Discovering a feminine Godde

“And the Lord said…” preached the priest at the parish I was attending, and suddenly, everything changed.

“Why does it have to be “the lord”?” I thought. “We know God is above and beyond gender, but I only ever hear God referred to using male pronouns and male terms. Can God be Mother as well as Father? Can God be … Lady?” That thought was the beginning of the seismic shift in my theology, my practice, and my life.

Until that moment, I had lived my faith in a conventional (but hopefully courageous) way. I studied English Literature and Religious Studies in my BA, and then went on to complete a Bachelor of Ministries degree from the-then Bible College of New Zealand, with a focus on spiritual formation. During my time at BCNZ, I returned to my Anglican roots, and was Confirmed as an Anglican not long after I married my husband in 2001.  

I joined the Third Order Franciscans not long after we married, and I transferred my vows to a Benedictine community a few years later, as I found the Benedictine vows of stability, conversion of life, and obedience to God a much easier fit for a married woman than poverty, chastity and obedience! Our daughter, then aged 4, assisted me at my vows by vesting me in the Benedictine habit – she has grown up with a mother who works fulltime, is married and a nun, and is quite happy with all of that, as is my husband who is my strongest supporter!

Fast-forward five years. My small family were attending a small Anglican church and living our lives as a youngish couple with a small child. Everything was seemingly normal. I was reading voraciously, as is my lifelong habit, and one of the books I read around that time was Sue Monk Kidd’s The Dance of the Dissident Daughter. And then, from left field, comes this thought: why do I never hear God addressed by female names? And following on from that, what is wrong with being female, that (according to Augustine and other male early church leaders) means women cannot be seen as imago Dei, fully created in the image of God as women?

St Augustine said that,

“Woman does not possess the image of God in herself but only when taken together with the male who is her head, so that the whole substance is one image. But when she is assigned the role as helpmate, a function that pertains to her alone, then she is not the image of God. But as far as the man is concerned, he is by himself alone the image of God just as fully and completely as when he and the woman are joined together into one.”

I dived into the most serious theological and historical study I had ever done (including the six years I spent doing my degrees) – certainly the most fraught. This felt like a life-or-death situation – the life or death of my ability to respect myself as a woman, the life or death of my ability to connect with the divine.

Is there historical and theological support for calling God by female names?

To my great delight (and relief), there is ample biblical, theological and historical evidence for addressing the Most Holy by female names. I discovered that the translations made of the Bible had frequently changed female names for people, as well as mistranslating female terms and names for the divine. For example, the ancient Hebrew “El Shaddai” is usually translated “The Almighty”, assuming that the term derives from shadad, burly or powerful, or shadah, “mountains”. However, many Hebrew scholars now understand that El Shaddai derives from Shad meaning breast – El Shaddai therefore translates as the Many-Breasted One. The ancient habit of translating the Tetragrammaton, the four-letter name for God, as “LORD”, further reinforced the incorrect assumption that only male language was acceptable to name the Most High.

The usage of “Father/abba” to relate to the Holiest is only used 4 times in Mark, 15 in Luke, 49 in Matthew, and 109 times in John (the Gospels were written in that order, from around 60-120AD) - surely a sign of a growing community usage, rather than Jesus’ actual words. Given the Gospels had earlier sources now lost to us, it is possible that the term “father” was used infrequently by Jesus, and was then latched onto by his followers as a quiet and subconscious way of reinforcing the Graeco-Roman worldview of men as pater familias, the head of the household, and its use encouraged and strengthened through the years by those reinforcing male leadership and power.

I came to understand that, if we only use male names for God, then that subtly implies that only men are made in God’s image. When we use only male terminology for God and for people in our liturgy, worship, preaching and teaching, we subtly reinforce this incorrect, outdated understanding of God and imply that maleness is “normal” and somehow being female means we are less.

Theologically, we understand that God is omnipotent, omnipresent, and omniscient, and as omnipotent and all-powerful, God will not be limited by gender, and nor should our language for God put God’s power and presence in a box of limited male terms. St Hildegard of Bingen (1098-1179) called God Mother in her sermons; so too did Julian of Norwich (c1342-1416). Yet despite extensive biblical, historical and theological evidence, including discussions within our own Anglican tradition in New Zealand and overseas over the last 50 years or more, we still continue to primarily name God by male names.

I began to look closely at the liturgy and Bible translations we use. I translated the entire Benedictine daily prayer cycle into gender neutral and expansive terms (where female and male names are used equally) for my own use as a Lenten devotion in 2014. I then tackled A New Zealand Prayer Book/He Karakia Mihinare o Aotearoa. I wrote a version of the Eucharistic liturgy p.404 that removed all male terms for God, replacing them with female or gender-neutral terms. Not being a priest, I was not able to use this, but it was an exercise in trying to find out what it might feel like to be in a liturgy where God was addressed openly as Sophia, Mother, Lady, She. I began to look for versions of the Bible where the names for God were not changed, and discovered both The Inclusive Bible, and even more powerful, The Divine Feminine Version of the New Testament, and began to experience the scriptures with a new voice.

I found that I could not keep silent about the explosion of love that I had felt since I had openly embraced calling God by female names – my favourites being She Who Is, following Elizabeth Johnson’s book of the same name that was the beginning of the strong theological backbone I needed, Sophia (the Greek translation of Hokhmah or Wisdom), and Mother or Lady. I began to think about Jesus as the incarnation of Holy Sophia in the continuation of the Wisdom tradition, which a lot of scholars had identified, and reflected that the Holy Child could be thought of as the Child of the Mother. I began to discuss my discovery of She Who Is with others.

And that’s where things got complicated.

