Belong to the longing

Writing in my journal this morning, I had a few questions: What/where are my longings? Can I feel them? Name them? Will I find them underneath and in between all the should-ings and the must-ings? Why pay attention to them?

Indeed. Why pay attention? For one thing, I can’t help it — it is in my nature, my DNA, my genes, my “nine-ness” (from the Enneagram, a dynamic personality system which describes nine distinct and fundamentally different patterns of thinking, feeling, and acting).

With regard to the Enneagram, as I understand the nature of a Nine, we are Mediators. We are hard-wired to pay attention — highly sensitive and tuned in to people and our surroundings. And what if that sensitivity is so occupied with outside stimuli that it cannot respond to any inner promptings? See, the outer drowns out the inner. Where does that leave me? Often too preoccupied to listen to the still small voice of the spirit. Not a good thing to be cut off from, I think.

As I read through The Essential Enneagram (a book we encountered in the RUAH program), it invited me to consider the following questions: How have all the people and things around me been pulling at and competing for my attention? How indecisive have I been? In what ways have I gone along with others’ agendas and plans? In what ways have I been sidetracked into focusing on secondary priorities or inessentials?

All this questioning leads me to wonder about finding and maintaining focus in a world chock-a-block full of distractions. What might be useful for finding one’s focus? And maintaining that focus once found? A tool, a discipline or a practice might be just the ticket here.

What can help me set my priorities straight? What already exists in our rich Christian tradition?

Lectio divina is an ancient monastic practice designed to be a “long, loving look at the real.” It works through four stages or steps: read, reflect, respond, and rest. Lectio becomes a container for awareness of inner movements and voices. That’s good, as far as it goes. But I need something more: action. Some outpouring of all that contained goodness.

Once these inner longings are heard clearly, then perhaps I will honor them through action. And action is surely required to build beloved community, which is where I long to belong.

Richard Rumble
September 2014

Fruitful thinking

Summertime is upon us. Among other things, this season is a time of ripening — a time of fruitfulness. Does this affect us in our own lives? Maybe so, let's see.

I awoke early the morning of the longest day of the year. I was up, so why not take a quick spin on the Jerusalem Mile before chapel? In that pre-sunrise light of the summer solstice I found my way to the labyrinth.

There are many ways to walk the labyrinth. Often, I’ll carry something specific with me into its opening. This time, I had nothing particular in mind. I just walked in. By the second turn, I was talking to God.

“Thank you, Lord, for this most beautiful morning, and for this beautiful place. I cannot believe I have the grace and good fortune to call Richmond Hill home. Awesomeness abounds! I am so grateful!”

“So, here’s the thing, Lord. Are you calling me? How will I know what my call looks like? I figure you know — plus, you’ve equipped me with appropriate skills, interests and talents to get the job done. I believe I’ve got the willingness to follow and serve. I know I’m in a good place and location to get the work done. But what does this call actually look like?”

“Well, there’s your problem,” a dear friend said as I shared this question with her. “You mean, ‘What does this call sound like?’ You don’t see a call, you hear it.”

“Let’s not get picky. I’m visual. And I’d like to see it,” was my response. Anyway, what we’re talking about here is a matter of recognition — how do you recognize exactly what is your call?

Recognition can come in many forms: what might it look like, sound like, feel like? “It looks like a good opportunity. It sounds like a great idea. It just feels right.” These are forms of internal recognition. But what about external recognition? How does validation appear?

There are passages that appear in the gospel about good trees producing good fruit. Both Matthew and Luke comment that bad trees cannot produce good fruit.

What makes the good fruit good? Is it God, by His divine design? Or, is it humanity — who tends the orchard? It’s a combined effort no doubt. A good yield is just that, a good yield. The evidence resides in an overflowing basket, for all to see. Touch. And taste.

The answer to my question is clear. If you’re looking for the good fruit, be sure to check your personal produce aisle. If your fruit looks good, congratulations. Chances are you’re probably in the right field.

Richard Rumble

July 2014

A spirit of decision.

As I sit here writing this article, we are celebrating the Feast of the Ascension — a capstone finish to Jesus’s work here among us. His disciples had been through an quite a lot with Him — His Baptism, Transformation, Crucifixion, and now, Resurrection.

What do they do after He passes this 5th milestone of His ministry? They go back to town and head for the Upper Room. They shut the door. And there they sit, until the promised Advocate arrives (10 days later at Pentecost). That Advocate (the Holy Spirit) blows them out of their safe haven and into the the streets — first Jerusalem, then Judea, Samaria… and then, well, that breeze is still blowing. It won’t stop until it’s reached the ends of the Earth.

I’m realizing that all of us can retreat, at one time or another in our lives, to that Upper Room. My head is my Upper Room, and, for much of my time, it is my residential address of choice. Getting stuck in that room is a problem. When I get stuck, eventually I figure I have to make a change. Deciding what that change could be and figuring out what to do next is the hard work of discernment. 

