In the 1200s St Dominic preached against the Albigensian heresy.
That’s not the lede I expected to write about my recent trip to the symphony, but all of my reflections on the premiere of Lieberson’s Songs of Love and Sorrow led me back to a lesson I’d taught on Dominic earlier that day. Composed as a companion piece for Lieberson’s Neruda Songs, Songs of Love and Sorrow also sets poetry by Pablo Neruda, this time putting the powerful Chilean poetry in the mouth of a baritone rather than a mezzo-soprano.
As a stereotypical stodgy New Englander, a lot of Neruda’s work feels foreign to me. His expressions of emotion are tactile and earthy, with a lack of inhibition that makes me feel even more uptight in comparison. I’m probably not alone in approaching Neruda (and anything else that challenges me that much) with an overly intellectual detachment, trying to analyze its rich physicality with the sobriety of an over-trained mind. Plena mujer, manzana carnal, luna caliente [Full woman, flesh-apple, hot moon] – for we priggish Americans, it can be easier to hold images like that at arm’s length.
That detachment was impossible last night. Lieberson’s evocative setting energized Neruda’s poetry, but even more revelatory was the very experience of live music.
We are bodies, living in a world we can touch, feel, see, smell, hear. The sonic experience of orchestral forces in a live setting is incomparable, a fact of which I am reminded on every trip to the symphony. The magic of skill and intention forming sound waves that surround us is a perfect example of the blessings of our physical world. Add to that the power of a perfectly calibrated human voice – an example of every part of the human body working together perfectly, art truly incarnate - and you have a recipe for transformation.
Cantas y al sol y a cielo con tu canto/tu voz desgrana el cereal del día,/hablan los pinos con su lengua verde: trinan todas la saves del invierno. [You sing, and your voice peels the husk /of the day’s grain, your song with the sun and the sky,/the pine trees speak with their green tongue:/all the birds of the winter whistle.]
A rich human voice, an orchestra, an emotive musical setting of sensual poetry created the perfect storm, tearing me away from the elite intellectualism honed over many years in the ivory tower. My brain was ripped out and I was only body, heart and blood and guts and skin.
So what does this all have to do with St Dominic? The Albigensians, like many before and after them, professed that the human body and all other matter was evil. Although the Albigensian heresy died out in the decades following Dominic’s preaching, that principle still lives in the hearts and minds of many Christians. We go to church and are scared to open our mouths and sing, never mind move our bodies or touch the person next to us. We believe our faith and our identity are found in what we think rather than how we embody that belief through physical action. Trying to stay on the right side of gluttony we avoid any indulgences, ignoring the many gifts of God that come to us through our sensations. We’re mostly brain, a little heart, and no guts. We’re scared – of sin, of our appetites, of our power.
But to look at the people who truly embrace the physicality of our creation, they don’t slide into gluttony or sin but achieve something truly mystical. Earth’s crammed with heaven/and every common bush afire with God (Elizabeth Barrett Browning). By means of all created things, the divine assails us, penetrates us, and molds us (Pierre Teilhard de Chardin). The king saw his image/in your faces/when he made you mirrors of/all heaven's graces,/a garden of surpassing/sweetness, a fragrance/wafting all graciousness (Hildegard von Bingen).
It’s easy to spend a lot of time with my head in the clouds, hoping for things not seen. But everything in the here and now was created and proclaimed good – including us. What a gift it is to get out of our heads and into our bodies, touching the earth that sustains us, touched by the art that occasionally inflames our senses until our old ways burn up and we become something new in their clean, pure ash.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind. - Neruda
Friday, March 26, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
A Lesson in Humility
Due to where I live, I pass panhandlers almost every day. Usually they are at major intersections near the edges of my neighborhood, and a few characters frequent certain storefronts on Broadway.
Most people, if asked, will offer some Theory of Interaction with the Indigent: I keep a dollar in my pocket to give away ~ I buy them food instead of giving money ~ I think they should get jobs ~ I try to just smile if I have nothing to give. We come up with these theories in our dormitory common rooms and church forums on justice. They are big beautiful ideas of who we want to be. Yet I, after being faced with people begging for change nearly ever day, have adopted a practice very different from any theory of my youth: I ignore them.
