Seeking loft

Seeking interior silence, finding the infinite

It can be maddening and depressing to invest energy and attention in the current congressional and presidential battles for power. In the presence of sheer banality, the soul cries for more.

Early in Tolstoy’s classic novel War and Peace, Russian prince Andrei is wounded at the Battle of Austerlitz. Lying on the battlefield, he gazes upward.

Tolstoy writes: “Above him there was nothing but the sky, the lofty heavens, not clear, yet immeasurably lofty, with gray clouds slowly drifting across them. ‘How quiet, solemn, and serene, not at all as it was when I was running,’ thought Prince Andrei, ‘not like our running, shouting, fighting; not like the gunner and the Frenchman with their distraught, infuriated faces, struggling … ; how differently do those clouds float over the lofty, infinite heavens. How is it I did not see this sky before? How happy I am to have discovered it at last! Yes! All is vanity, all is delusion, except those infinite heavens. There is nothing but that. And even that does not exist; there is nothing but stillness, peace. Thank God …’”

We have moments like this. Moments of transcendent awareness; moments of a knowing that is deep, compelling, yet beyond our measure. Moments when reality is transfigured and deep and wonderful. Artists, poets, musicians and writers help draw us into these territories. But they are only moments. And the drip-drip-drip of life continues, full of struggle and violence and doubt.

Our soul yearns to remember and to treasure transcendent awareness. Many of our religious and spiritual practices intend to nourish such awareness. Some people practice a discipline of daily prayer or meditation. Many of us let sacred words or ancient prayers recall us to transcendent awareness. Contemplative practices can open us to the silence and stillness of the eternal. The practice of centering prayer has been central to my own experience of a transcendent immanence. Our various spiritual traditions offer many disciplines to bring us back to ourselves and to open us beyond ourselves.

There are so many ways to remember. Small groups often serve that purpose. Alcoholics Anonymous taps into a deep wisdom. In our congregation we teach groups of friends to follow a Benedictine model of reflection that includes intentional conversation about moments when we sense a transcendent presence our everyday life.

I find that when I intentionally, consciously remember what I have known and intuited about transcendent things, I am better able to function within their light. I am less likely to be distracted and consumed by the foolish banality of the daily headlines. But I have to let myself be reminded: Remember — you are God’s beloved child, infinitely loved and cherished.

Remember — every person on the planet is God’s beloved child, equally and infinitely loved and cherished.

Remember — the present moment is all we have; be awake; live in the present; here and now is the only place we can know God; here and now is the only place we can do God’s will. The present moment is the eternal now.

Remember — love is the most powerful thing in the universe; under everything, love is.

Remember — the story of the cross tells us that God turns our human evil and brokenness into new life.

Remember — all is one, and ultimately it is good.

But life is so difficult, and we human beings can be so stupid and blind and violent. It takes attention and energy to pay attention to the “lofty, eternal heavens” when our attention is continually assaulted by insults from without and by self-centeredness from within.

All of the spiritual traditions offer similar advice: practice, practice, practice. Withdraw from the stimulation and addictive power of the demanding world with all its words, and enter the vast realm of the interior silence that opens us to the infinite. In a shallow world with too many words, a vast, infinite stillness and peace lies just on the other side or our attention. That deep silence is actually more real than the noise and words that too often serve to distract us.

At our deepest reality, something inside of us knows the eternal truth, as the 14th century mystic Dame Julian saw it, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”