There was a lot of support, often from older Christian friends that had gone through the second wave of feminism in the 1960s and 1970s, several of whom had been closely involved with the Anglican Church and the Prayer Book Commission. There was also stonewalling, accusations of heresy, and refusal to engage with the theology and history, particularly from some male priests who clung to patriarchy like a ragged, worn-out old blanket that they wouldn’t, or couldn’t, let go of.

I tried everything. I spoke, with love, to friends and acquaintances at churches – my own and others. I spoke with my husband and daughter, who have both journeyed with me on this discovery of She Who Is Godde (the term I now prefer for the divine – it is an old medieval spelling for the divine, and is completely neutral with no male connotations such as “God” has). I spoke with passion to our churchwardens and parish priests, describing my journey and trying to engage with them over the theological and historical information I had gleaned through at least five years of intensive study, prayer and reflection.

I felt unwelcome in regular church liturgy because I only ever heard Godde named by male names, and that no longer named my experience of her. I changed the words when I was singing hymns (first resigning from the church choir) and participating in liturgy, substituting she for he so I could be present in church. When I used a female name for Godde, Sophia, Holy Wisdom, when leading intercessions one Sunday in 2016, I was formally censured by my parish priest and removed from all rosters in the parish where I, and my dangerous ideas about Godde, might be expressed publicly. Patriarchy was rampant.

I did find allies – people that felt the same as me, who had sought Sophia/Wisdom and found her, as we are enjoined to do in Proverbs and Wisdom. They helped me keep up my courage. In the end, in desperation, I sought a meeting with our People’s Warden asking what I could do, as our parish priest completely refused to engage in conversation about this topic with us. The Warden recommended we put motions to our parish AGM – which we did, seeking removal of male terms when the whole of humanity was meant, and seeking education for the parish and changes in our language for Godde in church.

So how did it all turn out? Well, the parish priest would not allow the motions on the naming of Godde to even be put at the AGM (giving us no warning of this so we couldn’t even amend the motions) and refusing to allow discussion on the naming of Godde. I wasn’t even allowed to speak to the motion I was trying to put (which had been notified to the parish according to the correct protocol, three weeks before the AGM). The priest tried to undermine the motion on naming of people by putting a much weaker motion from the chair, but at least there is some intention to remove terms such as “mankind” and “man/men” when they are intended to refer to all people. The motion on educating the parish on the female names for Godde was passed, after my husband spoke with calm eloquence, identifying that his experience of the journey was that knowing Godde by male-only terms was missing so much of the richness of Godde’s nature.

And where does that leave me? I am still reading, still researching – trying to identify what it might do to the way the church treats people, the way Christians treat people, if we viewed Godde as our Mother. How might we respect her world, if we thought about it as birthed by her? How might we show love one to another, if all of our people could see and hear of Godde in terms that show that, no matter what flesh you are born into, you are fully born and bearing Godde’s image? I am still lighting candles of hope in her name, praying in the stillness of the night sky, walking the beach and hearing the water crash on the shore, filling her footprints left there by some other person who walked before me and carries her name.

I am calling out her name in the world, and naming patriarchy and misuse of male power wherever I see it.

I cannot un-see or un-know what I now know, the experiences of her love I have had. My image of Godde is forever changed – much bigger, wider, deeper, more beautiful, richer. I am a different person since I encountered Godde the Mother, Godde the Creatrix, Godde the Incarnate Child, Godde Holy Wisdom. I have found my image was in her all along – I just couldn’t see it, because the language we use for God told me that only men were made in God’s image. Women were only mothers, not fathers – but now Godde is my Mother I can find myself in her.

Black Madonna

I had a hammer-to-the-head moment today. This last couple of weeks since the house went on the market have been insanely crazy, and I've really struggled to keep my focus on what really matters to me.

One of my new Sisters in the Community of Solitude has a real passion for the Black Madonna. As we've been getting to know each other, we've begun to talk about the Black Madonna as an ancient route of the divine feminine to bridge into our world, and I started to read up about these ancient manifestations: icons, statues, and the devotional practices and legends that have grown up around them. The "hammer to the head" was that the statues of the Black Madonna traditionally are seated on the Seat of Wisdom, and many of the writers I've read so far make a clear link between Sophia and the Black Madonna. She is the darkness, the fecundity of the earth, the richness of the shadow, the dark night of the soul.

I need to find out more about her. She symbolises the power and strength of the earth, the darkness of knowing God, the depths of the night, the courage to be and to endure. I've always had a connection with Mary and sensed that there was great strength in her, but finding her this way is a whole different experience.

Momento mori

The last few weeks have been tough for us. Between hubby and I, we have lost three friends and my uncle: one of hubby's friends from Camera Club, two of my Kinleith friends/colleagues, and my uncle. Death seems to be stalking rather close right now.

I can't quite put into words what I am thinking about. Momento mori, the remembrance of death, is a monastic activity: remembering that this earth is not all that there is, and that we live our life as well as we can in the 'sure and certain hope' that when we leave this place, when our journey ends here, there is a door that is opened and Sophia will welcome us home. 

That is my prayer for my uncle and our friends: that their doors have opened into a place of joy and love and hope; and for us that are left behind, may Sophia walk with us in the valley of the shadow and lead us to her hope. 

Sophia prayer

One of my distinct frustrations at present is the invisibility and lack of resources for liturgical exploration of Sophia. Part of my vocation as a Benedictine is to pray the Opus Dei, the work of God - usually known as the Divine Office or breviary. Those of you who follow the blog (I have followers?!) will know that I've been trying to find resources for Sophia-prayer for some time. The most recent foray into an expansive language Office was from the Order of St Helena, which I used for a while. However, somehow it didn't seem to truly fit, although it gave me some very good ideas.