Sure, some days I dig into my parking meter reserves, and most days I try to at least make eye contact, but rarely does the window come down when I’m waiting at the light. It’s not because I’m frightened or can’t afford it, but because when I am in the car on my way home I feel lazy, and I’m often too emotionally over-extended to engage another person.
This past Sunday dawned bright and cool, and not long after dawn I set out to meet friends with whom I was to go to a race later in the day. I waited at a huge intersection which was abnormally empty. As a man approached I rolled down my window. It’s the Lord’s Day, I thought, and I was feeling secure and moved by someone panhandling in the middle of an abandoned intersection.
When I gave the man some money, I suggested he get a cup of coffee, thinking “I am enjoying coffee as I drive, he should be able to enjoy some too”. Unfortunately he took umbrage, responding “Do I look like I’m high? This money is for rent.”
The light was still red, so he continued with his story. Its particulars aren’t important, but it involved leaving his job at a big box store because they capped his wages at $14/hour. The light turned green and I offered words of encouragement. His parting words were “well, it’s been a lesson in humility. Not everyone is nice like you.”
Nice like me. I drove away flushed with shame, knowing that I am not nice. I claw my way toward generosity and goodness like someone scaling a mountain. But to him, I was nice. My easy frustration and indulgent complexity meant nothing to him in our short interaction, and I was doubly shamed by my quick assumption that all of my over-thinking would matter at all to a person who was just looking for someone to be nice.
The real reason I was flushed after our conversation, and the reason this conversation has been on my mind for days, was his casual mention of a lesson in humility. We claim to seek humility, but don’t want the ugly steps it takes to get there. If my life continues on its current path, chances are I will never be humbled like my new friend. I will not beg for change, I will not approach strangers for rent money, I will not be so alone that I tell my story to strangers on Melnea Cass Blvd.
One can only become humble by being brought low. When Jesus said “blessed are the poor”, was this part of what he was talking about? The destruction of illusions about our own self-sufficiency is a pre-condition for deepening our faith, but it takes guts. We want to trust in a higher power while maintaining a secret stash of our own power, just in case.
The story of the woman caught in adultery was the gospel reading for the Fifth Sunday of Lent. It’s an incredibly rich story, which – to my great horror – is often reduced to a morality lesson about sex. To me, it is a story of powerful, proud people, hiding behind indignance. The woman is truly powerless, having sinned like we all do, but her sins more exposed than any of ours ever are. Like many women she has been made physically vulnerable, at the mercy of a merciless crowd, yet even the crowd doesn’t value her - she is only a way to catch Jesus in blasphemy, to bring a charge against him.
When Jesus intervenes, he turns everything upside-down, as he often does. Suddenly the righteous are dismissed, not by force but by moral reasoning: Let one who is without sin cast the first stone. And the one who is brought low, the last person with whom we would want to change places, is lifted up, touched by God, directed by holy wisdom, and redeemed.
What more could any of us want? Blessed are the poor, indeed.
Most people, if asked, will offer some Theory of Interaction with the Indigent: I keep a dollar in my pocket to give away ~ I buy them food instead of giving money ~ I think they should get jobs ~ I try to just smile if I have nothing to give. We come up with these theories in our dormitory common rooms and church forums on justice. They are big beautiful ideas of who we want to be. Yet I, after being faced with people begging for change nearly ever day, have adopted a practice very different from any theory of my youth: I ignore them.
Sure, some days I dig into my parking meter reserves, and most days I try to at least make eye contact, but rarely does the window come down when I’m waiting at the light. It’s not because I’m frightened or can’t afford it, but because when I am in the car on my way home I feel lazy, and I’m often too emotionally over-extended to engage another person.
This past Sunday dawned bright and cool, and not long after dawn I set out to meet friends with whom I was to go to a race later in the day. I waited at a huge intersection which was abnormally empty. As a man approached I rolled down my window. It’s the Lord’s Day, I thought, and I was feeling secure and moved by someone panhandling in the middle of an abandoned intersection.
When I gave the man some money, I suggested he get a cup of coffee, thinking “I am enjoying coffee as I drive, he should be able to enjoy some too”. Unfortunately he took umbrage, responding “Do I look like I’m high? This money is for rent.”
The light was still red, so he continued with his story. Its particulars aren’t important, but it involved leaving his job at a big box store because they capped his wages at $14/hour. The light turned green and I offered words of encouragement. His parting words were “well, it’s been a lesson in humility. Not everyone is nice like you.”
