Presence

Outside on a recent morning, everything felt so much more alive. Despite an enveloping fog, the evergreens appeared greener; even bare trunks and branches seemed awake, not dormant. Of course, little had changed in the previous 24 hours—but at some level, and for some unknown reason, I had. The difference wasn’t what I was seeing, but how—with eyes that were considerably more attentive.

“All presence depends on consciousness,” writes John O’Donohue in Anam Cara. “Where consciousness is dulled, distant, or blind, the presence grows faint and vanishes.”

I’m guessing the same could be said of God. Where consciousness is dulled, distant, or blind (as is so often the case in a world fraught with distraction), God’s presence grows faint and vanishes. So, finding God is a matter of staying alert. It’s not a question of God’s proximity, but rather our openness.

Asked why the kingdom of God can’t be seen, Jesus explained, “The kingdom of God is in you.” (Luke 17:20-21). If that’s the case, we do well to foster awareness.

I received a compelling holiday note from a former sister-in-law, who shared her evolving emotions following the suicide of her son, Brandon, nearly two years ago. Kathy believes that Brandon, like God, remains ever present. “I feel a closeness,” she wrote, “that I had never felt before. I see the world so much differently—and when times get tough, something happens to remind me he is right here with me, and somehow everything seems like it will be okay.”

Kathy’s on to something—and I sense her insight extends beyond the spirits of departed loved ones. So much more might be similarly palpable, if we invite the possibility.  

Cultivating such openness is good practice for the trip. Whenever I do, it seems God is everywhere. At the end of the road, that would be quite a discovery.

Receptivity

It was just before closing on a Saturday afternoon at the Fat City Café in Portland’s Multnomah Village. Finishing her shift, the waitress laughed, “Now I’m going to church.” Noticing the puzzled look on my face, she pointed to the adjacent pub and winked. Then I laughed. “That’s what I used to tell my kids, too,” she added.

Several days later, I asked a Franciscan nun where she finds God. “In rural Vermont,” she quickly replied. “In the young students at our Montessori School,” she said after further thought. “And at our community home in the Columbia River Gorge.” Conspicuously, she didn’t mention church. 

I’m most struck by Matthew Bierschbach’s observation the night after Thanksgiving. We met over a potluck dinner at St John’s Episcopal Church in Minneapolis. Taking up where my Franciscan friend left off, he said, almost sheepishly, “There’s no place God isn’t.” He continued, “The connection to God is more like a volume control than a plug.” When I asked if he meant a tuning dial that could be adjusted to find the right station, he countered, “No—there’s more than one right station. There are many stations—different frequencies for different folks. The sound just gets louder or softer depending on our receptivity.” 

That reminded me of Rilke’s advice to the young poet. “If your everyday life seems poor,” Rilke wrote, “don’t blame it; blame yourself, admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches, because for the creator there is no poverty and no poor, indifferent place.”

Cultivating such receptivity—recognizing that there is no poor, indifferent place—isn’t easy. Especially this time of year, when it seems each task I complete on my holiday “TO DO” list is replaced by two new ones.

And yet, if I’m to believe Matthew, there’s no place God isn’t. Tuning in—and turning up the volume—is ultimately up to me.