Monday, November 2, 2020 (today’s lectionary)
Commemoration of All Souls Day (DĂa de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead)
Coco come forth
Consolation as defined by Ignatius, first the soldier and later the saint, means “moving  toward God.” I might feel bad, I might feel good, but my feelings can be deceptive. Am I moving toward God or moving away (he called this moving away “desolation”)?
If I’m in the ocean at Waikiki and swimming toward the beach but the current is carrying me out to sea, well then, I’m moving away. And if I’m struggling to get to snorkeling depth but the waves keep washing me into the sand, then I’m moving toward. God is the beach.
They seemed in the view of the foolish, to be dead. Their passing away was thought an affliction and their leaving us, utter destruction. But they are in peace.
Last week I spent some time with John Auten, now passed away, in his casket. His life story seemed full of contradictions. consolation that looked like war and desolation that looked like peace. The purpose of Ignatius’s Spiritual Exercises is learning to discern the difference between the two. To do this, my five-hundred year old Spanish friend asks me to spend lots of time imagining myself into Bible stories, especially those of Jesus’ last days and after his resurrection.
Our hope is full of immortality. Chastised a little, we shall be greatly blessed. God tries us and finds us worthy of himself, as gold in the furnace.
Tested, tempered, true. That’s what God wanted for Ignatius and what he wants for me.
Shining in his visitation we shall shine and dart about as sparks through stubble.
How did Coco make his way through his own Day of the Dead, discern his own consolation? He began with music, and music lifted him out of his fear and doubt. Remembering his family’s music, making his own music, Coco heard the  sweet sibilance of God’s whisper over and over, “Do not be afraid. Come forth. You are my beloved.”
When I trust you, Lord, I shall understand truth.
You make me lie down in green pastures and walk with me beside quiet waters.
You still my soul.
When making a decision, Ignatius asks me to make a list of pros and cons. He asks me also to imagine what I’d tell my best friend to do. He puts me (in my imagination) on my deathbed to ask, “At the end of my life on earth, am I happy I made this choice, at the end of my life?” And most important for Ignatius, he asks me to focus on my feelings about each choice (psychologists have made a living with what they call “focusing”).
Then he asks me to spend time in the Bible story. For example, imagining myself as Simon Peter …  how did I decide to follow Jesus? What was that first night like? Then years later, what happened in the dark when I choose to deny him three times before the dawn? And then just a few weeks later when Jesus called me to his fire on the shore, how did I feel when Jesus asked me three times, “Simon, do you love me?”
Jesus says, “I will not reject anyone who comes to me because I came down from heaven not to do my own will but that of the one who sent me. Everyone who sees the Son and believes may have eternal life.”
The followers of Ignatius, who became the Society of Jesus or the Jesuits (Pope Francis is a Jesuit), call this refreshing exercise “imaginative prayer.” Using all your senses and imagination, feel the dust under your feet, breathe the fresh Galilean air into your lungs, and smell olive and caper trees baking in the sun. There is Jesus, and here are you. What happens next?
Guide me in right paths for your own name’s sake.
When I walk into the valley you are with me, your rod and staff comfort me.
You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies.
God’s table, prepared for our own wedding with Jesus, is laden with everything we need to live, and then some. The Holy Spirit calls, “Come.”
You anoint my head with oil and my cup overflows.
Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life.
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
(Wisdom 3, Psalm 23, Romans 6, Matthew 25, John 6)
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