Nice like me. I drove away flushed with shame, knowing that I am not nice. I claw my way toward generosity and goodness like someone scaling a mountain. But to him, I was nice. My easy frustration and indulgent complexity meant nothing to him in our short interaction, and I was doubly shamed by my quick assumption that all of my over-thinking would matter at all to a person who was just looking for someone to be nice.
The real reason I was flushed after our conversation, and the reason this conversation has been on my mind for days, was his casual mention of a lesson in humility. We claim to seek humility, but don’t want the ugly steps it takes to get there. If my life continues on its current path, chances are I will never be humbled like my new friend. I will not beg for change, I will not approach strangers for rent money, I will not be so alone that I tell my story to strangers on Melnea Cass Blvd.
One can only become humble by being brought low. When Jesus said “blessed are the poor”, was this part of what he was talking about? The destruction of illusions about our own self-sufficiency is a pre-condition for deepening our faith, but it takes guts. We want to trust in a higher power while maintaining a secret stash of our own power, just in case.
The story of the woman caught in adultery was the gospel reading for the Fifth Sunday of Lent. It’s an incredibly rich story, which – to my great horror – is often reduced to a morality lesson about sex. To me, it is a story of powerful, proud people, hiding behind indignance. The woman is truly powerless, having sinned like we all do, but her sins more exposed than any of ours ever are. Like many women she has been made physically vulnerable, at the mercy of a merciless crowd, yet even the crowd doesn’t value her - she is only a way to catch Jesus in blasphemy, to bring a charge against him.
When Jesus intervenes, he turns everything upside-down, as he often does. Suddenly the righteous are dismissed, not by force but by moral reasoning: Let one who is without sin cast the first stone. And the one who is brought low, the last person with whom we would want to change places, is lifted up, touched by God, directed by holy wisdom, and redeemed.
What more could any of us want? Blessed are the poor, indeed.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
It goes without saying that I like to express myself. I hear a sarcastic “tell us what you really think” a few times a week, and try to take it as a compliment rather than taking it in the spirit it is given. As the years have gone by and I’ve become less invested in getting my own way all the time, I’ve developed a habit that, like many of my habits, can be a little off-putting. If I’m involved in a discussion or situation in which my voice is the minority, I still say my piece knowing that the outcome of the discussion is probably not going to go my way. I feel better knowing that I haven’t kept my dissent secret from anyone, and I can go on my way ready to live with whatever outcome results. I think there is virtue in sharing what little wisdom I may have to offer, and I think that the conversation is more important than the outcomes.
Last night I had dinner with some friends with whom I can talk about anything, from work to music to vocation to tea, and over the course of our long chat last night the conversation turned to prayer. All three of us have degrees in theology, which sometimes makes it harder to talk about these topics – every comment about prayer has a million theological implications, and we waffle between tossing around terms with ease and being awe-struck and humbled by the act of trying to define that which cannot be defined.
We were talking about petitionary prayer, a subject I find particularly difficult for theology-folk to talk about. To the more snobbish among us it seems so juvenile, so lower-stages-of-moral-development. And to the realists among us it seems fairly unproductive: we ask for what we want, and God’s will sweeps forward on its path regardless.
Is the answer then not to offer our needs and wants to God in prayer? I don’t think so. If I believe it is worthwhile to share my wants and ideas with other people, regardless of the outcome, how much more worthwhile is it to share those with God, even if God’s will may not match our dreams and imaginings? Every time we share a piece of who we are, what we want, or what we believe, we deepen the intimacy between us and God. There is value in that, in the honesty needed to share ourselves, and in the communion that can only develop in the shadow of that honesty.
Last night I had dinner with some friends with whom I can talk about anything, from work to music to vocation to tea, and over the course of our long chat last night the conversation turned to prayer. All three of us have degrees in theology, which sometimes makes it harder to talk about these topics – every comment about prayer has a million theological implications, and we waffle between tossing around terms with ease and being awe-struck and humbled by the act of trying to define that which cannot be defined.
We were talking about petitionary prayer, a subject I find particularly difficult for theology-folk to talk about. To the more snobbish among us it seems so juvenile, so lower-stages-of-moral-development. And to the realists among us it seems fairly unproductive: we ask for what we want, and God’s will sweeps forward on its path regardless.
