Sitting in the inviting cloister offers plenty of solace.
I am continually in awe when I visit the Convent of San Marco. My favorite place in all of Florence; an icon of 15th century Florentine Renaissance history, art and faith. Sitting in the inviting cloister offers plenty of solace. But then, there is the breath-taking approach at the head of the staircase leading to the Upper Floor. The Annunciation. An ‘aesthetic experience’, for sure. I spent a long time in front of this fresco this morning. It’s always been a favorite because I can’t help but look at it and wonder what God is calling me to do. And then there is the humility that Mary exudes, which I can almost feel within my reach. If this isn’t enough, walk down the corridors and peak into the dormitory cells, each with a fresco by Fra Angelico depicting a scene from the life of Christ. If only I could live there, I would pick Cell 1--Noli me tangere, with Jesus telling Mary Magdalene, “Do not to touch me, for I am not yet ascended to the Father.” I love the colors and the composition, and I have always been mystified by Jesus’ comment, for I often feel an approach-avoidance with Jesus. But here is a direct rebuff. It is a seminal moment. Mary has to wait until Jesus ascends, and when he does, Mary becomes all of us, and Jesus becomes accessible to us all.
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The apartment that I’ve rented for the month in Florence is on the Piazza S. Trinita end of Via Terme. The church opens at 7 in the morning, closes promptly at noon and opens again from 4 to 7. At 6 in the evening a priest and a handful of women gather to say the rosary; Mass is conducted once a day. Most of the time, however, the church is quiet except for tourists who walk about enjoying art treasures, specifically a painting of the annunciation by Lorenzo Monaco, and, in the Sassetti Chapel, an oil on wood of the nativity and frescos depicting the life of St. Francis, both by Ghirlandio. This morning, after a cappuccino at the local bar, I sat in the church for my morning prayer time. I’m not Roman Catholic but I am intrigued with the rituals; and so it was today. A young woman came in the side entrance, cycle helmet in hand, crossed herself with holy water from the font by the door, and then stood for five or so minutes in front of a painting of the crucified Christ. When she finished she crossed herself, threw a kiss to Christ, crossed herself again with the holy water, and left. I could start creating stories about this women, but do I need to? My stories could be right on, completely off the mark, or somewhere in between. She might be experiencing a deep sorry, or perhaps she comes in every day just to give thanks and offer prayers. What I do know is that she is a human being with all the joys and concerns of life, looking for peace and solace, specifically in Christ. That is enough. What a example of faith. I feel I’ve neglected my prayer diary blog and so I apologize. My time in Edinburgh has been a whirl, with little time to write, and, I must confess, little time to pray. One of my favorite places for prayer, however, is St. Giles Church on the Royal Mile between Edinburgh Castle and the Palace of Holyroodhouse. It was the church of John Knox during the time of Mary Queen of Scots. According to the church website: “Also known as the High Kirk of Edinburgh, it is the Mother Church of Presbyterianism and contains the Chapel of the Order of the Thistle (Scotland's chivalric company of knights headed by the Queen).” I love all the old in the church, but I also love the new, particularly the stained glass windows. This is a living church, contemporary in art and in its teachings of God’s word. I love that St Giles was a hermit (7th century) who later became abbot of the church, “who lived in France, became the patron of both town and church was probably due to the ancient ties between Scotland and France.” Today my dad would have been 109. I miss him but he had a good run at life, living to be about 80. My dad was a church goer, but more than that he was a person of prayer. Once in a while he would offer me a window into his living faith. “You might want to pray about that,” he once told me when I was grappling with one of those pre-teen decisions. In that simple statement he taught me two things: that prayer is a way to get answers, and that he would trust and honor the decision I came up with. The last time that I saw my dad up and about, before the cancer immobilized him, he gave me a blessing. As I arrived for a visit, he walked across the yard, big grin, arms open, “Oh, Bobbi, I’m so glad you’re here. You are my spiritual director.” And you know what, Dad? You’re mine, too. 