When I was at seminary in Philadelphia, one of my favorite activities was going for long walks, especially in the evening.  But if we had a decent amount of snowfall the previous night, I might decide to change up my routine and go out in the morning.  It was on one such morning that I ventured out into a landscape glistening with ice and snow.  The whole world had been frosted with layers of confectioner’s sugar!

As I enjoyed the brisk chilly air, I encountered one of the elderly ladies from the Presbyterian Church across the street from our school.  I often sat in one of the pews in “her” part of the sanctuary.  I greeted her, and she acknowledged me, but not in the way one ordinarily does.

As she took in all that her senses were telling her about this magnificent morning, she seemed to be almost mesmerized, almost in a state of rapture.  On that snowy sidewalk in Philly, all she said was, “There is so much beauty.”  There is so much beauty.

It was as though some celestial being had parted a veil and revealed some secret splendor.  The look on her face—that moment—that’s what I remember about her.

I begin with my recollections of beauty and splendor because there’s someone else who has a little bit to say about it.  Our Old Testament reading in Isaiah describes what’s usually thought of as the call of Isaiah the prophet.  He mentions some celestial beings himself.

While in the temple, he has a vision of “the Lord sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe [or “the train of his robe”] filled the temple” (v. 1).  The Bible says that he sees “seraphim” (שְֹרׇפׅים).  These are indeed celestial beings; the word literally means “burning ones.”  The prophet says that they “were in attendance above [the Lord]; each had six wings: with two they covered their faces, and with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew” (v. 2).

This is, to say the least, an awesome sight.  I mean that in the truest sense of the word; it is an awe-inspiring sight, a fearsome sight.  Here’s some of that beauty and splendor I just mentioned.  These creatures call to one another, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory” (v. 3).

And if that’s not enough, in his vision, his trance—whatever it is—the whole place begins to violently shake and fill with smoke.  In their purest state, beauty and splendor are actually quite terrifying to us mere mortals!

In the temple, images of the cherubim were placed above the ark of the covenant.  No one really knows the difference between a cherub and a seraph—or if they’re even angels.[1]  It’s possible they’re beings even more powerful than angels, even closer to God!

Whatever the case, the prophet is in the temple, gazing at these engravings.  And he sees them moving!  He hears them singing!  One of them even speaks to him, and he feels it touch his lips with a red hot coal!

You know, there are a number of hallucinogenic substances, as well as certain mental disorders, that could explain these events.  (I won’t say if I’m speaking from personal experience!)  Still, throughout the ages, there have been mystics and prophets with similar experiences.  Look at what happens to the prophet Ezekiel almost two centuries later.  (In chapter 1, some people say he saw a space ship!)

And a word on mystics: this isn’t some spooky reference to someone with magical powers.  Rather, a mystic is one with what’s been called “a long loving look at the real.”[2]

I think it’s safe to say that Isaiah lives a life in which he is more attuned to sensing and noticing things others miss.  He lives a life in which he looks and listens for God.  And in our scripture text, he is worshiping.  It’s been noted that he is “hyperaware.”[3]  He is fully present to what is going on.

“The Prophet Isaiah,” Marc Chagall (1887-1985)

Recalling that Pentecost was last Sunday, we also have the ability to be present to what the Holy Spirit is saying.  After all, that is the point of worship—to pay attention to God in a loving, expectant way.  Having said that, if the figures in the stained-glass windows do not speak and make gestures, I think that would be okay!

There’s something we need to keep in mind regarding the prophet and his vision and his call, and that is: this isn’t just about him.  Isaiah hasn’t been given this blast of enlightenment and wisdom so that he can reassure himself that he’s such a spiritual guy.  This isn’t something he’s supposed to keep to himself, as he is painfully aware.  (I’ll say more about that in a moment.)

In fact, with the first few words of verse 1, we’re already confronted with the larger community.  When does Isaiah have this experience?  When does he receive his call?  “In the year that King Uzziah died.”  Sometimes we’re told stuff like that just as a way to mark the date.  This thing happened at that time.