The next step, which was suggested by one of my Brothers in the Community, was to create my own version of the Office. Purists among you will now be shouting that the Office is the "official prayer of the church" and therefore shouldn't be tinkered with. However, praying the Office as I currently have it is an exercise in trying not to grind my teeth to the gumline, through frustration and anger over the misogynist language used for God - which hardly helps me connect with the One who truly Is! The pattern of each service of the Office is set historically so putting together a Sophia version shouldn't be that tricky (just time consuming!) and I am going to use the lectionary for the readings, so I don't fixate on the readings I like and ignore the bits that are harder for me.

The first step was to find a four-week psalter pattern, which sounds significantly easier than it was. The complication comes when you consider that Roman Catholics, Protestants, and Orthodox all number the psalms slightly differently - RCs and Protestants both have 150 psalms but they're "chopped up" differently; the Orthodox add another one and have 151. I needed to find a Protestant arrangement as my translations were all numbered that way! I also wanted to make sure it included all of the psalms, including the so-called "imprecatory psalms", because I think it's more honest to human experience. I think I cracked that one, finally.

Step two: which translation of the psalms? Should I re-image a known translation into Sophia-language, use the OSH psalms, use the NZ Prayer Book psalms with changed language, use the psalms from the Inclusive Bible.... ?

This was a source of extreme teeth-grinding, until about a week ago I googled "sophia psalms" in sheer desperation. And I think I found a treasure! I stumbled across the blog of Mother Laura Grimes, an Old Catholic Bishop and feminist, who has taken the 1979 Book of Common Prayer version of the psalms and made them Sophia-centric. And they are beautiful. And bless her, she's made them available to others! I have always loved the way the BCP psalms flow, as they were written for singing, and she's captured that.

The neat thing is that Mother Laura has also created a Sophia little office and rosary! I've ordered those too and am excited to explore her work. Here's hoping....

Octave stretches

It's the end of the Octave of St Therese. As she is my patron and one of my deepest inspirations, I keep her feast as a full First Class Feast, with an octave (which also includes St Francis and St Bruno, which is rather nice). I was deeply disappointed to find that the NZ Lectionary doesn't even have her feast day in it and so there are no designated readings, and the Order of St Helena Breviary that I use doesn't commemorate her either. I find this surprising because she was an amazing woman who has influenced spirituality in a whole new direction in the 20th and 21st centuries. Once you get past the early, saccharine interpretations of her and start to find her depth, she is deeply courageous and enormously inspiring. I had to go online to find readings and prayers for her, but it was worth it.

So, what has come out of these days of reflection in her light and in the context of her friendship? More movement towards Sophia, the One who is calling me, and a deep frustration that when I go to worship, all I ever hear is "he, he, Lord, Lord." It always makes me think about Jesus' saying, "Not all who call me "Lord, Lord" will enter the kingdom of heaven" (just so I'm not accused of proof-texting, I know that is not the context of what Jesus was saying, but there is a resonance for me). I find it so disappointing that the entire Wisdom tradition and all of the tradition of Jesus as Sophia's messenger lying squarely in the Wisdom tradition has been so completely forgotten and buried under a great stinking pile of androcentrism and patriarchy.

So where next? Home by another way? And what does that really mean for me, for my vocation, my faith? What is the "other way"? And who is Home?

Personality and prayer - some beginning thoughts

I was catching up with a couple of friends' posts on Facebook and spotted that an old friend posted a link to a Myers-Briggs personality test. I first did this nearly 20 years ago and came out as an ENFJ - but the E (extrovert) was very marginal, and was strongly modified by the NF, which turned me introverted. I got curious and tonight did the test again, and came out an INFJ (which I think is a better reflection of me anyway - and last time the E was only just barely an E).

The information on the INFJ personality type is scarily accurate for me and the kinds of work and prayer I like. I get a kick out of helping people - it's why I work in health and safety - but the bit I like is making sure that they don't need me any more. My aim as a consultant is to do myself out of a job with every one of my clients. I love order, I am an inveterate planner (and hate it when things mess up my plans) and I like being organised. I have a couple of things I am passionate about and I am known as a "terrier" when there's something to dig my teeth into. I have always been a perfectionist, striving to be better at what I do.

So how does this translate into prayer? I can't be a perfectionist at prayer. I am learning over the years just to show up, to pray as I am and where I am, and just to keep doing it, circling back over the psalms like a moth over a candleflame. One of the bits of information I read suggested that INFJs don't like formal prayer. That's completely the opposite of me. Praying the Office provides the solid scaffolding of my heart, and using set forms of eucharist and so on feeds me.

But, thinking about it, maybe it's the poetry of it that gives me a framework for my own inner silence. Certainly when I go to pray myself, it's in words and images that come from deep inside - but some of those have been internalised from years of praying and lectio divina. There is a drive to experience and to be, to learn and to love. It's what drew me to the Community in the first place. And maybe that's why COS is a better fit for me than the Franciscans too - Benedictines are about work and prayer, Camaldolese are about the Three Goods: solitude, community, and service/mission. That about sums me up really.

A taste of Benedictine hospitality

Some people would think that the name "the Community of Solitude" is a bit of an oxymoron. How can you have a community of solitaries, or have solitude when you're a community? I must admit there have been times I have asked myself that too. I understand a little better now. 

The last week of July was the Convocation of the Community in Minnesota, USA. We were the guests of St John's Abbey, a Benedictine Community in Collegeville (home of the Liturgical Press - the joke in the community was that it had to be be a Benedictine abbey because it had two bookshops as well as the library!). The setting was beautiful, but the convocation even

The huge bell tower at St John's

more so. 16 members of our Community gathered, sharing the daily Office with the monks of St John's (singing the Office with over 120 monks in choir four times a day is something I will never forget), meeting, talking, praying, laughing together, going for walks, and just being together showed me how rich and how deep our COS community life is. We have a "virtual" community most of the time, sharing our lives through our prayer, email and skype, but seeing them face to face and sharing their hearts was a gift I treasure. 