Is the answer then not to offer our needs and wants to God in prayer? I don’t think so. If I believe it is worthwhile to share my wants and ideas with other people, regardless of the outcome, how much more worthwhile is it to share those with God, even if God’s will may not match our dreams and imaginings? Every time we share a piece of who we are, what we want, or what we believe, we deepen the intimacy between us and God. There is value in that, in the honesty needed to share ourselves, and in the communion that can only develop in the shadow of that honesty.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Being my own brand
Every time I walk into an audition, it’s my job to make people think I am fabulous. If, in those five minutes, I can show the panel an arresting stage presence, a clear well-tuned voice, and that I’d be a pleasant colleague, I’m more likely to be hired. So once or twice a week I turn myself inside out, carefully deciding how I will manipulate my image in order to get people to like me.
But who I am I kidding? I don’t just do this at auditions: none of us do. How do we determine where marketing ends and identity begins? Although singers may be more susceptible, we all spend most of our lives trying to win the admiration of others. We subconsciously prioritize our jumble of traits. Will we be most loved for our candor or discretion? Bravery or caution? Humor or sobriety? We decide, and we put it all together, and we wait for the reaction of others that will reward or chasten us, and teach us how to do it better next time.
When I was in college, the equation seemed pretty simple. People would hear me sing, find out I had talent, and admire me – and then my life would be easier and happier. Even then part of me knew this was foolishness, but I was young and confused and hadn’t yet learned the more subtle forms of foolishness that I would use to form my adult relationships.
A lot has been written about how personal a singer’s instrument is, and to be frank few of the things I have read have satisfied me, because they usually stop with some trite observation like “a horn player can put down her horn but a singer can’t ever put her voice down.” I know there is more to it than that, but unfortunately I can’t do any better than trite observations myself. I do know this: among my dearest friends who are also gifted singers, there is not one whom I love because of his or her giftedness. We don’t care for each other because of our talent, or even because of our goodness.
This reflection was prompted by something as simple as spending too much time with other people, trying to manage my image and win more admiration. And after what by all accounts should have been a good week – lots of accomplishments, some great singing, and every singer’s (and extrovert’s) favorite reward: plenty of praise – I got to Friday afternoon and only felt shallow. I had done well. Big deal.
I am lucky to have people in my life who care for me not because of my voice or image, but just because of who I am. There’s no way to quantify what it is that makes us who we are. Knowing that there are people who know and love that indefinable core may be my greatest solace. Once all the talents and charms are stripped away, there is a spark of who we are, created and loved by God. My greatest peace is when I am at my simplest, closest to that unadorned core. Dressing up who we are is the price we pay for living in the world. My challenge is no different from anyone else’s: leaving space for my simplest self to breathe and grow among the thorns of pretension and pride.
But who I am I kidding? I don’t just do this at auditions: none of us do. How do we determine where marketing ends and identity begins? Although singers may be more susceptible, we all spend most of our lives trying to win the admiration of others. We subconsciously prioritize our jumble of traits. Will we be most loved for our candor or discretion? Bravery or caution? Humor or sobriety? We decide, and we put it all together, and we wait for the reaction of others that will reward or chasten us, and teach us how to do it better next time.
When I was in college, the equation seemed pretty simple. People would hear me sing, find out I had talent, and admire me – and then my life would be easier and happier. Even then part of me knew this was foolishness, but I was young and confused and hadn’t yet learned the more subtle forms of foolishness that I would use to form my adult relationships.
A lot has been written about how personal a singer’s instrument is, and to be frank few of the things I have read have satisfied me, because they usually stop with some trite observation like “a horn player can put down her horn but a singer can’t ever put her voice down.” I know there is more to it than that, but unfortunately I can’t do any better than trite observations myself. I do know this: among my dearest friends who are also gifted singers, there is not one whom I love because of his or her giftedness. We don’t care for each other because of our talent, or even because of our goodness.
This reflection was prompted by something as simple as spending too much time with other people, trying to manage my image and win more admiration. And after what by all accounts should have been a good week – lots of accomplishments, some great singing, and every singer’s (and extrovert’s) favorite reward: plenty of praise – I got to Friday afternoon and only felt shallow. I had done well. Big deal.