But Uzziah (also known as Azariah) isn’t just any king.  At the time of his death, Uzziah has been king of Judah for over fifty years.  For most of the people, he’s the only king they’ve ever known.  And now, he is gone.  When a long-reigning leader leaves the scene, there can be a sense of uncertainty, even fear.

Uzziah is remembered as devoted to the Lord, but with limits.  He builds up the army, and he defeats the surrounding enemies.  Unfortunately, as often happens with militarily-powerful nations, their priorities become skewed toward the wealthy.  And so we have Isaiah.  “In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord.”

It’s often said of prophets that their job is to afflict the comfortable and to comfort the afflicted.  This is where we get to what I said earlier, about Isaiah’s knowing that he can’t keep his experience to himself—as he is painfully aware!  He cries out during his vision, “Woe is me!  I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!” (v. 5).

In response to this business about unclean lips, the seraph has him kiss a burning ember.  That’s some pretty fierce hygiene.

Isaiah is keenly aware of his unworthiness for what the Lord calls him to do.  But this act of divine intervention comes with the reassurance, “Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out” (v. 7).  The Lord huddles up with the seraphim and wonders aloud, “Do you have any ideas about who we should send?”

by Rob Joseph robs-art-blog.blogspot.com/2013/10/painting-isaiah-62-3.html

In a little while, we’ll sing the hymn, “Here I Am, Lord.”  Isaiah volunteers for the mission—but what a mission it is.  At this point, I need to interject something.  This last part of the chapter isn’t in today’s lectionary reading.  As I’ve mentioned / complained before, the embarrassing / troublesome verses are frequently omitted.

When we read it, it looks like Isaiah is being sent on a fool’s errand.  Or maybe it’s a suicide mission!  One thing’s for sure: this will not look good on his resumé!

What is this crazy assignment?  The Lord tells the prophet, “Go and say to this people: ‘Keep listening, but do not comprehend; keep looking, but do not understand.’”  Okay, not too bad so far.  But then we hear, “Make the mind of this people dull, and stop their ears, and shut their eyes, so that they may not look with their eyes, and listen with their ears, and comprehend with their minds, and turn and be healed” (vv. 9-10).  Now this really is a troublesome one!

It looks like the prophet’s job is to make sure that the people keep going in the wrong direction!  “Make sure that their minds are dull, their ears are deaf, and their eyes are blind.  Otherwise,” God is apparently saying, “if they do wake up and repent, you will have failed your mission.”

Here’s how the Revised English Bible puts it: “This people’s wits are dulled; they have stopped their ears and shut their eyes.”  Read this way, God isn’t commanding the prophet to confuse the people.  It’s simply a statement of fact; it’s what they’ve done to themselves.

Still, there is a sense in which sharing the light with those in love with the dark will bring confusion.  It’s even necessary.  It’s not an act of punishment, rather it’s one of tough love, so to speak.  Even those on the right path—those who love and seek God—sometimes experience what the mystics call “the dark night of the soul.”  This is when there is no understanding, no light, no way forward.

In any event, it seems clear that Isaiah is aware of things the people around him are not.  They have narrowed their minds; they’ve chosen to be narrow-minded.  Where the people around him see (and participate in) the grim cynicism of the day, Isaiah is able to see glory everywhere.  “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.”  Hearing that is a gift of grace.

On that snowy morning in Philadelphia, I don’t know to what extent my older sister was a mystic or prophet, but I do consider that moment in time to be a gift of grace.  Her wondrous proclamation that “there is so much beauty” was, to me, a message from heaven.

Maybe it was even a kairos moment, a moment of timelessness, a moment from God.

What about us?  Can we see ourselves as mystics and prophets?  Or maybe I should put it this way: can we see ourselves living out our calling, our vocation, to be mystics and prophets?  And what does that even mean?  Does it seem too far-fetched, too unreal?