Our solitude enriched our time together: we shared the "fruits of our solitude" at the dinner table, in our meetings together, and in our general chats. 

We each pray the Office ourselves, but sharing that prayer together made it immeasurably richer and deeper. I use the Breviary of the Order of St Helena in my private Office; the St John's one was different to what I am used to but doing it as a corporate community activity changed it in ways I didn't expect. 

The stained glass in the Abbey church

The pace St John's chant the psalms is a lot slower than I am used to, and it took a bit to get used to. However, I began to find that giving the psalms space like that allowed them to speak more deeply. I also appreciated the sermons of the monk-priests of St John's during the daily Mass: they were very short (no more than 5-10 minutes at the most) but they were profound in their meaning. 

Statue of St John in Abbey church baptistry
(courtesy Br Thomas Andrew COS Cam)

The best one came for me on the feast of Sts Joachin and Anne (parents of the Virgin Mary), when the priest reflected that he had had the same Gospel reading just two weeks' previously: the last time he preached to the Community! He then reflected that our monastic lives are like that: recircling around the same truths, coming closer and closer like a moth to a candleflame. We persevere, as he said, "in the good days, and bad days, and sometimes just days." That phrase captured everyone: choir is a very solemn, beautiful, formal place but there was a ripple of smiles as everyone there completely understood what he meant. Often it is just days, when we walk faithfully, but may not see too many results. It's like the light moving through the stained glass: it looks different at every time of day, but some days it stands out more than others. Some days the Office is full of light and life and joy: other days it's an act of sheer faith to keep going, keep praying, keep singing, keep hoping. 

The stained glass in the Abbey church, viewed from the monks' choir
This is completely huge - this photo cannot capture the size and majesty of it.

St Benedict with his Rule and the ravens

I found myself profoundly touched by the art around the Abbey. It felt like the fruits of the monks' contemplations was made physical, made visible, for us all to share. The fierce St John in the baptistry stood guard over the entrance into the church, but the gentle St Benedict in the Abbey university grounds invited us in to share with him in his hospitality, life, and love. He looked young, passionate, warm, and caring: inviting us to share the feast of his Rule and the richness of study and prayer and laughter. I liked his rolled-up sleeves: Ora te Labora: prayer and work (or to work is to pray).

One thing I found quite amazing was how much fun we had together. It started from the moment I was met at Minneapolis-St Paul Airport (after a 36 hour journey!) by two of my Brothers, and it didn't stop all the time we were together. There was a lot of "monastic humour": one of my personal favourites was when we were having a COS photo taken after Office one night. The person taking the photo couldn't figure out if it had been taken because the camera didn't make any noise: one of the Brothers piped up, "That's because it's a Cistercian camera!" 

Returning home, all 36 hours of it, was quite tough. I was glad to see my family again, but I had grown even closer to my monastic family than before and I miss the regular prayer in choir at St John's, shared with the St John's monks and my own Brothers and Sisters. But I return to my cell, and keep the faith quietly in the regular things - the "just days" of my life - and find in those things the courage I need to keep loving and praying, being faithful in the big stuff and the small daily things. 

I suspect there will be more "fruits of solitude" from my time at Convocation popping up. I had to make a start with the simple basic things, and I promised some of the photos!

Romuald and Wordsworth

St Romuald's Brief Rule says, "Sit in your cell as in paradise. Put the whole world behind you and forget it.... Empty yourself completely and sit waiting, content with the grace of God, like the chick who tastes nothing and eats nothing but what their mother brings them." In that being is peace. The world may come with us into our cell, our place of prayer, but when it comes with us it comes into the paradise of God's grace, and wonderful things are possible there.

The world is too much with us, and sometimes at the moment it feels very much too much with us. Wars and rumours of wars, fear, hatred, death, loss, pain, grief. What can I do in the midst of so much suffering? My little efforts feel like less than the widow's mite. But I need to remind myself of what I am, of who God has asked me to be: to dwell in my inner place as if it were paradise and wait there. Even though it feels quite often as though no-one else has turned up - to wait there is a gift and it is paradise. My inner cell is the doorstep to heaven and I should be content to sit and wait there, whether there is sunshine or rain, and know that the world I have put behind me is part of me and is waiting on the doorstep with me, gathered to paradise in my heart.

But no-one said it would be easy. As one of the monks at St John's Abbey preached, in our monastic round of rediscoveries and re-echoes and revisiting the same truths day after day, "we have good days, and bad days, and sometimes just days". And quite often its raining on the doorstep, or it's cold, and frequently it is lonely and dark and dispiriting, and sunshine and light and love seem like a distant dream. A long obedience in the same direction, as Eugene Peterson called one of his books, requires sitting on the doorstep even in the winter when the snow is piled so high we cannot see over it and springtime seems a million years away.

But then there are the days when the daffodils are dancing in my garden and the first of the tulips are poking through the ground, the sun is warm on my back as I do a bit of weeding, and the tree down the road is pink with blossom: to sit on the doorstep of my heart on those days is easy and the whole day bubbles with a deep and subtle joy, even when the world is too much with us and seems to be falling around my ears and I don't know what to pray or to say or to do to help. Maybe it's enough. I pray that it is.

Niggles

One of the more interesting things about living in Rotorua is the geothermal activity we have here. Most of the time it's pretty wonderful: boiling mud, geysers, and perpetual hot water. But there is a slightly darker side too. We live on one of the most geologically active areas of the country and there are over 45 known major fault lines running under and around the city.

So tonight we had an earthquake swarm. Lots of little shakes, all literally right under our feet - so close that there was no sound before they hit. But fortunately all rather small - but it is rather unnerving. I feel for our Christchurch friends - one night of small quakes is enough to freak me out, let alone years of them....!

