The Slow Way: Epiphany and Our Invitation to Enchantment
Prayer is an act of intention where I don’t deny the micro and macro ache of this life. And still I choose the thorny, winding path of hope--eyes open in case I "bump into God."
We’ve been exploring what the season of Epiphany could look like for us the past few weeks, how this in-between season—between the joy of Christmas and the heavy austerity of the season of Lent—can help us learn to live into all the things at once: the joy and celebration and the self-discipline that comes with transformation.
Last week I wrote about Epiphany as a season of liminality—a time when we’re on the threshold of something new and good. A time when we’re leaving something that aches. The in-between.
Somehow the season of liminality is also the season of light. What does liminality have to do with revelation, with clarity? How do we hold both the ache of life and the hope of God making all things new?
This week two dear friends in my life have been walking through extraordinary pain. And I’ve had their pain in my periphery as I’ve moved through my normal, non-painful days. I had a realization this week as both of them came to mind while I unloaded the dishwasher: Prayer, I realized, is a relief. I’ve never thought of it this way before. Prayer as a way to transform my worry or sadness for someone I love into an act of intention. An act of hope.
This is liminal work: It’s choosing to stand in the threshold between the reality that this world, and therefore our lives, are not what they should be, while holding hope that all—even the cruelest pain—will be transformed into something beautiful and good. I believe that’s the work of prayer—standing in the threshold—holding suffering and hope in the same hand.
How do we live into this tricky balance of acknowledging the very real pain and suffering of our lives and still choosing hope? In his book Hunting Magic Eels: Recovering an Enchanted Faith in a Skeptical Age, psychologist and theologian Richard Beck quotes the remarkable Marilynne Robinson in her novel Gilead: “It has seemed to me sometimes as though the Lord breathes on this poor gray ember of Creation and it turns to radiance—for a moment or a year or the span of a life. And then it sinks back into itself again, and to look at it no one would know it had anything to do with fire, or light . . . Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like transfiguration. You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see.”
That willingness to see is the beginning of what Beck calls enchantment: “A holy capacity to see and experience God in the world.”
Here’s another way Beck thinks about enchantment “Ask anyone who has carried their faith over many decades about how they have done so. They have not been forcing themselves to believe in unbelievable things. Rather, the doggedly faithful will share stories about burning bush moments in their lives when they bumped into God, encountered a Love and Mystery beyond words and descriptions. These ‘strange sights’ are not flights of fantasy or wishful thinking. They are the most reality filled moments in our lives, the truest things we have ever experienced.”
I try to get at this idea in my forthcoming book Blessed Are the Rest of Us when I use Richard Rohr’s phrase “the really real” to think about those moments of clarity, of “bumping into God.” The most reality filled moments in our lives.
So what does this mean for us as we mark this season of Epiphany—light in the darkness, clarity in the sparse physical landscape of Winter, attention and discovery in the in-between spaces? This week, for me, it’s been this simple: prayer as relief.
Prayer is an act of intention where I don’t deny the micro and macro ache of this life. The hurts that arrive in our lives or the lives of those we love, and the Greater Pain that lives in our societies and systems. And still we choose the thorny, winding path of hope. We choose it with eyes wide open, so we may see when we bump into God.
A Slow Practice
In Everything Belongs, Richard Rohr shares this conversation between a Zen master and his disciple:
“Is there anything I can do to make myself enlightened?”
“As little as you can do to make the sun rise in the morning.”
“Then of what use are the spiritual exercises you prescribe?”
“To make sure you are not asleep when the sun begins to rise.”
In other words, Rohr is inviting us to be enchanted, to pay attention so that we might “bump into God.” That’s what we’re practicing here each week when we try a slow practice. Prayer as relief, as a way to move ourselves toward hope.
This week let’s practice not being “asleep when the sun begins to rise.”
One way to grow in our awareness of the Spirit is to practice what Jean-Pierre de Caussade called “The Sacrament of the Present Moment.” Today (or tomorrow, if you’re reading this without much time left in the day) I’m inviting you to pause with me three times in your day. You may want to set some alarms for this, or sync this practice up with your regular breaks in the day—toilet breaks, snack breaks, walking to and from your office, or to and from your home.
However you can do this, make it intentional. Decide ahead of time when these breaks will be and have a plan for how you will mark them.
There have been studies lately that giving ourselves small rests throughout the day (ie mini-breaks) can be just as important as getting enough sleep at night. Mini-breaks are different from naps or lounge sessions. Mini-breaks are simple moments of respite, giving yourself social, emotional, sensory rest. Let’s think of these breaks in our days as moments of spiritual enchantment, looking for God-magic around us.
Here’s an optional guide for your one-minute breaks:
Begin by breathing in three long breaths, counting to four as you inhale and four as you exhale.
Welcome the Spirit of God this moment, ask for eyes to see and pay attention to the enchantment around you.
Open your eyes and list what you see—either aloud, in your prayerful mind, or by writing them down. What is happening in this moment around you? What do you see, hear, touch?
Say, write, or think what is good in the presence of God.
Go back to work!
This may seem like too simple of a practice to make a difference. But as Rohr says, when it comes to spiritual practice, “The mystery is to be ready to receive things as they are and be ready to let them teach us.”
May we be still this week, ready to receive things as they are, ready to bump into God.
A Note:
Just a reminder about the zoom soul-care workshop I’ve tentatively titled “Embracing Our Limits, Discovering Our Wholeness,” which I’ll be leading February 24 for my paid subscribers in preparation for the release of Blessed Are the Rest of Us this April. (You Slow Waysters will be my guinea pigs!) If you’re interested in being part this workshop along with the Blessed Are the Rest of Us book club I’ll be hosting this spring, consider becoming a paid subscriber for $5 a month. I offer the Slow Way letter free every week, so this is a way of supporting my work!
Also, you can preorder the book right now at Baker Book House, where it’s 40% off the price of other booksellers. The first 200 preorders over there will receive a signed copy and a fun little gift from me!
I hope I’m one of the first 200!😊