We are setting out on an inner pilgrimage through Lent. We journey inwards

together through times of uncertainty, struggle, transition, and

bewilderment. In his book Still Possible, poet David Whyte writes: “For the

road to Santiago, don’t make declarations about what to bring and what to

leave behind. Bring what you have.”

Our world needs people who love. Our world needs people who are kind. We

can be both through the practice of loving kindness. Heart-felt love

illuminating every broken thing it finds is a perfect description of the

practice of loving kindness. It is an outpouring coming from compassion.

When we consider an inner diamond, we may want to remember that diamonds

are formed in the depths and under pressure. It might take us a long time

on the spiritual road to feel it in ourselves and see it in others, beneath

the surface, like that treasure hidden in a field that Jesus described.

“Love liberates. It doesn’t just hold—that’s ego. Love liberates.” These

are words of wisdom from the late poet and civil rights leader Maya

Angelou. Our culture, Angelou says, is “stuck in almost a juvenile, puerile

understanding of love.” This is the idea of possessing someone as opposed

to setting them free, of getting rather than giving.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu left behind a faith-fueled legacy of compassion. We

can draw on his inspiration. “Disturb us, O Lord, he wrote, “when we are

too well-pleased with ourselves, when our dreams have come true because we

dreamed too little, because we sailed too close to the shore.”

It is a radical and life-changing practice to follow Jesus’s advice about

prayer. We are invited to step into solitude and close the door. No public

display, no bragging rights, no distractions. We leave the ego at the door.

Jesus toppled the conventions of his day. He called his followers into

intimacy with God, who he referred to as Abba, a term of endearment,

tenderness and closeness. He did not tell his followers to make grandiose

gestures of devotion. He directed them to get quiet and get real.

The Christmas story is infused by the night sky. We have the “star of

wonder, star of night,” the “midnight clear,” the holy night with “the

stars brightly shining” just to name a few. Our own tradition invites us

into a cosmic liturgy, but are we participating?

Richard Rohr reminds us that when we speak of Advent, we’re not just

talking about Jesus being born 2000 years ago. “In fact, we’re welcoming

the Universal Christ, the Cosmic Christ, the Christ that is forever being

born in the human soul and into history.”

A beautiful Taizé chant can guide us through Advent, and we can turn to it

whenever we feel lost, alone, or overwhelmed. The following line is sung

again and again: “Within our darkest night, you kindle the fire that never

dies away, never dies away.”

The ‘dark night’ speaks to this time of year, to the Advent journey towards

the holy birth, and to the times on the spiritual journey when we are

bereft and stripped down to utter humility. St. John of the Cross describes

the dark night as “sheer grace” because it allows us to find what burns in

our hearts. We would never be inclined to do so otherwise.

As we travel through the darkness to the nativity, we can ask ourselves,

what is aching to be born in our own lives? What wants to break through the

darkness in the form of new life?

Meister Eckhart said we are all meant to be mothers of God. “What good is

it to me if Mary is full of grace and if I am not also full of grace?” he

asked, and, “What good is it to me for the Creator to give birth to the Son

if I also do not give birth to him in my time and my culture?”

One of Thomas Merton’s most compelling spiritual writings is his last chapter of New Seeds of Contemplation, entitled The General Dance. In it he describes the “silence of the spheres as the music of wedding feast” and the world and time as “the dance of the Lord in emptiness.”