On other fronts, I am having a few small niggles in other ways too. I had a bit of an epiphany in church the other day - a fairly good place to have one, you might say! - but this one was a bit different. I was paying close attention to the liturgy and it suddenly occurred to me that although Christians claim that God is beyond gender, we never use feminine imagery for God. We don't hear God referred to as She. Where is the God-language that includes female experiences? Yes I know that Jesus was a man, born in a specific time and place, but why should we refer to the other Persons of the Godhead as he? I am currently reading She who Is: the mystery of God in feminist theological discourse (Sr Elizabeth Johnson), which is both an extremely well-reasoned book and beautifully written.

I have also been researching options around inclusive- and expansive-language liturgy and Divine Office. I found that once I had awoken to this problem, the versions of the Office I have been using for years were really grating. I kept having to translate or substitute and it got in the way of praying. I discovered the Sisters of St Helena also had the same issue and they re-translated their breviary and psalms, and then tested their versions through years of monastic daily prayer. And bless them, they have made the breviary available to the public! There is a monastic version (now only available in pdf format) and a personal version which comes in a book. I've ordered the monastic version and am excited about the fact that the sisters have included their chant tunes! Before I went ahead and got it, I checked with the rest of the Community to see if anyone else had used it. Lots of them had, and almost all of them liked it. One of the brothers also found a sneaky link to the interior of the personal edition so I could have a look, and it's beautiful.

I am really looking forward to praying with symbols for God that embrace feminine experience and language!

Monica Baldwin and the beginning of the journey

I have been re-exploring a favourite (and somewhat obscure) author: Monica Baldwin, niece of Stanley Earl Baldwin, three-times prime minister of England. I first stumbled across Monica in a school book bin when I was about 14, with her fascinating book The Called and the Chosen: the diary of Sister Ursula Auberon, Abbaye de ka Sainte Croix, Framleghen (1957) was being sold off for about 30 cents from the school library. 

The Called and the Chosen was a watershed book for me. I was young, impressionable, and trying to find my way in the world. I was also a member of a deeply Protestant, non-conformist church that still had a strong distrust of all things Catholic. However, I have always had a driving interest in history and simply could not accept the implicit teaching of the church I belonged to that nothing interesting happened between the Acts of the Apostles, the Reformation, and now. 

Monica's book, telling the story of a young woman who entered a convent and then the things that she experienced there, made a deep impression on me. The diarist, Sr Ursula, describes things that I had never experienced at the time, such as the liturgical wonders of Christmas midnight Mass, and the experiences in contemplative prayer. I was entranced. I read and re-read it, feeling for Sr Ursula as she struggled with her vocation and eventual choice to leave the convent because she felt she was called elsewhere and needed to be honest to that call - but with a huge sense of peace because she made the right decision. 

I lost the book for many years after lending it to a friend who didn't return it (why is it that people who would be horrified at the idea of stealing anything else think it's okay to steal books?) and only found another copy with great difficulty some 15 years later. After this, I discovered Monica Baldwin had written two other books: the properly autobiographical I Leap Over the Wall and Goose in the Jungle, where she details her own exodus from the Canonesses Regular of St Augustine after 28 years (1914-1941) and how she adapted (and didn't) to a completely different world and kind of life. In these books she continues to explore what it meant for her to pray, and to find God - the convent was not the right place for her, but she began to explore the ways that the world around her could lead her towards God. 

Thinking about it, Monica Baldwin probably had a lot to do with my own vocation. She helped me see that lots of the things I was longing for actually had a place in church (gorgeous music, silence, prayer, contemplation - none of which fitted in the places where I was at the time) and that what the Celts called the book of nature was more rich and subtle a teacher of faith than anything produced by fallible humans. The Anglican church became the place where I could place all of those parts of my disparate nature and they could all find a home - and unlike Monica, I found that all of them in the end led me to the religious life, firstly with the Franciscans and then the Benedictine Community of Solitude. 

So, even though her own journey into the convent ended with her gathering her courage and leaving, Monica's journey through the convent and into the faith of the everyday has inspired my own. 

General stuff

I just realised that it's months since I posted anything here. Lots of reasons but mostly because I haven't had anything to say particularly, although I blushed to realise I still had the Easter badge on my site when we're in Week 15 of Ordinary Time!

It is a warm sunny winter's day here in Rotorua: you may be thinking that it's odd I'm posting during the day on a Thursday when I should be working. Well, at present typing is pretty much the only way I can communicate as my voice has departed to parts unknown.... A tiny squeak is about as good as it gets right now. I am the grateful recipient of a nasty chest infection courtesy of friends at work. So kind! On the bright side, I get to sit in the sun in my lounge in Rotorua, instead of being holed up in my office at work, but on balance I would like to be well enough to be at work!

Lots has been going on, including me being invited to the Waiapu Diocesan Regional Conference in Tauranga a couple of weeks ago as a representative of our parish, and beginning to serve on the parish vestry (third time on vestry, first time in this parish). Hubby has started working halftime as a photography tutor, and small daughter has been doing extremely well in her swimming and trampolining - to the point that her coach has invited her into the competition training stream for trampolining. She's only 7 so that's quite an achievement at that age. School is also going very well for her.

On the personal front, I am very much enjoying a new translation of St Benedict's Rule included in The Benedictine Handbook that I got the other day. It's a much more modern translation than my previous one (which was Latin/English side by side, great for scholars but not much good for me!) and I love the way that it makes it fresh. Not that the Rule needs much freshening but it's good to have a new perspective on it. Also enjoying the meditations and prayers included in the Handbook: the Rule itself is really short (only72 short chapters) and more than two-thirds of the book is full of other resources.