The Latin root of discern means to sift or to sort. Options must be generated. Outcomes weighed. Risks assessed. Opportunities recognized. And choices made. 

Choosing means deciding between: what will I give up in this choice? — and, what will I hang on to? I am finding this framework to not be all that helpful. It immobilizes me. 

I’ve discovered a key to help me unlock this conundrum. There is a hint of desperation contained in the phrase “hang on to.” Actually, it reeks of reluctance. A better, more helpful way to put it is: what do I want to give myself to freely? That freedom is a call to fidelity — being faithful in identifying one’s gifts, and being faithful in joining those gifts to the needs of the world.

Where can you find the safe space to find out what you are really thinking, feeling, struggling with? Get out of your head, and into community. A program like the Vocare School here at Richmond Hill is an excellent option — it equips you with time, tools, and a safe, supportive community to do the hard work of deciding what might come next in your life.

Remember, the call is not to remain in some safe, enclosed space. The call is to move out — into your circles of connection, virtual and real. It’s the Spirit’s call to renew the face of the earth. 

And that’s a kingdom call.

Richard Rumble
June 2014 

To be seen and heard

There are many different ministries that serve this broken world we call home. And lately, I've been thinking about one in particular: the ministry of presence.

When my youngest daughter entered seventh grade, she had a new teacher for religion, a class that her older sister adored. The original teacher passed away unexpectedly during the first week of school, hence the arrival of the new teacher. “How do you like her?” I asked at dinner one night. “Well, I like her a lot,” said Elizabeth. “But she says the same thing every day at the end of class: ‘Girls, your presence is gift to me.’ That is so weird!”

“Actually, that's wonderful,” I replied. “Importance and humor. Not bad for a teacher right out of seminary.”

That young teacher is now the head of the religious studies department. She modeled the principle of presence to her students. Presence is witness, and witness is powerful: I see you. I hear you. I witness you.

What happens to us when we are seen? And heard? And what happens to us when we are not?

Presence can be a powerful, affirming ministry. There are both aspects of giving and receiving going on in this dynamic. Seeing and listening are both examples of the gift of engagement.

Early in Matthew’s gospel, just as Jesus is embarking on His journey of public ministry, the writer tells of God’s reaction to the scene by the river Jordan. The heavens opened, the dove descended, the Voice was heard — “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

Wow. What affirmation! He hadn’t done anything yet, but what a powerful way to start your day!

Last fall, we began working with the Vocare School here at Richmond Hill. Fifteen students from many walks of life are seeking out what comes next in their particular journey. They’ve been equipped with lots of tools for this task, but perhaps the main one is their small group discussion.

In those small group circles, souls emerge in answer to questions asked. We witness one another in ways very different from polite, perfunctory, casual encounters of the normal day to day.

We are looking for signs of the presence of God’s Holy Spirit, pointing to the emerging of the authentic in the life before us.

Look, listen, behold. And be held in the mysterious wonder of the gift of presence.

Richard Rumble
May 2014 

To be a Steward

What’s the deal with stewardship? It’s an interesting word. Steward. Sometimes, it’s a noun. Less often, it’s a verb. How does this ancient concept apply to lives lived in this millennium? As a concept, should it apply to me as I work through my discernment? How?

It’s an interesting idea. It involves action without ownership. In Bible stories things are given to a steward — tangible things, such as: a house, a vineyard, or, a sizeable sum of money. And with the tangible comes the intangible: responsibility, trust, and time. The master then departs, leaving the stewards to their own devices.

In the New Testament, one tale is sometimes referred to as the Parable of the Talents. It appears at the end of Jesus’s ministry as He heads to Jerusalem. In the 25th chapter of Matthew’s gospel, the Stewards’ tale is sandwiched between a story of readiness (Ten Bridesmaids) and an account of Final Judgment (Sheep and Goats).

Talent is the start of the narrative. Today we take talent to mean a special natural ability or apptitude for achievement. Back then, it was a measure of weight — approx. 200 pounds in gold for the ancient Hebrews. (So, at a price of $1300 an ounce, a talent of gold today could be worth 4.16 million dollars — a sizeable chunk of change!). As he heads out of town, the big man calls in his stewards, doles out the talents, and then he vanishes for a while. Upon his unexpected return, he calls them in again — “Circle up! Tell me lads, what’s been happening around here?”

Accounts are rendered. Some of the reported returns are astounding (who wouldn’t love to see such growth in a retirement portfolio?). Affirmations abound — “Well done, good and faithful servant…but wait, there’s more!” Except for the guy who played it safe. He lost everything. Harsh treatment, right?