I am lucky to have people in my life who care for me not because of my voice or image, but just because of who I am. There’s no way to quantify what it is that makes us who we are. Knowing that there are people who know and love that indefinable core may be my greatest solace. Once all the talents and charms are stripped away, there is a spark of who we are, created and loved by God. My greatest peace is when I am at my simplest, closest to that unadorned core. Dressing up who we are is the price we pay for living in the world. My challenge is no different from anyone else’s: leaving space for my simplest self to breathe and grow among the thorns of pretension and pride.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
The measure with which I measure
From Chapter 6 of Luke's Gospel:
Jesus said to his disciples:
“Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.
“Stop judging and you will not be judged.
Stop condemning and you will not be condemned.
Forgive and you will be forgiven.
Give and gifts will be given to you;
a good measure, packed together, shaken down, and overflowing,
will be poured into your lap.
For the measure with which you measure
will in return be measured out to you.”
My hair is naturally curly. But its not “Oh don’t you have charming hair!” curly, rather “Yikes, look at her hair” curly. I get a piece that sticks out in the front, and the back all bushes up, and I sleep with one hand on the side of my head and wake up looking like a cartoon monster. So most days I tame my hair, hoping to get myself a little more ready for the world: presentable, manageable, under control.
Years ago when I was taking Italian I remember being asked in class what parts of our bodies were most representative of our personalities. I don’t remember the context – we must have been learning the terms for body parts – but after others explained that they were flexible like their wrists or strong like their legs or perceptive like their eyes, I had to own to the face that I am wild, like my hair.
By all accounts I sprang from the womb with an enormous personality. Mouthy and opinionated, I got in trouble a lot in school. Reckless and impulsive, I got in trouble a lot out of school. I liken my adolescence to the taming of a wild animal. Discipline came at me from all directions, often in ways that were painful at the time, but I had to learn that constantly pushing my limits, even if it only resulted in catastrophe one out of every ten times, still had the potential to hurt me and other people.
Over time, I learned to discipline myself (imperfectly, mind you; to this day I am asked to lower my voice about twice a week). Although my friends tease me about what has been called my ‘relentless quest for self-improvement’ I know that if I don’t keep that discipline going, there’s no telling what will happen.
So, with my love of discipline, I have been accused of having a draconian approach to Lent. I make big sacrifices and large commitments, and make my best effort to let God set a watch over my mouth, limiting gossip, whining, cursing, rambling. And no, I don’t let myself go back to whatever I gave up on Sundays during Lent.
Yet I know these disciplines are only a means to an end: closer communion with God. As someone who has been compared to a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal, I know well that all of my sacrifices and achievements mean nothing if I have not mastered that greatest discipline, the discipline of love.
“The measure with which you measure will in return be measured out to you.” It is tempting for me to merely take comfort in that prophecy, confident that like my hair and personality, my measure will also be big. I am abundant in affection, enthusiasm, and laughter. But I can’t ignore the censure in Jesus’ words, because often the portions I mete out to the world are exemplary only in quantity, not quality. I can also be abundant in anger, in self-indulgent sadness, and in ugly moral righteousness. No simple sacrifice, no added almsgiving, can make up for the helpings of negativity that I have been known to heap onto the lap of the world.
Working more than one job, studying, conducting, singing – I interact with hundreds of people on any given day, and a candid assessment of these interactions reveals a lack of love that makes me ashamed. A student calls out my name with a smile, and I don’t notice until I am three steps past him down a crowded hallway. On the third rehearsal of a day I conduct entire pieces without looking up from my music stand. I have committed most of my adult life to ministry, and still I don’t always see the currents of grace that I swim in every day.
And so this Lent I recommit myself to loving other people. This is scarier than all my other rules and practices because it’s not about me and what I can accomplish – it is about what other people are to me and how I allow them to change me. And in the end, it is what we will be judged on – not on how many years in a row we gave up drinking or if we accidentally had bacon bits on a Friday, but on how well we loved other people.
To be merciful, just as our God is merciful: there is nothing in the world that is more difficult for me than this. I know my heart is capable of great mercy, but I can’t say I exercise it on a daily basis. I know I should always be ready to say “whatever you have done, no matter how terrible or frustrating or horrifying or dumb, I love you”. This takes an act of will. My lifetime of discipline is for naught if I don’t use that practice to direct my heart where it ought to go.