Sister Judette Gallares

Judette Gallares talks about this in her article “Opening the Heart to Listen: Becoming Mystics and Prophets Today.”  She says that the mystical, “prophetic task requires friendship with God, an authentic intimacy with God.  It is in this intimacy when a deep friendship is developed in quiet moments and where one learns to share heart to heart with God and begins to see and hear from God’s point of view.”  And like I said earlier, that doesn’t mean we have to see inanimate objects in motion!

If we sing the hymn, “Here I Am, Lord,” and live into it, then that requires action on our part—although it’s not the mindless, blind, and deaf action Isaiah criticizes.  It requires taking a risk.  Sometimes it is easier to say, “Here I am Lord…but please send somebody else!”

As mystics and prophets we must ask the difficult questions.  Can we venture into the unknown, trusting God and seeking new opportunities presented as we live the life of Christ in community?  The temptation is to wait—to play it safe.  When we don’t answer the call to take a risk, we miss out on the glory everywhere.

Here’s the last verse of “Here I Am, Lord”: “I, the Lord of wind and flame, / I will tend the poor and lame. / I will set a feast for them, / My hand will save. / Finest bread I will provide / Till their hearts be satisfied. / I will give my life to them. / Whom shall I send?”

Isaiah enters deeply into prayer.  He has a new vision.  We have a new vision.  When everything seems and is dark, we find glory everywhere.

[1] כְּרום  cherub

[2] www.ignatianspirituality.com/6277/a-long-loving-look-at-the-real

[3] www.drbilllong.com/Lectionary/Is6II.html

St. Lydia and her household are baptized in the reading from Acts 16.  Her feast day is August 3.  That just happens to be the date when I was baptized.  In fact, I still have the shirt I was wearing when I was baptized.  It was the upper half of some blue surgical scrubs.  It’s a bit raggedy now, and it has some green stains due to a summer job I had a few years later, painting machines for a factory.

I begin with this talk about baptism, because the story of Lydia—her story of baptism and the change of heart and mind that goes with it—is a key moment in the early church.

Here’s why.  Earlier in chapter 16, the apostle Paul is in Asia Minor, where he has a vision in the night of a Macedonian man who says, “Come over to Macedonia and help us” (v. 9).  So Paul makes his first journey to Europe.  He and his friends go to Philippi, where they encounter Lydia and her friends.

After they part company with Lydia, Paul and his group meet a slave girl who we’re told can predict the future.  There is a spirit of divination within her.  The girl’s owners use her as a fortune teller, and the biggest fortune is the one they make off her!  After a few days of her pointing out that Paul and his friends are “slaves of the Most High God,” the apostle gets irritated and casts the spirit out of her (v. 17).

Seeing that their source of income has been cast to the winds, her owners grab Paul and his friend Silas, have them viciously beaten, and tossed into jail.  To make a long story short, that night there’s an earthquake which knocks all the doors loose, but Paul and Silas refuse to escape.

In the morning, the magistrates—the local Roman officials—find out that Paul and Silas are Roman citizens, and they have rights.  The order that they be arrested and beaten was an illegal one, so they want Paul and Silas to leave town quickly and quietly.  (This kind of stuff ruins careers!)  But Paul says, “Are you serious?  I’m not moving an inch until they come and apologize!”  That takes some guts.

After that, they still have one more stop to make.  They can’t take off without saying goodbye to Lydia.  So we come full circle back to this woman whose name has been preserved for us, and that’s a rarity with women in the Bible.

So who is Lydia?  The first thing we learn about her is that Paul meets her at “a place of prayer” on the sabbath (v. 13).  That would sound right, since we’re told she’s “a worshiper of God” (v. 14).  That’s a term used to describe the so-called “God-fearers.”  They were Gentiles who admired and followed the Jewish faith.  We’re also told she is “a dealer in purple cloth.”  That’s a lucrative trade, so she’s got to have some money.

What’s so remarkable about this godly woman of means?  The scriptures say that the “Lord opened her heart to listen eagerly to what was said by Paul” (v. 14).  In his paraphrase called The Message, Eugene Peterson says, “As she listened with intensity to what was being said, the Master gave her a trusting heart—and she believed!”