We've also been enjoying the sunny Bay of Plenty. In contrast to the rest of the country, the weather is beautifully settled here: there's been some serious frosts (-3degC at work earlier this week!) but the days are lovely.

The valley

Last time I wrote everything was looking up. I was about 6 weeks post surgery, had the final surgical signoff from my surgeon, energy was returning and I was enjoying being back at work.

How things change.

Healing from surgery has continued but quality of life hasn't. I seem to have entered one of those terrible acute times, such as I haven't had for probably 8 years or more, certainly since small daughter was born over 6 years ago and I had mirena #1. So what went wrong? I haven't the faintest idea really: all I know is that that terrible, chronic pain has returned, the kind that grabs me right down deep in my abdomen and savages me like a lion over a kill. What's worse is that I appear to have had a bad reaction to the major medication my surgeon gave me, the one that was supposed to reprogramme my brain about chronic pain. Hubby and I can date the increase in fainting and the dissocation of this from pain squarely to when this drug got to full strength in my system, and it had got to the point when there wasn't a day going by when I wasn't severely dizzy or blacking out. Horribly embarrassing and really getting in the way of life.

But now, guess what? The pain is back (because I'm carefully stepping off the pain meds - carefully and slowly under medical supervision because the side-effects of stopping can be awful), and I seem to be existing on a diet of strong painkillers. Thank God, no trips to hospital for morphine yet but suspect it's only a matter of time. Nearly needed one on Monday night: hubby and I were watching the end of The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King in preparation for release of The Hobbit: An unexpected journey when the pain hit me hard - got to a 9/10 on my personal pain scale. Not fun. I told hubby that if my selection of prescribed painkillers didn't work within 15 minutes I needed a trip in the ambulance - he would have had to stay behind because it was late and small daughter was asleep.

My doctor had told me not to drive while coming off the meds and so my boss picked me up on the way through on Tuesday morning: I nearly didn't go because of the night before but I had no way of getting hold of him to tell him not to divert because he has no mobile reception at his place and I didn't think he'd appreciate a call at 5.30am waking all the rugrats! I went in, slightly uneasy about what the day would hold: and rightly so - the pain hit me again mid-morning and plastered me over the floor. My poor friend who has helped me so often this year got another one of those panicked texts and he found me again - this time though it was because of the pain not the drugs. I think I scared him this time: he's never seen me really sore and it got to an 8.5/10. I suspect I very nearly broke his hand when the highest pain peak came. The national safety manager (my dotted-line report) happened to be on site on Tuesday and fortunately I'd just spent a few minutes filling him in on how bad it had become before we went into the ops meeting that I had to leave because the pain had got unbearable, and then he came in when I was busy breaking my friend's hand, so he knows what it's like too. As much as anyone can who is outside of it.

I have spent most of this week working from home, since the unfortunate pain/fainting episode on Tuesday. I have an appointment with a pain specialist here in Rotorua on Monday and I hope he has some answers, or at least some ideas. At present I need a huge cocktail of painkillers just to get out of bed in the mornings and I am struggling mentally too. Mornings and mid-afternoons are worst. In between I can more or less function and manage to get some work done. Work has been amazing: I was really worried that they would figure out that having me there was actually a risk for them, but when I finally broke and confessed that fear to my boss and my friend (who's part of the management team with me) they both said that there was nothing to worry about there.

What bothers me most is that I seem to be running out of options. My surgeon in Hamilton discharged me saying that there was nothing more he could do for me surgically, but left me on this medication that has messed me up. All my other surgeons were hugely supportive all the time: they did surgery but it was secondary to the long-term management options. I'm not sure whether he's into long-term management but he's left me in a huge mess because he's discharged me without making sure that I'm actually doing okay. Which I'm not. I don't know whether the pain specialist can manage the other issues around hormonal changes/endometriosis or whether he's just pain - but I do need him and hope he's got some new ideas for dealing with the pain because I'm very nearly at the end of my tether. My GP has been wonderfully supportive: she's referred me all over the place and she's managing my withdrawal off the chronic pain meds. The issue there is that if I come off too fast it could trigger some extremely unpleasant and dangerous effects; and as I come off the pain increases. Lose-Lose.

Hubby is looking pretty tired too: it's always hard on him because he knows there is nothing he can do and he just has to sit by and watch, and get his hand broken. Or so he thinks: his support means more to me than I can say but it's hard because this messes with my moods and emotions too, so I get down very quickly. I wish there was a way out of this. I am trying not to hope too much for Monday's appointment with the pain specialist but even a reduction of 30% in the pain level would help a lot. At least it might make me functional, mostly. Less drugs washing around would be nice too....


I rang an old friend of mine to talk things over with last night because hubby and I have been chewing it over until we're both sick of it, and my body/mind is so messed up it's hard to think straight anyway. My friend had a couple of good ideas and anyway it was just nice to talk to someone who's known me for ages and ages (longer than I've known hubby), who's seen the acute and chronic phases and knows how much they hurt - and who just cares and is happy to let me unload some of the stuff in my head. The Community knows too, and one of the Brothers that I am particularly close to knows the whole lot - I dumped on him too. He knows about chronic pain because he's got it too - he had heart surgery just after I transferred my Profession (although we'd been talking for months before that so I knew him quite well by then) and we've grown very close over the years.

Thank God for my holding cross: it's a fairly solid chunk of rimu shaped to fit my hand, made personally for me by an old friend from St James' who is now dead. It lives in my pocket and I love holding and praying with it for other reasons, but it's amazing when I'm in pain: a rosary would smash with the force that I grip this thing with and yet it's fine.