'Annunciation', Filippino Lippi It is hard to believe that a prayer diary has been in existence for almost two years. When I started, I wrote, “This blog is my attempt to respond to the question, “What is prayer?” Since then, needless to say, my faith has deepened and my purpose and hopes for this blog have broadened, although the prayer question will forever remain central. Today, however, as I look out from my cottage by the sea, I express my intention as follows: to offer prayerful ways for all of us as God’s people to witness to the Truth, to experience Christ in our lives and to see the Christ in the faces of the people we meet. It is in that spirit that I am adding a new section to a prayer diary, which I am entitling Word and Image. Let me explain. I keep a daily calendar of scripture. During my morning prayer time I write down a Biblical verse that resonates with me, and then throughout the day I do my best to think about it and to pray with it. As the year goes on I consider to whom I will give the calendar, and at the end of December I wrap it up and include a note, suggesting that when the right times comes, the recipient might pass it on to someone else. I’ve been doing this for about fifteen years, giving the first one to my mom. When she died I gave her calendar to her minister, who, just about a year after, passed it on to a grieving couple she knew. Maybe at the opportune time they will place it in someone else’s hands, but I don’t need to know. The recipients of several other calendars have died, and although I wonder what has become of their calendars, I trust that they are just where the ought to be. Lately I’ve added another ritual to my morning prayer, praying with a piece of art, as an icon, I might say. Usually it’s a painting, but sometimes it’s a piece of sculpture, tapestry, pottery, photography, architecture (I’m open to new possibilities). I select from the treasure trove of postcards that I have acquired through my travels, but I am branching out to books, museums and the internet. My favorite subject is the Annunciation, but again, ‘What else might be out there?’ This new section to a prayer diary offers these two rituals, scripture and visual art, Word and Image. I make no attempt to related the two (as I do in my daily quote and blog entries) and yet, sometimes that will happen, for as we know God works in mysterious ways. Jesus, born in a stable. Just think about it. Not extravagant, but enough--a worthy message to ponder. My nativity picture may be ‘Renaissance idyllic’; after all, barnyards can be smelly, noisy, and chaotic. I’m not searching for something in between, or some idea of what the ‘right amount’ might be. There’s no answer there. I do know that I’m feeling content and peaceful this Christmas and we hardly bought a present. I made my husband his favorite brownies, and he gave me a book from the put and take. We have family and friends around. We are ‘very grateful’. Smithsonian I had a call from my sister this morning, so full of life energy, overflowing with glowing reports of the museum visiting that she and my other sister were experiencing in DC. She talked, I listened. Quite a contrast, to where my life is focused these days. A dear friend is in hospice care; at age 67, is she ready to let go? And I am about to head out to visit a friend hospitalized last night with pneumonia and a massive heart attack; at age 92, is she ready to let go? I don’t know; they don’t know. I continue to be amazed at the tenacity of human beings to hold onto life, whether they feel God’s presence or not. I love picturing my sisters buzzing about DC, and I’m looking forward to a sisters’ trip in March with them. The universe needs balance: of life energy and letting go energy; of museums and hospice beds; of talking and listening. My sister and I also part of the balance. by Hans Memling I’ve returned to meditation, or as Christians are apt to call it, centering prayer. Recently I had been praying for the answer to something in my life. Although I believe that prayer can take the form of chatting with God, it seemed that I was overdoing this chatting—going over and over and over and over the situation. Too much analysis; too much obsession with the problem; too much anxiety about finding an answer. No wonder I wasn’t hearing God; there was no space for listening. So I decided to stop thinking about the problem, stop all the chatter that had turned into a conversation with myself, not with God. Instead I sat in the quiet, feeling my breath, and letting go of thoughts. The answer came, God’s answer—always so simple. Isn’t that the way it is with God? Musee de Cluny “But there is forgiveness with you, so that you may be revered,” so the Psalmist says to God. (Psalm 130.4.) I’ve been meditating on this verse for the past few days, and it continues to give me comfort. If God weren’t forgiving, I’d be hard-pressed to revere God. Instead God would be a tyrant, a dictator and I’d have no choice but to give up believing in God. Fortunately I was brought up in a church that proclaimed a loving God, a forgiving God, and, believe me, I need to be forgiven all the time. But my God is not just a forgiving friend. I need more than that; I need a God to revere--to regard with respect tinged with awe, to venerate. God forgives me; I venerate God. It’s a deal that works. I feel bad that I’ve let you down on my prayer postings, but believe me, I had very little time to write during my eight days in Paris. The one morning that I did have time, however, I got up early and went to Notre Dame instead. Mass was just beginning and there was only a scattering of people in the cathedral. I sat in a pew for a while. God was present. I thought of all those stones laid one by one, all those pointed arches, all those sculpted angels and floral decorations in just this one cathedral. Multiply them, church by church and you will be at infinity. I thought of the beauty that pilgrims and tourists have appreciated through the ages, through both religious and secular lenses. For some of us, Christ’s message has been kept alive through the stained glass, sculpture and flying buttresses of the Notre Dames of the world. Very grateful. |
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