Shield the Joyous

The Book of Common prayer has a prayer in the Order for Compline which reads:

Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep.  Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love's sake. Amen.

The petition to "shield the joyous" has always seemed odd.  Among all of the other concerns that are listed, why pray for the joyous? Surely they are not in distress as the others listed in the prayer.

I have certainly been living with joy the last weeks.  Initially it began in anticipation of my wedding to the one who I have loved for over thirty years.  The sense of joy grew as family arrived, and the day of the event was overflowing with delight and happiness.  The centerpieces, arranged by a creative member of the parish, were filled with joy.  They were her image of fireworks, with wood, glass, and flowers, and rightly became a symbol for the celebratory excitement.

The nature of joy is that it does not, cannot, last a long time, much as the flowers in the centerpieces.  Individual day lilies only bloom for a single day; joy slips away.  Other emotions, such as sadness, sneak in place of joy, rushing to fill that empty space left behind.  Family are gone, memories of congratulations begin to fade, and the schedule returns to normal. 

Joy opens up a vulnerability unlike any other. In opening to it, we are opened to the full range of intense emotions, which are as permanent as fireworks.  Boom, flash, then darkness.  The "AH!" is followed by an awareness of how dark the sky seems again.

So, along with the weary, the dying, the suffering, the afflicted, remember the joyous in your prayers today.

Compassion Reconsidered

Over the last three years, Spiritual Director's International has focused on compassion during its annual conference.  Initially, I was worried about how much could be said about compassion for that period of time.  There was a related concern about what would be discussed, since compassion is often used a synonym for "sympathy" or even worse "pity."  Both of those terms can imply an inequality among the people involved.  The one who feels pity for another can have a sense of superiority, of being better than the person who is the object of that pity.

One of the books recommended by Joyce Rupp, the SDI Keynote Presenter last April, was Compassion: Listening to the Cries of the World by Christina Feldman.  Starting in April it has been my daily companion, usually read in short takes while eating breakfast or before turning out the light at night.  Joyce and Christina have been challenging guides through the last months, transforming my disdain for the word "compassion" into an ever deepening appreciation.

Feldman places compassion within the constant dynamic of pain and suffering, noting "When you are willing to turn directly toward pain, receive it, and embrace it with tenderness, you have begun to embody compassion." (p. 23) Whether it is the cries of the world, personal life situations, or concern for those who do not deserve what happens to them or for those who cause suffering, there is always the difficult choice of facing into that pain or suffering.  All of my being wants to run away, to avoid the situation, so turning toward the pain is counter-intuitive.

Later Feldman notes that "attachment is the near enemy of compassion. . . . It is your desire to control all things, including pain, that undermines compassion. . . that impermanence should never touch you." (p. 108)  This message, repeated and deepened throughout the book, has been critical in this time of transition.  Attachments to a particular job, a narrow professional definition, a set of habits formed over a decade, and a desire for security have tied me down.  Attachments that are tightly glued on cannot be released easily or quickly.  Even if they are finally removed, they will leave a scar, a mark of their role in life.

 There is still so much to learn. Feldman reminds her readers that "We are always beginners in the art of compassion. . . . life is sure to present us with some new experience or encounter with pain we feel unprepared for." (p. 13)  I pray for the courage to be able to continue learn about and practice compassion.

A Reminder in Stone

At different times over the years, I have carried a object around, usually in my pocket, as a reminder.  Every time I see or touch the item, it reminds me of something I want to keep in the front of my mind.

When my mother died, we found a small brooch, a simple ring of small pearls, in her jewelry box.   If our collective memories are accurate, belonged to Mom's mother.  For several months, I wore it on the lapel of my winter jacket, so that whenever I wore my coat, I would think about Mom.  I would remember afresh my grief, and find a way to keep bringing that into everyday living.  As winter turned to spring, it was time to put the coat away, and the brooch in a drawer.

Now I am in another time of transition.  Earlier in May, while I was in a period of quiet and prayer, one word rose up in my mind.  Trust.  I felt it as a request, as an offer, maybe even a plea.  I was being asked to trust in God, to let go of my fear, and live into each moment as openly as I can.  Trusting in that way has always been challenging, even as I want to be able to do it.

Just a short time later, I remembered a small, flat, brown stone with the word "trust" chiseled into it.  Given to me by David in a previous time of transition, I had carried it in my pocket for uncounted months.  I soon found the polished stone in a drawer, close to the pearl brooch. Now it is in my pocket again, reminding me of that gentle urging to trust in God whatever happens.

How long will I need it this time?