flagged me down and said, "I have someone I want you to meet." She introduced me to a woman I later learned is a client at SPARC, an organization and resource in our community for what is often categorized as developmentally disabled adults. This moment I am recounting was not a Now. Here. This. Moment for me. I was distracted. Still, I was friendly. The woman looked nice. I didn’t see the student I was looking for, so I said good-bye and continued my search. Later in the month again I whizzed by the cafeteria to grade two or three quizzes I hadn’t gotten to before my class that met in 10 minutes. As I focused intently on the papers before me I became aware that someone had sat down. It was the woman from SPARC—that was who she was in my mind. I didn’t remember her name, so I asked again. She sat shyly. My flurry was intensified. How could I get these papers done, be reasonably friendly to the woman—I extended my hand to shake hers and said I was on my way to class. Sure nice to see you again. And I left her sitting by herself at the big round table in the cafeteria.
Fast forward—because God gives us chances to revisit our priorities. God’s grace allows us second chances. Recently I said "yes" to an invitation from SPARC to teach a drama class with their clients. Last Monday I led an activity as a warm-up in which we learned basic movements and turned them into a dance. My partner for this exercise was the woman from SPARC I was too busy to chat with. We stretched, bent, pushed, pulled, and bounced energetically to the music of Santana. She’d had a bad day. She’d gone to therapy. Her shoulder hurt. She’d felt a little lonely and hadn’t wanted to come to class. She came because it was a commitment she had made to her community. She was glad she came by the time the class ended. She was laughing with her friends. That day in class we all played together and got to know each other. We talked about what it takes to be heroes. We shared stories. There were no categories; I didn’t have to describe my fellow actors; we just enjoyed playing together. I have heard people describe the SPARC clients as "differently- abled" and I see this now as more than an awkward euphemism. I am just a beginner, but am eager to see what some of those different abilities are. I’m in discovery and it is my goal to be focused in each opportunity I have to find out more.
This second chance to connect means a lot to me. When I can come close to being in the moment and seeing its gifts, this feels like prayer to me.
In one of his baseball films, Kevin Costner plays a pitcher who admonishes himself before every game and at various points of distraction within the game to "clear the mechanism".
Now. Here. This.
Not preoccupied, flustered, flurried, living in the future instead of taking the step that is right before us. Clear the mechanism. Eat your breakfast. Step One.
One of the prayers Thomas Merton prayed is engraved on the wall of the Merton Center, "Be good, keep your feet dry, your eyes open, your heart at peace, and your soul in the love of Christ."
As I mentioned, after his wild life, his epiphany lead him in a spiritual direction. And this led him to apply the principles he learned in his monastic life to an emerging world view where potential, respect and love were valued. At the age of 53, after 27 years at the Gesthemani monastery in Kentucky, he arranged to travel again. He took several weeks to reach his destination—a conference in Bangkok, Thailand. He visited several well known spiritual landmarks and spent time with the Dalai Lama. At last at the conference he delivered the keynote address to a room full of Catholic and Buddhist clergy—This was his kick-off to the next phase of his life. He foresaw more conversations with the Dalai Lama, more unifying language created for the world. Step-by-step choices in building understanding. After his speech he went to his room. It was hot, so he plugged in a fan to cool down. There was a short in the wiring. He was electrocuted. Gone. What was to be a beginning was the end.
Now. Here. This. We have reminders all around us that this is the moment we have. We have now, not later, to see our priorities clearly. I remember several years ago when I was teaching a drama class of seniors at Scripps Home in Altadena, California. My youngest student was 85. Many of the participants had severe hearing problems, one was blind. We were all ready for our first performance which we called "Wisdoms and Reflections" and as I looked at the large crowd, I wondered how I’d let my actors know that it was time to begin. I decided to go to each one of them individually to get their attention and say it’s time to start. It was difficult because each one wanted to tell me how much the class meant, how much they were enjoying the experience. I was a bit misty when I got to the microphone to announce the show. Later, one of the elders, a 99 year-old who could still do yoga, said, "Bobbi, we just never know how much time we have, so we want to take care of what’s important."
We have now, not later. When we get up Monday morning wishing it was Friday or live in constant hunger and longing, let that be our signal to clear the mechanism and focus on the right exercise of our gifts. This moment. Now.
In his book, Thoughts in Solitude, Thomas Merton prays honestly, in an "in the moment", beautiful prayer. A simple conversation with God. I would like to close with this prayer. Let’s pray together.
MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone. Amen.