Clearing a Space to Live Attentively

“I spend a lot of time in deep contemplation, mostly wondering where I left my keys.” – Author Unknown

Rainin’ Fire in the Sky

One of my all-time, most favorite songs ever, ever, ever, is Rocky Mountain High by the wonderfully sappy, John Denver. Check out these brilliant lyrics to start the 1972 top ten hit:

He was born in the summer of his twenty-seventh year

Coming home to a place he’d never been before

He left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again

You might say he found the key to every door

I've often wondered why this song resonates so deeply with me. I don't think it's just because of its ties to nature, or the music, or even the 70s nostalgia. I think it's because John Denver had a way of capturing something extraordinarily rare. To put it simply, I’d say he lived a contemplative life. Before we explore what this means, let’s see where the idea began.

The Wand Chooses the Wizard (#sorrynotsorry)

Imagine standing on a quiet hillside just before sunrise in ancient Rome. The world is still but one man has already begun his work. He’s called an augur. Using a lituus, a slender wooden wand with a curved end, he marks out an imaginary sacred space in the sky called a templum. Then, he waits and watches. He considers the birds. He notices the wind. He pays close attention to the subtle rhythms of the natural world within the templum, believing that careful observation can reveal divine guidance. His task isn't to force meaning, but to become receptive to it.

This practice came to be known as “contemplatio” and eventually, contemplation. The word is built from the Latin, con (with) and templum (a sacred space marked for observation). Early Christians embraced this term but radically reimagined it’s meaning. The sacred space was no longer a section of the sky; it became the human heart. The careful observation of nature and omens gave way to a gentle watchfulness of thoughts, emotions, and, above all, the quiet inner presence of God. Contemplation became less about looking for signs "out there" and more about becoming deeply attentive to the sacred within.

By Thought, Never (#cloudofunknowing)

Let's assume for a minute there's a God. Big assumption, I know. If it’s true, what can we actually say with confidence? Surprisingly little. One of the few notions mystics across the ages have consistently agreed upon is that God is ineffable, beyond all words and concepts. Simply put, ALL ideas of God are NOT God. Let that sink in…

One of my all-time favorite lines about this comes from James Finley’s sharing of St. John of the Cross. He says, “Trying to name God is like trying to put the ocean into a thimble.” It can’t be done. Interestingly, this is similar in meaning to the Hindu phrase, “Neti, neti”, which essentially means, God is “Not this, not that.”

By Love, in Unknowing

Ah, but if God is indescribable, what comes next is astonishing. The mystics say we can encounter this Great Love hidden deep within us. How can this be? Entire libraries have been written about this, but the idea in a nutshell is: experience is a different way of knowing.

So, if it’s true that “God” dwells secretly within us, can we really experience this in relationship? Yes. This is exactly what Christian mystics point to. Few have described this interior landscape with more clarity and beauty than the twentieth-century Trappist monk, Thomas Merton. Here’s how he puts it:

“At the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind or the brutalities of our own will. This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty is the pure glory of God in us. It is so to speak His name written in us, as our poverty, as our indigence, as our dependence, as our sonship. It is like a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely ... I have no program for this seeing. It is only given. But the gate of heaven is everywhere.”

Wow. I’ll have what he’s having.

Who Will Milk the Cow? (#oldenglishproverb)

This God-stupor sounds great for church-folk, but seriously, who’s going to do the dishes and get groceries? Or marvel at the sunset and imbibe in a bit of scotch? If we’re in a God-stupor, who’s going to do the real work of living?

I don’t know about you, but I want it all. In improv theatre there’s a rule called, “Yes, and…” For improv to work, actors must cooperate with one another to move the skit along. They build on positive synergy because resistance kills forward momentum and the plot crumbles.

Contemplative living is “Yes, and…” It’s Great Love in creative expression, here and now. Paula D’Arcy says, “God shows up disguised as our life.” This is not rhetoric, cliché, or some Jedi mind trick. It’s contemplative living. God isn’t some mystery out there, but relational love in this very moment expressing itself as everything we are and everything we encounter. It’s unthinkable... and true.

WWJD?

So, do I really believe John Denver lived a contemplative life? Well, he wasn’t perfect. Good thing that’s not a requirement. In his own words, he’d say his songs came from somewhere he didn’t understand but felt deep within. In another of my JD favorites, he wrote about finding the divine in “singing skies and dancing waters, laughing children, growing old.  And in the heart and in the spirit. And in the truth when it is told.”

In this, I hear an echo of Paula D’Arcy, “God shows up disguised as our life.” It sure sounds like he cleared a space to listen attentively, allowing essence to live through ego. Yes, and… what more could we want?

Peace out,