Community musings

One of the joys - and really scary things - about being part of a very young Community is that all of the traditions of that place are still being established. I had a long talk with one of our senior Brothers today - partly it was a catchup (because I've been a bit out of the loop with the move and all), and part of it was discussing where the Community of Solitude is going in the next little while. We're growing at a phenomonal rate and we've spent a lot of time putting in the structures that support this growth. What we're now exploring is what it means to be a dispersed Community - very much part of each other's lives but living separately. How do we support that over time, as we grow? How do we walk with those who are discerning whether this is the right place for them, given that mentor and novice are often thousands of kilometres apart (or half a world, in the case of me and the rest of them!)?

I have a lot of thinking and praying to do on this one. I have been a Guardian for coming up three years now (it's gone very quickly, trust me!) and our Constitution states that we can only serve in any office for two consecutive terms of three years, to make sure that we've got fresh blood and fresh ideas coming into the leadership of the Community. I was and am honoured to be chosen to be Guardian but want to make sure that as the Community grows, we're laying the groundwork for those who will step into those roles. COS is not about the Founders, or me, or any other single person. It's about God's shared call to each of us, and how we explore that call together. Dispersed community has its challenges - but then so does living in community too!

I have been loving exploring our current Community study book, Monastic Practices, by Br Charles Cummings OSCO (another Trappist! I love the Cistercians!) - a gentle, clear, incredibly inspiring exploration of the lived wisdom of monastic activities. Yes. he's cloistered, but I'm loving taking his words (and he uses words beautifully) and thinking about how that works when you're not cloistered. Interesting times ahead - but for another time, as it's almost midnight and I have work tomorrow! That's what happens when I start blogging about something I really care about late at night....!

Return of the elephant

Gidday, digi-world. The elephant is back, sort of.

There seems to be a lot going on at present. Work is ramping up, made more complex by the fact that two of my colleagues are leaving very soon and all their work is being redistributed between all of us remaining - which of course means that we're all even busier than before, particularly with training. I've already had a few trips away and there's a lot more coming up.

School has started again, and small daughter is now a Year 2 - she's only done half a year in Year 1 but her teachers decided she was better in a mixed Year 1/Year 2 class, but in the Year 2 cohort - so if all goes well, she'll go into Year 3 next year. She seems to be having a great time in her new class, and there are a lot of friends from last yeat in her class too. She's also started going to gymnastics (at her own request) and is having a fantastic time. She's climbing like a monkey....

Also lots of editing of church and Community documents, magazines etc in the evenings, so it's all a bit busy. And Lent starts on Wednesday. I was planning to write a reflection on the beginning of Lent but found this over on one of my nun friend's blogs, which said everything I wanted to say anyway. Thanks, Sister!

Briefly on the breviary

Thought it was time for a brief update on my earlier post about the arrival of the new Benedictine breviary (although why it is called a breviary when it's anything but brief at over 2260 pages I don't know - unless it's related to breve as in music. Mmm, might have to check that out...!).

Enough blather. I have been using the new breviary for a couple of weeks now and am starting to get the hang of its geography. It's much easier than it looks now I've actually had a go with it. I've got adventurous and fully observed several feasts (including the Conversion of St Paul on the 25th - this was almost a disaster because I got the date wrong, but I figured it out in the end!). I've also made it work in terms of my time: I'm anticipating Vigils. Just as major feasts have a first and second Vespers, I'm anticipating Vigils the night before (so Wednesday Vigils are done on Tuesday night and so on), followed immediately by Compline. This works well as I have more time in the evenings.

I am enjoying the readings for Vigils immensely: daily readings are contiguous parts of OT and NT books (currently Deuteronomy and I Corinthians), but on Sundays and feast days, the readings are a piece from a Church Father and a Gospel (and they have the correct readings for Years A, B, and C which means I get to hear the Gospel twice for the day). The readings from the Fathers are particularly interesting as my reading in this area was limited to what was required for theology and church history papers, usually segments from particularly argumentative people! We had Clement of Alexandria on Sunday, a piece I hadn't read before, and that was really lovely.

This has also meant that I've been able to use Lauds as my first morning prayer, and I've been doing Vespers in the early evening where it belongs instead of at night like I was doing with my old Morning and Evening Prayer book. I've managed to keep the Little Hours (Terce, Sext, and None) nearly at their right times by doing them at morning tea, lunch, and afternoon teatime. It hasn't worked every day, but it's worked most days. This means that for the first time in 11 years since I first started getting involved in things monastic, I've actually managed to keep the full Hours, all seven of them. It's worked for two weeks, so hopefully I can make it stick.

The interesting thing about this is that I'm finding the prayer slots very easily into my day, it doesn't take a lot of time, but it does help me focus again back on my work and why I do it. It's also feeding into my personal contemplative times as well. These are becoming richer too - the psalms feed the contemplation and vice versa. Balance is slowly being found....

The first of many?

Today has been an interesting day for lots of reasons: some good discussions with my colleagues, a walk in the wind (quite a lot of wind to walk in too), and I finished a report I've been trying to do all week. Given it was my first week back at work I was relatively pleased with what I got done.

But the best bit came last. I got home from work to discover my order from Amazon.com had arrived. Two books: Benedictine Daily Prayer, and Martin Laird's new book A Sunlit Absence. Martin Laird's first book Into the Silent Land has been a near-constant companion for me since Synod 2010, and the next one promises to be just as good.

I spent some time with the new Laird book tonight: this time, instead of looking at contemplative prayer as a series of doors in how we deal with distractions, he's looking at focused attention and the "opening up" that comes through contemplative practice. He uses the concept of the "prayer word" (usually the Jesus prayer) as a focus for attention: not to overwhelm attention but as somewhere to bring attention back to when it wanders - as it does when one prays (distraction is a given!) He uses the lovely image of the videos that play in our heads - emotional reactions, thoughts, replaying situations over and over, but that these videos aren't really us. They're just our constructs of us. I'm not explaining this very well, but it's a concept at the edge of language, and mine isn't all that good anyway!

