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“I see at certain epochs of history what seems like an emergence,
an incursion, of the Divine Life.
It seems as though in a marked way
and to a peculiar degree the Life of God-
again humanly revealed- has broken, like a vernal equinox,
into the lives of humans and into the stream of history.
A new installment of life has burst into the world,
like a mutation, that changes the old level forever...
Divine wisdom, changing the line of march...
Not always was it a saint that did it,
but it was always a transmitter,
and always the trail was luminous.”
~ Rufus Jones, The Luminous Trail.
among others
As I proceed, the trails of my creating are as equally evident to me as the paths I’ve chosen to follow. Survival has required years of roadbuilding and provisioning, albeit through poor visibility. And this is said amidst constant, resourceful, and tireless work. There are countless souls in far lesser straits, visible daily in these stratified times. Having lived for decades in a small city that suddenly turned so radically and severely into gentrification, my continuum has been pushed to the margins. Among those who manage to stay for various reasons, we substantiate one another’s experiences. A significant portion of the pre-2020 Maine population has out-migrated for improved fortunes elsewhere. When a five-year resident looks like a seasoned doyen, community memory loses its depth. As local resources such as businesses and churches have continued closing, replaced- if at all- by big-box versions of both, the hunger for comforts intensifies. It is seen and heard. And the seeing and hearing are right at the surface at squalid inner-city bus stops. The bus line with which I commute to work is busier on occasional Thursday evenings when a city church offers free suppers. I know this because passengers talk to me, and I always respond. Many climb aboard and disembark with backpacks and plastic bags of belongings, en route to shelters. That’s not to mention the desperation along sidewalks. The wait for my return evening bus witnesses the banter among those turned out for the night. Some help one another haul their bundles. City officials really need to get out more. I could teach them how to be an observer and a participant at the same time.
When we recognize each other, we’re reciprocally bearing witness at the most basic level. From there, we can corroborate our stories. That is inspiration’s ground of being- every scenario from pavement filth to plush meeting offices. When U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy published about the Epidemic of Loneliness, he emphasized the vitality of community connections and genuine, mutual care. I’ll add that when we acknowledge each other, we begin to give validity and respect to those in our midst. This is a way to broach an antidote to desolation. Students and colleagues tell me about how dauntingly difficult it has become to make friends. We all agree about how ironic this sounds, in light of abundant connectivity. Invariably we talk about how social media has redefined “friendship” into something virtual and unsustainable- especially without initiative and conscientiousness. “I’ve seen you here before,” a weathered bus stop standee said to me, followed by “You want some food?” She offered me something from her bag. I thanked her and politely declined, mentioning that I had groceries at home. “You should come to Thursday suppah,” she said, “it’s really good.” “I might just do that,” I replied. I used to serve similar suppers, at a crosstown East End ministry called The Root Cellar. Poverty takes multiple forms, including lack of provisions and shortages of human acknowledgment. Our needs for accompaniment are paralleled by that of mutual recognition. What happens when we are “strangers in town” (or even in our own town whose population abruptly shuffles)? How important is it to be recognized and known?
On a lighter side, I’ve taken to trading wisecracks with one of the grumpiest bus drivers, the fellow some of us call Lurch. I think he does pretty well to keep even-keeled, considering all he tolerates. Well, one morning, as Lurch’s bus approached the stop at which I was awaiting, I witnessed some strikingly reckless driving that included an illegal U-turn right in front of his crowded bus. Boarding and scanning my pass, I said to the grimacing Lurch, “Wow, I saw that red Rav-4,” to which he replied, “Yeah, you can’t make up this kinda stuff.” By sheer participation, we accompany those in our midst. Even Lurch. Among my closest friends is a social worker who is also a pastoral minister. I spoke with him recently about how I’ve especially noticed the value of accompanying others, even in subtle ways, both for others and myself. John understood what I was describing, calling what we can do “the ministry of presence.”
saints
Out of necessity, my recent 2½ years of daily commuting have been on public transit. That helps explain my numerous comments about the liminality of waiting under the elements and having to spend a lot of time doing that. For the previous 17 years, I had a few minutes’ walk to work- until downtown life became an impossible luxury. During my twice-daily waits and rides, there have been opportunities to be made, so that I can redeem the time. Choosing away from the ubiquitous phone-fiddling most everyone else does (“lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from evil”), I always have books with me that serve as companions. Being an unhurried reader that takes notes, requisite index cards are typically handy. My satchel is also provisioned with a prayer booklet for reflective pauses. These sources carry forth into my workday pauses, known in my journals as coffee canticles and bus-stop novenas. Long-known as scribbling and nibbling journaling and lunch breaks go together, one as everyday as the other.