Sometimes God makes this act of conversion, of re-directing our hearts, quite easy. But we all know that most of the time it is not. Pray for me tonight as I will pray for you that we may prepare ourselves for that good measure, packed together, shaken down, and overflowing. May we open our hearts to forgiveness and mercy, may we discipline ourselves to exercise caritas, and may we be abundant, wild and untamed in virtue and love.
Jesus said to his disciples:
“Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.
“Stop judging and you will not be judged.
Stop condemning and you will not be condemned.
Forgive and you will be forgiven.
Give and gifts will be given to you;
a good measure, packed together, shaken down, and overflowing,
will be poured into your lap.
For the measure with which you measure
will in return be measured out to you.”
My hair is naturally curly. But its not “Oh don’t you have charming hair!” curly, rather “Yikes, look at her hair” curly. I get a piece that sticks out in the front, and the back all bushes up, and I sleep with one hand on the side of my head and wake up looking like a cartoon monster. So most days I tame my hair, hoping to get myself a little more ready for the world: presentable, manageable, under control.
Years ago when I was taking Italian I remember being asked in class what parts of our bodies were most representative of our personalities. I don’t remember the context – we must have been learning the terms for body parts – but after others explained that they were flexible like their wrists or strong like their legs or perceptive like their eyes, I had to own to the face that I am wild, like my hair.
By all accounts I sprang from the womb with an enormous personality. Mouthy and opinionated, I got in trouble a lot in school. Reckless and impulsive, I got in trouble a lot out of school. I liken my adolescence to the taming of a wild animal. Discipline came at me from all directions, often in ways that were painful at the time, but I had to learn that constantly pushing my limits, even if it only resulted in catastrophe one out of every ten times, still had the potential to hurt me and other people.
Over time, I learned to discipline myself (imperfectly, mind you; to this day I am asked to lower my voice about twice a week). Although my friends tease me about what has been called my ‘relentless quest for self-improvement’ I know that if I don’t keep that discipline going, there’s no telling what will happen.
So, with my love of discipline, I have been accused of having a draconian approach to Lent. I make big sacrifices and large commitments, and make my best effort to let God set a watch over my mouth, limiting gossip, whining, cursing, rambling. And no, I don’t let myself go back to whatever I gave up on Sundays during Lent.
Yet I know these disciplines are only a means to an end: closer communion with God. As someone who has been compared to a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal, I know well that all of my sacrifices and achievements mean nothing if I have not mastered that greatest discipline, the discipline of love.
“The measure with which you measure will in return be measured out to you.” It is tempting for me to merely take comfort in that prophecy, confident that like my hair and personality, my measure will also be big. I am abundant in affection, enthusiasm, and laughter. But I can’t ignore the censure in Jesus’ words, because often the portions I mete out to the world are exemplary only in quantity, not quality. I can also be abundant in anger, in self-indulgent sadness, and in ugly moral righteousness. No simple sacrifice, no added almsgiving, can make up for the helpings of negativity that I have been known to heap onto the lap of the world.
Working more than one job, studying, conducting, singing – I interact with hundreds of people on any given day, and a candid assessment of these interactions reveals a lack of love that makes me ashamed. A student calls out my name with a smile, and I don’t notice until I am three steps past him down a crowded hallway. On the third rehearsal of a day I conduct entire pieces without looking up from my music stand. I have committed most of my adult life to ministry, and still I don’t always see the currents of grace that I swim in every day.
And so this Lent I recommit myself to loving other people. This is scarier than all my other rules and practices because it’s not about me and what I can accomplish – it is about what other people are to me and how I allow them to change me. And in the end, it is what we will be judged on – not on how many years in a row we gave up drinking or if we accidentally had bacon bits on a Friday, but on how well we loved other people.
To be merciful, just as our God is merciful: there is nothing in the world that is more difficult for me than this. I know my heart is capable of great mercy, but I can’t say I exercise it on a daily basis. I know I should always be ready to say “whatever you have done, no matter how terrible or frustrating or horrifying or dumb, I love you”. This takes an act of will. My lifetime of discipline is for naught if I don’t use that practice to direct my heart where it ought to go.
Sometimes God makes this act of conversion, of re-directing our hearts, quite easy. But we all know that most of the time it is not. Pray for me tonight as I will pray for you that we may prepare ourselves for that good measure, packed together, shaken down, and overflowing. May we open our hearts to forgiveness and mercy, may we discipline ourselves to exercise caritas, and may we be abundant, wild and untamed in virtue and love.
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