For years, every time I read the story, I fully identified with the risk-averse steward who buried his precious talent in the ground. But what if I could identify with the other stewards — what might life look like then?

How did those stewards achieve that return, I wonder?

First, they acted. They did something. They engaged. Second, I believe they bet it all. No holding back. And why should they? Those talents were on loan, never theirs to begin with, but, theirs to do with whatever they could. Stunning freedom. Immense possibility. If only one can see the largess of the Owner. He endows, then steps aside. And longs to see what we might make out of the abundance of His generosity.

Here’s hoping for good ideas and some courage to act.

Richard Rumble
April 2014

Who am I

How do you discover, uncover, or claim one’s own gifts? In RUAH (Richmond Hill’s 2-year program in spiritual direction), we read Shame & Grace, by Lewis Smedes. As an exercise we were invited to pick one affirmation from a long list in the appendix to that book. I chose this statement (from p.168) “I am gratefully proud of being who I am and what I shall be.”

How does this statement fit my life and personal experience?

My understanding of who I am is finally becoming clearer to me. For years I have wandered, wondered and searched for an answer to: “Who am I?” During those travels I felt a lingering sense of shame because I didn’t know the answer to that particular question of identity. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy trying to understand that whiff of shame. The futility of this experience is slowly dawning on me. It’s time to get on with what I do know, and not be paralyzed by what I don’t, won’t, or can’t know.

Wow! There’s a blow for freedom. It seems my Wanderer has turned a corner and discovered a field, just like the man in the parable found in Matthew 13:44. “…the kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and hid; and for joy over it he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.”

Being who I am — is this something one lives into? The being becomes the transformation. Incremental choices are made, and then acted upon, and then, slowly I build up an edifice of life, one small action at a time, just like bricks in a wall or words in a story. Doing nothing (no thing) leaves me lifeless, nowhere. I sense optimism here as well — especially the part about becoming “what I shall be.” This involves naming and claiming. And it’s all good.

Who am I now? At this moment, I'm a writer/designer living as an urban monk in an ecumenical retreat center housed in an historic monastery. This covers what I like to do (writing & designing), as well as where I am doing it. My understanding of (my) spirituality is deepening, as well as my understanding of call.

I am grateful for my sixty+year-old frame — my body and my mind. While I’ve been contemplative in my life these last years, I have been dividing my attention among various geographies of engagement. I yearn for some focused concentration. There are multiple facets of life within Richmond Hill. There’s the communications aspect, community life, community work, plus spiritual development.

Which way to go? “You have to say no to the old ways before you can begin to find the new yes you need.” That Betty Friedan quote holds real truth. Then there’s this, from friend Annie Campbell’s reflection on transition: “Take a deep breath and breathe in the not-yet-ness of what’s coming.”

So, I am in middle passage. And so deeply grateful to be here.

I can’t wait to see what’s next.

Richard Rumble
March 2014

Becoming a player

In an unconscious searching manner, I tried a lot of things in high school, attempting to figure out who I was. Here’s the short list, in no particular order: team sports, new friends, girl friends, music, art, surfing, reading, writing, public speaking. And drama.

In the tenth grade, I was sent to a rather tony prep school in Norfolk Virginia. Compared to the local public schools it was small, but rigorous — especially in its academics and athletics. Many of the students had been together since first grade, so as a newcomer, I found acceptance to be somewhat a challenge socially. Everyone seemed to excel in something, often in more than one thing.

In the spring of eleventh grade, my best friend tried out for the school play, a Moliere comedy. We gave him a lot of grief for joining the drama kids, teasing him mercilessly. Until the show, that is. That play was an absolute riot. They brought the house down. Afterwards, I asked Tom if he had as much fun as it looked like he was having. “Definitely the most fun I’ve ever had in my life,” was his reply. And he wasn’t kidding me. That did it for me. I wanted to know what that was like. I made up my mind to try out for the next play.

So, I come to twelfth grade, and it’s senior year. A play was picked and tryouts announced. I showed up, read some lines, and, to my absolute amazement, even though I had never been on stage or in any sort of play ever, I got a part.

Before my euphoria settled, a controversy erupted. Apparently, the faculty advisor who normally oversaw the drama productions decided he was in need of a sabbatical. The administration said fine, but there’ll be no play this year.

The core drama group who had put on all the plays in previous years were not going to be denied their last opportunity for a performance in their senior year. There was a protest, of course (hey, it was the late sixties, we had to do it). And a compromise was reached. The administration allowed us to mount the show, unsupervised by any faculty. But, instead of the usual run of two nights and a matinee, we were limited to a single night’s performance. A one-night stand was it — take it, or leave it.