There’s a theme of listening.  Why is listening so important?  Why do we listen?  Do we listen?  We listen to go deeper.  We listen to go deeper into life, to not stay at the surface of life.

What is the result of Lydia’s listening?  It’s her conversion.  In her essay, “Opening the Heart to Listen: Becoming Mystics and Prophets Today,” Judette Gallares says conversion “involves much more than a moment, it is a process which involves long periods of time…  It involves relationships that…are woven into [our] life story.”[1]

She uses Lydia’s conversion story to describe how all of us are called to be both mystics (those with a direct, loving experience of God) and prophets (those who address our society with the word from God, however that happens).  We might think of it as the inner and outer life.

Lydia does a very good job of this with her hospitality.  There’s more to that than serving tea and cookies!  “Part of the practice of hospitality during that time was to offer a safe haven for one’s guests, especially when there was an immediate possibility of real danger to them.”  Remember verse 40, when she welcomes Paul and his friends after they’re released from prison—on the condition that they get the heck out of Dodge?

It takes a certain depth of spirit, a certain willingness to listen, to demonstrate the courage that Lydia does.

Gallares puts it this way: “In today’s fragmented world, which [has] different levels and degrees of homelessness, our mystic spirit, our sense of ‘belonging to God’ must open us up to others and to the world, to offer ourselves, our communities and our planet earth as a hospitable place for humanity and the whole of God’s creation.”

We all experience homelessness to a degree, even if we’ve never been without physical shelter.  As humans, we often feel alienated; we feel like aliens, even to ourselves.  We feel like we’re in a foreign land.  We’re like Moses: I’ve been a stranger in a strange land! (Ex 2:22).  As Christians, the waters of baptism carry us to our homeland.

Gallares, like Lydia, is well aware of the risks involved.  Being from the third world (the Philippines)—as well as being a woman—she understands the dangers of violence and terrorism.  Still, she asks the question: “How can we listen with an open heart, willing to understand where the other is coming from?  This is the true spirit of hospitality.  It is not abrogated when there is danger or differences, but only at that moment proves itself to be genuine hospitality.”

How can we imitate that Lydian listening here, in this church and in our community?  Remember, this involves being both mystic and prophet.  It involves finding that place within ourselves and within the community, the world around us.  It’s not either/or; it’s both/and.

Franciscan priest Richard Rohr, on this subject of listening, mentions what he calls “three gates” through which our words should pass.[2] 

First, we have to ask ourselves, “Is what I’m saying really true?  If it’s not true, then, of course, don’t bother.”  The second gate has us ask, “Is it loving?  Am I about to say something that will build up life and trust, or will it tear them down?”  He says the third gate is “probably the most difficult,” and I agree!  “Is what I am about to say really that necessary?  If it’s not, why clutter up the moment with more words and more noise competing for space and attention?”

So to sum up: is it true; is it loving; and is it necessary?  Imagine how our private and public discourse would look, including the internet (including Facebook and Twitter), if we took those things to heart!

We see this modeled by our government and our mass media.  The pundits and experts sit at tables and begin debates which often turn into shouting matches.  They’re already thinking about what they want to say next.  Sometimes they are literally talking at the same time, and it can go on for a while.  I like it when they go to split screen and have two, three, four, or even more people all wanting to get their two cents’ worth in.

We talk at each other, but not with each other.

Do you remember the show The A-Team?  Mr. T played B. A. Baracus.  I don’t remember much about that show, but I do remember one of B. A.’s favorite lines: “Quit your jibba jabba!”  Using myself as an example, I’ve spewed more than my share of jibba jabba.  And shockingly enough, there is actually jibba jabba in the church!

Again I ask, why is listening so important?  Why do we listen?

Listening is the posture of faith.  Before speaking—before speaking even good words—we have to listen.  We have to listen to hear the call to conversion—the call to baptism—the call to ongoing conversion.  We must listen for the word of God.  We must listen like Lydia.

