Stability

Brother Lowell Grisham, OA.     

On May 3, 2021 at the retreat of the Order of the Ascension

Yesterday after lunch, Kathy and I happened across a delightful episode of one of those PBS series that’s set in a small village in England, and when it was done, I announced to her, “Well, I need to go upstairs and write a little talk on Stability.”

I wish I had a picture of her facial reaction. She cocked her head a bit to the right; her eyes fairly glistened; she let out the slightest, almost inaudible giggle and produced a mile-wide grin that carved the deepest dimples in her cheeks. “So,” I said. “You don’t think I can write a little talk on Stability?”

“Oh, you’ll do fine.”

I started walking, but stopped in the next room and returned. “So, you don’t think I’m very stable?” I queried.

“No, you’re stable,” she said matter-of-factly, as she put some placemats into the drawer. I decided it was probably best for me to leave the mystery right there where it lies.

So... when I first began to encounter the Benedictine commitments to stability, obedience, and conversion of life, a person from my childhood came to my memory as a metaphor for stability.

I’m one of those rare ordained birds who was brought up from birth in the Episcopal Church. My home parish of St. Peter’s, Oxford, Mississippi was something of an extension of my own home. I felt completely secure in that place of belonging and of being known. The liturgy and life of the church formed in me naturally and deeply from childhood.

Like every other Episcopalian in Oxford, I learned the Church Year in fifth grade from Mrs. Whiteside, the toughest teacher in Sunday School. It was her custom at the end of the class year to give each of her students a handmade cloth bookmark with a different cross on it, and to teach us about the different crosses of our tradition. Mrs. Whiteside gave me a bright green bookmark with a Celtic cross sewn upon it, and I treasured that gift. In 1982, when I went to Jackson, Mississippi, to consider a call as rector for St. Columb’s parish, the large Celtic cross overlooking that church seemed like a confirmation blessing from Mrs. Whiteside, and I took that call with a certain gratitude and confidence.

St. Peter’s, Oxford, was a nurturing place for planting the faith. Mrs. Truss taught us the hymns in Junior Choir. And my priest, Mr. Gray, became the icon for me of what a faithful pastor is. As Bishop Duncan M. Gray, Jr., he later ordained me deacon and priest. That church was a place of belonging and stability for me as a child, where I felt loved and valued. Except for... Miss Dolly Falkner.

She was John Falkner’s wife; he was a modestly successful author and brother of William Faulkner. Miss Dolly stood ramrod straight, a slim, stern Southern lady, always meticulously dressed, usually with gloves and generally wearing a hat. Always there, on the aisle, second pew, Epistle side. And... well, I got the feeling she did not approve of children.

I remember one day running with a shriek around a corner into the main hall of the education building and freezing suddenly at the sight of Miss Dolly looking down upon me with utter scorn and dismay. I did not want to be on her radar. In Miss Dolly’s presence, I prayed to be like a submarine, silent and invisible.

Well, I grew up, and eventually St. Peter’s sent me to seminary. Three years in New York, and I returned home to be ordained deacon. It was like returning to a nurturing womb, warm with love and welcome and pride. The nave was packed with all of the people of my childhood and youth, all of the other parents and extended family that had raised me. I was so happy. Walking down that aisle was like walking through a tunnel of familial love. As I neared the chance steps, I remember being struck at how small the place seemed after being in the big city. That chancel rail was so low!? I used to be able to stand up behind it completely hidden in my angel’s costume for the Christmas pageant.

I processed to my assigned place, and turned around joyfully seeing the happy faces of my past. And then my eyes went to …the second row, Epistle side, on the aisle, right there where she could see me. Miss Dolly! And, maybe I imagined it, but I thought she looked happy.

That’s when I just about lost it. I had to turn toward the altar to catch my breath and wipe my eyes. Her presence touched me like nothing else on that ordination day.

She was there. She had always been there. All my life, Miss Dolly had been there in her place in church – second row, aisle, Epistle side. Faithful. Rock steady. Predictable.

When I encountered the Benedictine promises, Miss Dolly became for me the metaphor for stability. Just show up. 

But lately, that notion has lost some of its luster. Or maybe it’s just shifted a bit for me. Just showing up isn’t quite enough. Because sometimes there is so little of me that is really there. I’m present, okay, but I’m thinking about what’s next. Or I’m making up something I want to write, or thinking about some way to straighten out something or somebody. Especially me.

So lately, I’m thinking of stability more in terms of what the old spirituality called “recollection.” It is recalling that God is here, now. Fully, completely. In the present moment, in the present circumstances. God is not more in the past or in the future or in some special place and time than God is, right here, right now. You recollect Anthony Bloom’s words from our OA Rule, “You do not need to seek [God] elsewhere, ...[God] is here, and if you do not find [God] here it is useless to go and search for [God] elsewhere

because it is not God who is absent from us, it is we who are absent from [God].”

So I’m paying more attention to my breath. On my intake of breath, I like to imagine I hear God’s voice speaking to me personally, saying, “Lowell, I love you,” as I receive the gift of life and breath from a loving Creator. And as I breathe out, I hear my own voice responding, “Dear God, I love you too,” returning that gift of life with gratitude.

And I’m trying to accept everything in the present moment as a gift from God, the sacrament of the present moment. Even the rotten stuff that I would prefer to avoid is God’s presence, if the cross is to have any personal meaning in our lives.

I’m also trying to imagine God experiencing human life through me. It’s the only unique thing I can give God, and I think it makes God happy to live human life through me, even when I’m shrieking and running down the hall.

God is always right here. Right now. Second row, epistle side on the aisle, just in the corner of my vision. Showing up. God is always showing up. And smiling. Divine eyes, glistening with love like a mile-wide grin. Hoping. Encouraging. Breathing life into each of moment. Inviting our best effort. “Oh, you’ll do fine.”

“So, God. Do you think I’m very stable?”

“Oh Lowell. [slight giggle] Don’t worry about it. Just breathe.”

The Promise: 2021 Three reflections on the Benedictine Promise offered at the 2021 retreat of the Order of the Ascension. Includes an introduction by Sister Michelle Heyne, OA the Presiding Sister.