The new prayer book is a Benedictine version of the breviary, written by a Benedictine oblate and used by a number of abbeys. It's a simplified version (apparently!) of the opus dei, but what's really lovely about it is that it is aimed at an ecumenical audience. There is also full text for the whole seven liturgical Hours (instead of the two I've been doing for the last few years), with full text for the readings for vigils (which I'll have to find somewhere to do - I may swap this and do it after compline rather than in the morning, as mornings are tricky for me!). The "geography" of it looks a bit more complex than the Morning and Evening Prayer I've been using for the last few years though. However, I suspect that with practice it will come to be as natural as the other. I am very excited about the full-text readings though, as these include readings from Doctors and early church Fathers and Mothers, and for the propers for the saints' days there are extensive readings from writings of those saints. Looks fun!

So I have my challenge for the year: a new breviary, with additional Hours (the day Hours and vigils), and a challenge to more regular contemplation. My spiritual director suggested that I find the time for prayer that doesn't take anything away from anyone else, like when daughter is asleep and hubby is watching tv. So, maybe less Facebook this year? Who knows! Anyway, the adventure begins!

Nothing if not generous!

Yesterday I posted about having a lifelong wish (seeing falling snow) granted in my own backyard. Well, obviously lifelong wishes are being granted with interest at present, because New Zealand is in the grip of the biggest snowstorm/polar blast in over 50 years. I wasn't at work today due to a close personal encounter with the ends of a 24-hour tummy bug, so I missed seeing snow falling in central Wellington (including Lambton Quay - there is a stunning photo on Stuff of snow swirling around the Beehive!), but I did see near-whiteout conditions in my own backyard.

After we picked our daughter up from school, we went for a very cautious drive up the Hutt Valley to Te Marua, where the snow was about 5-10cm deep, and played for a short time in it - only short because the snow falling was getting heavier and we were concerned about getting home again. But it was long enough to have a furious snowball fight and build a (small) snowman (I have had a snowball fight before - once on the Desert Road with a friend of mine - but never built a snowman!). Our place is completely white, and the driveway is a slush-fest, which I guess is variation on its usual mudbath at this time of year!

And it snowed in Auckland today. That hasn't happened in nearly a hundred years, or so Metservice reckons. Lots of us are revelling in the novelty of snow, but the South Island and central North Island high country is struggling, there are rolling power cuts (we've even had a few ripple cuts here, just flashing out for a second or so and then coming back), vehicle crashes, stranded travellers at airports and in cars, and general chaos. But for me: it's magical. Snow in Naenae. Who'd'a thunk it?

What strikes me is how different snow is to rain. It settles, it blows up and down like little feathers, and it's so quiet. Now I realise this is not news to those who live in places where snow is a regular hassle in winter, but for me it's a complete novelty. You can hardly see it, but then you can see it changing everything it touches. I've been reflecting on the snow alongside Lady Day and have been thinking that falling snow is a bit like God - it's quiet, subtle, goes everywhere, and it changes and transmutes everything from the prosaic into the spectacularly beautiful, and you can hardly see it happening. May our lives be like little snowflakes blown on the wind of God, changing and beautifying everything they touch!

Not shy but retiring....

Got an email yesterday - well, several actually - letting me know that Bishop Tom Brown has announced he's retiring in February 2012. I am very sad about this: Bishop Tom has been hugely supportive to me personally over the years, particularly as I was discerning my vocation with the Community of Solitude. He also confirmed me many years ago as I returned to the Anglican Church. However, he's been a bishop for 22 years, 14 of those as Diocesan (he was the assistant bishop in this diocese before that) and it's probably time for him to do some more fishing of a physical rather than spiritual kind!

However, I have just discovered something rather disturbing. I am a synod representative for my parish, and the vicar told me tonight that synod representatives form part of the Electoral College that elects the next bishop! Talk about responsibility! It also means that this diocesan synod in September will be Bishop Tom's last one with us, which will be sad - but what a privilege to share it with him.

Something new to add onto the list of things I regularly pray for - that God will show us who the next bishop should be.

Monastic

I have been doing a lot of musing lately about what makes a "monastic". The simple definition, of course, is anything that relates to monasteries - monks or nuns - but in practice it is much more than that. It is a way of being, a thinking, a placing of self, in the way of stability, conversion of life, and obedience.

One thing that I have come to realise is that if I can't look myself in the mirror in the morning and say, "I might be a bit rough around the edges, but in the end, I love myself because I am loved and lovable" then I am not suited to the monastic life. I need to accept myself, flaws and all, and open those flawed places to the conversion of life that I have vowed myself to accept - which means that I need to examine my life to find those flaws. It's not an invitation to obsessive introspection, but to consider my actions and my life in the light of God's loving concern for me and for those around me. All of this is framed by my obedience in the Community, my love and respect for those who journey with me.

Shadows

Tenebrae. The service of shadows. Silence. Candles, going out one by one as the Passion is read. Reflections. Prayer. Allegri's Miserere.

Pouring oil on him: my gift of myself, my life, my substance. The chink of coins changing hands as I sell him out for my greed. Kissing my master in betrayal. Torches and violence. Sneaking along after him and watching from the shadows. Do I know him? "No, I've never met the man!" A cock crows and I remember and weep for my weaknesses.

What has this man ever done? I wash my hands of his blood. I take the blood on myself, my guilt, my loss, my fear and my tendency to run away. I hold the whip and flog him. I carry his cross. I nail him to it and laugh at him there: "Come down from the cross! You said you'd save us: save yourself!" I watch and weep. I hear his compassion to those around him. I see him die. The temple curtain is ripped as his body is ripped. "Surely this man is the Son of God."