That involves more than keeping our traps shut while someone else is speaking.  There is that internal narrative, those words and images that run through our minds.  We especially notice them when we’re trying to silently pray or to meditate.  It’s best to not hang on to them or examine them, but to let them flow through us like leaves in the wind.  (It’s not easy, I’ll admit.  It takes a lot of practice.)

Imagine the reward when we take hold of that.  Look at the great gift Lydia gave to the early church—and to the world.  When we imitate Lydia’s listening, we also give a great gift to the world, to each other, and to ourselves.  However it happens, may we be open to the Spirit of Christ and listen.  Just listen.

[1] www.cori.ie/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/judette-gallares-rc.pdf

[2] Richard Rohr, On the Threshold of Transformation (Chicago: Loyola Press, 2010), 341.

I have a special affinity for St. Lydia. Her feast day is on August 3rd, which was the date of my baptism! We find the story of her conversion and baptism in the book of Acts chapter 16:

“We set sail from Troas and took a straight course to Samothrace, the following day to Neapolis, and from there to Philippi, which is a leading city of the district of Macedonia and a Roman colony. We remained in this city for some days. On the sabbath day we went outside the gate by the river, where we supposed there was a place of prayer; and we sat down and spoke to the women who had gathered there. A certain woman named Lydia, a worshiper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira and a dealer in purple cloth. The Lord opened her heart to listen eagerly to what was said by Paul. When she and her household were baptized, she urged us, saying, ‘If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come and stay at my home.’ And she prevailed upon us.”

The story of Lydia is a key moment in the early church. Earlier in chapter 16, the apostle Paul is in Asia Minor, where he has a vision in the night of a Macedonian man who says, “Come over to Macedonia and help us” (v. 9). So Paul makes his first journey to Europe. He and his friends go to Philippi, where they encounter Lydia and her friends.  After they part company with Lydia, Paul and his group meet a slave girl who we’re told can predict the future. There is a spirit of divination within her. The girl’s owners use her as a fortune teller, and the biggest fortune is the one they make off her! After a few days of her pointing out that Paul and his friends are “slaves of the Most High God,” the apostle gets irritated and casts the spirit out of her (v. 17).

Seeing that their source of income has been cast to the winds, her owners grab Paul and his friend Silas, stir up the crowd to beat them, and have them tossed into jail. To make a long story short, that night there’s an earthquake which knocks all the doors loose, but Paul and Silas refuse to escape. In the morning, the magistrates—the local Roman officials—find out that they have illegally ordered the arrest and beating of Roman citizens. Relatively few residents of the empire are citizens. And they do have certain rights. The magistrates want Paul and Silas to get out of town quickly and quietly.

But Paul says, “Are you serious? I’m not moving an inch until they come and apologize in front of everyone!” It’s only then that they agree to leave. But they still have one more stop to make. Before taking off, who do they insist on seeing? Lydia—and the young church that is now meeting in her home. So we come full circle back to this woman whose name has been preserved for us. (That’s a rarity with women in the Bible.)

So who is Lydia? The first thing we learn about her is that Paul meets her at “a place of prayer” on the sabbath (v. 13). That would sound right, since we’re told she’s “a worshiper of God” (v. 14). That’s a term used to describe the so-called “God-fearers.” They were Gentiles who admired the Jewish faith and followed it as best they could. We’re also told she is “a dealer in purple cloth.” That’s a lucrative trade, so she must have some money.

So what’s so remarkable about this godly woman of means? While we’re finding out who she is, we also find out what’s happening with her. She “was listening to us” and that the “Lord opened her heart to listen eagerly to what was said by Paul.” There’s a theme of listening.

Why is listening so important? Why do we listen? Do we listen?

We listen to go deeper. We listen to go deeper into life, to not stay at the surface of life. What is the result of Lydia’s listening? It’s her conversion.

True conversion is an ongoing conversion. In her essay, “Opening the Heart to Listen: Becoming Mystics and Prophets Today,” Judette Gallares says conversion “involves much more than a moment, it is a process which involves long periods of time…  It involves relationships that…are woven into [our] life story.”