My studies and spiritual practice have run juxtaposed lines for many years. Parallel to sacramental sources in ecclesiastical institutions are the wellsprings of inspiring troves found in libraries. Escrivá referred to his spiritual reading as building up a store of fuel. “It is from there,” he wrote, “that my memory spontaneously draws material which fills my prayer with life.” As it frequently happens with favorite authors, I discovered Escrivá’s work through footnotes printed in books. Most of my beloved authors and works have met my path via written references and by spoken recommendations. The incomparable and indispensable Cloud of Unknowing was first introduced to me by a bookstore owner. A late colleague and friend taught me an observation I’ve shared numerous times: The saints are always teaching us. I’ve long tended to latch onto brilliant thinkers of yore by starting with quotes and compelling portions of books, then their biographies, and finally their own works. An example is San Juan de la Cruz, who became profoundly dear to me. I read all the biographies of him that I could find, leading to contextual readings about his contemporaries in Spain and France, after which I revisited his poetry- and then, feeling prepared enough, The Ascent of Mount Carmel. Studying that great work, over a period of months, I created my own annotated index; it was as though I was navigating the mountain, too. After traveling with it, I had to rebind my copy of the book. His work and his life are inextricable and informative. There are many other saints, not necessarily canonized, and no less significantly- teaching me. Erasmus, Ruysbroeck, Kempis, Pascal, Merton, Tozer, Brother Roger of Taizé- naming just a few- ever accompany me. Faithful companions and their words make for a better provisioned voyage, always teaching me. Another saintly and Quaker companion, fellow Mainer Rufus Matthew Jones, teaches us through his enduring books to not limit our vision to proprietary denominational thinking, and rather to transcend societal fractiousness. From his applied wealth of learning and insight, Jones’ books The Luminous Trail, and Studies in Mystical Religion present vignettes of saints in his characteristic unvarnished eloquence. His descriptions of Saint Francis of Assisi stand alongside the similar reverent biography written by Saint Bonaventure. The latter’s life and works have been integral to my current focus of studies. These teaching saints accompany, and they always mention their accompanying portions of holy writ.
mentors and guides
Dovetailing the ancients are the guiding mentors I’ve personally known. As old friends and cherished teachers, I look to them all as beacons in the night. Earlier this week, after an especially arduous day, while waiting for an elusive outbound Number 9A, I noticed myself straining my eyes as far as possible for that rolling and heated transport. It was a brutal 7 degrees below zero, windchilled and pitch-dark. In that coarse half-hour, everything but a 9A passed by. Having memorized the Divine Mercy Chaplet, I focused on that, also adding to my intentions all those that are without homes. When it finally arrived, stepping up and in from the mound of rock ice, I told the driver he was a God-send. He liked that. Then I sat and thawed a bit, before descending for the last part of my pedestrian journey in the deep freeze, the Chaplet returning to me again. Sources and refuge often intertwine.
We strain into the distance for lighted trails, for game-changers leading to better days and paradigms. There are surely many others; in the search for accompaniment, we can each be accompaniment for one another, adding meaning to our shared continua. Perhaps ponder what and who accompanies you through your days. Who follows whom? What and where are the places and contexts of refuge? Amidst the overwhelm of contemporary culture, there remain lifegiving ideas and gestures to memorize.
Seeking the solidity of consolation, in the absence of accessible places of intellectual and spiritual nourishment, I’ve been seeing how many turn to libraries. People thirst for respectful and nonsectarian acknowledgment. And most may not even realize this. There isn’t a week during which I don’t hear, “You’re about the last familiar face I can find.” Who doesn’t want the assurance of familiar faces? Our vulnerabilities hinge upon mutual recognition, which is essentially validation. Whether patrons, or associates, or even donors, there is a common search for witnesses to our lives- for substantiating observers. “Do you remember that?” “Did you know so-and-so?” “Why don’t pictures of such-and-such exist anywhere?” We can only find what has been preserved, and what can be found is what can be preserved. Basic as that sounds, this must be expressed in the gentlest of ways. Interactions reveal food for thought- whether among students, casual visitors, patrons, or colleagues. An occasional researcher totes a large, antiquated computer“tower” with him, which he hefts in a canvas bag. It’s his memory- containing an untold amount of his work; I don’t dare to judge. And then there’s cultural memory. The almost-universal fascination with microfilm is remarkable. Most workers dislike it; I find it very interesting. I call the miles upon miles of filmed newspaper pages history in real-time. Often the queries boil down to people simply wanting to see a time they knew. Reminders. They love telling me about the advertisements they find, along with the long-ago prices. Personal references are often all that any of us can see, in our limited visibility- as with the lights of a homeward bus.