That is all the motivation it took. The gauntlet was thrown down. And we were going to give them a show they wouldn’t forget. The play was “The Skin of Our Teeth” by 20^th century American playwright Thornton Wilder. Its three-act structure embraced quite a narrative arc, which we enhanced with special effects worthy of a Grateful Dead concert. In the end we were treated to a standing ovation with multiple curtain calls. It was breathtaking, electrifying, exhilarating… or, at least it was for me. And depressing.

May I explain that last comment?

Here’s what really struck me about being involved in that play. First, while the sets were being built, we rehearsed off-site. We were a month or more into the production, and it was time for the actors to go “off script” — i.e. memorize your lines so the director could begin blocking the play. Everyone else knew their lines. I did not know mine. I was encouraged by the director to knuckle down and learn the lines before the next rehearsal. After showing up clearly having ignored his advice, he asked me to step outside to have a chat. Out on that porch, he got into my grill, and very directly made it clear that he had taken a big risk in casting me, that he had confidence I could do my part. But, if I was thinking this was some kind of joke, be assured that he, and the rest of the cast, were dead serious about putting on the best show they possibly could. If I was unsure about making a contribution, then now was a good time to get the hell out of the way, because nothing was going to stop this show. “Are you in? Or out?”

It was like a well-deserved slap in the face. I had witnessed that same ferocity on a football field and on a wrestling mat. This was focused energy. And it is a wonder to behold. So, yeah, I was in. I learned my part.

And secondly, I began to live into the play. Which was an awesome experience, having a part in bringing an idea that big and abstract into a concrete, living thing. It was magical. The camaraderie between cast and crew was amazing. We laughed, we cried, we joked, we worked, and we sweated. We made something incredible that spring.

When the curtain rose on Act I, I began to have an odd feeling, like side-slipping in time. With each line, each move, each scene change, I saw the pages of the script turning in my mind’s eye. It was as though the alphabet of our dialog was sand pouring through the tiny waist of a gigantic hourglass. Each line was bringing us closer to the end, that edge — final curtain.

And I hated that. I did not want this to stop. I wanted the play to go on and on. But sadly, it had to come to a close.

I was bereft. When everyone went to the cast party, I went home. My parents were surprised to see me come in so early. “Why aren’t you at the cast party?” was Mom’s question to me. “I don’t know how you do it, Mom. How can you stand the end of a show?” My mother was an actress and had lots of experience in the world of theater. “It is hard,” she said, “but there’s always another tryout. And there’s always another show.”

“Not for me,” I said in pain as I went up to bed.

I have not gone back out on stage. But my youngest daughter got into theater. Attempting to be engaged and supportive, I found myself working crew backstage on a few of her shows. And I loved every minute of it.

There are so few opportunities for most of us to make something tangible in this life. So, if you’ve got a chance to participate in a play, here’s what I say. Go for it. Take the chance. At the very least, you will experience a bonding of a different sort, a teamwork that is not about winning a game, but about making something magical. Something meaningful. Even it’s only for a handful of scenes or a few acts.

And maybe you will have the satisfying knowledge that, for however brief the moment was, “Yeah, I was a player.”

Which all of us need to know, at least once, in this lifetime.

Richard Rumble, Class of 1970, Norfolk Academy 

(a.k.a. George Antrobus in “The Skin of Our Teeth”)

Doing what needs to be done

To do what needs to be done usually requires some shifting, selecting, discerning, sorting, choosing…and those processes begin with choosing basic criteria: an inner source (for a change)? Or, outer influence (the usual)?

Who is deciding what needs to be done? Put it another way. Do I drive? Or, am I driven?

Always, there is tension here — and it’s never  exclusively one vs. the other. I have, however, on quite a few occasions, put myself into the flow of external circumstances. Falling, like a leaf, into a torrent not of my own making, but a river or stream — it can feel like someone else’s storm run-off — my day gets carried along for the curbside ride, washing down the gutter, into the drain.

Yeah, I hate when that happens. Not much fun there.

We all know how friends, family and forces outside of our selves can bring strong influence into our day-to-day routines. But what about those inner resources? Are we paying proper attention to the quiet murmurs of the heart?

Shiftings. Siftings. How to sort this stuff out. Discernment is a big question for me at the moment. Do I move toward this work? Or some other?

I guess the obvious question could be “What most captures my attention?” To hold attention is to be held. Behold is to be held! What an epiphany. But, how best to move from attention to engagement?

Make choices. Decisions. There are many opportunities for this activity every waking hour of every day. What criteria can we use? One way is to plot out important vs. not important on one axis, and urgent vs. not urgent on another axis, and see where today’s activities end up. Staying in Quadrant II is tricky, but I believe that is where the truly valuable work resides. That Quadrant II requires real vision work and real heart work.

What does your heart desire? What do you see there? Hear there? Think, or feel there? Out of that place emerges what truly needs to be done.

Lord, teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts to wisdom. —Ps. 90:12

Richard Rumble
January 2014