She uses Lydia’s conversion story to describe how all of us are called to be both mystics (those with a direct, loving experience of God) and prophets (those who address our world with the word from God). We might think of it as the inner and outer life.

Lydia does a very good job of this with her hospitality. There’s more to that than serving tea and cookies! “Part of the practice of hospitality during that time was to offer a safe haven for one’s guests, especially when there was an immediate possibility of real danger to them.” In Acts 16:40, Lydia welcomes Paul and his friends after they’re released from prison. 

It takes a certain depth of spirit, a certain willingness to listen, to demonstrate the courage that Lydia finds. Gallares frames hospitality in these terms: “In today’s fragmented world, which [has] different levels and degrees of homelessness, our mystic spirit, our sense of ‘belonging to God’ must open us up to others and to the world, to offer ourselves, our communities and our planet earth as a hospitable place for humanity and the whole of God’s creation.”

We all experience homelessness to a degree, even if we’ve never been without physical shelter. As humans, we often feel alienated; we feel like aliens, even to ourselves. We feel like we’re in a foreign land. We’re like Moses: I’ve been a stranger in a strange land! (Ex 2:22).

As Christians, the waters of baptism carry us to our homeland. Gallares, like Lydia, is well aware of the risks involved. Being from the third world (the Philippines)—as well as being a woman—she understands the dangers of violence and terrorism. Still, she asks the question: “How can we listen with an open heart, willing to understand where the other is coming from? This is the true spirit of hospitality. It is not [removed] when there is danger or differences, but only at that moment proves itself to be genuine hospitality.”

How can we imitate that Lydian listening in the Church?

It involves being both mystic and prophet. It involves finding that place within ourselves and within the community, the world around us. It’s not either/or; it’s both/and.

One time I had a quite curious dream. Or to be more precise, it was in that in-between land where you’re just about to go to sleep, but it feels like a dream. Anyway, I seemed to be aware of what I was talking about a moment ago: why we listen. I imagined that I was living on the surface of life, like floating on water, and that I needed to go deeper. I’m reminded of something Thomas Merton wrote in the 1950s. It’s in his book, The Sign of Jonas, which was a journal he kept during his first years after moving to the monastery in Kentucky.

Praying to God, he laments the noisiness he finds within himself. One might say that he recognizes his own living on the surface of life and his need to go deeper. “You have made my soul for Your peace and Your silence,” he says, “but it is lacerated by the noise of my activity and my desires. My mind is crucified all day by its own hunger for experience, for ideas, for satisfaction. And I do not possess my house in silence…

“I am content that these pages show me to be what I am—noisy, full of the racket of my imperfections and passions, and the wide open wounds left by my sins. Full of my own emptiness. Yet, ruined as my house is, You live there!” (47)

Ruined as the house that all of us are, God lives there.

Hearing these words coming from a monk lets me know: I am not alone in my noise and refusal to listen. Many times in our culture, politics, religious discourse we see the refusal to listen—people talking at each other, but not with each other. As a consequence, people get hurt. It looks like people will continue to be hurt.

Using myself as an example, I can be so darn convinced that I’m right that I wind up doing some pretty terrible things. So, again I ask, why is listening so important? Why do we listen?

Listening is the posture of faith. Before speaking—before speaking even good words—we must listen. We must listen to hear the call to conversion—the call to baptism—the call to ongoing conversion. We must listen for the word of God.

As oblates of St. Benedict, Banu and I pay special attention to how he begins his Rule:

“Listen carefully, my child, to my instructions, and attend to them with the ear of your heart. This is advice from one who loves you; welcome it, and faithfully put it into practice. The labor of obedience will bring you back to God from whom you had drifted through the sloth of disobedience. This message of mine is for you, then, if you are ready to give up your own will, once and for all, and armed with the strong and noble weapons of obedience to do battle for Jesus, the Christ.”

Listen carefully, my child, to my instructions, and attend to them with the ear of your heart.

We must listen like Lydia.