IT NEVER RAINS BUT IT POURS

“Now I live; yet not I, but Christ in me” (Galatians 2:20).  This text had long fascinated me, like its counterpart “Your life is hid with Christ in God” (Colossians 3:3). And then, recently, I got an inkling of its meaning, or at least of one of its meanings. Life, in its daily round, had been weighting me down, and it was all beginning to feel like one of the grimmer bits from Ecclesiastes. I prayed, as usual, to be taught the Prayer of the Heart, the prayer that prays even when we are not praying; and then, in a few moments, I remembered what I had written about a long time ago: our doors and shutters.

In the Angelus, we pray that God may “pour Thy grace into our hearts”. I’ve always loved that verb and that image. And it occurred to me that in fact that pouring is going on all the time. We live in a perpetual monsoon of grace: pouring out grace upon those He loves is what God does. And when we feel deprived of it, it is usually we who are, with a complex system of shutters and barriers, keeping it out.

If, for once, you don’t, you wake up in the morning and, as a Carthusian put it, you savour the immense gift you are being given, at this precise moment: one whole day. A whole day, of life, of love, of work, of thanksgiving. You give thanks, and you pray that you may not in this day close off your heart and keep out the outpouring that is heading for you. And as you do so, you can hear the faint creak of shutters opening. Some of them are old, fairly massive and jammed shut: they need real effort to dislodge. Some are charming, and part of you opens them with regret: they let through just the tiniest ray of light, in which dust motes danced so prettily; but they too can and must be flung wide.

And as they open, the tide of grace flows in, and you are suddenly filled with a morning sunshine of joy – which will last you all day, if you keep strong winds from closing the shutters again. And as this happens and you revisit that joy from hour to hour, you realise that the less of “you” gets in the way of the flood, the happier the real you will be.

It is “I” that keeps God out all the time. So if I can get “I” out of the way, then grace, i.e. God, can come in. And the result will be, in at least one sense, like Galatians 2:20: “Now I live; yet not I, but Christ in me.” If I can empty the clutter and open the shutters, there will at last be room for Him.

WHEN SHUTTERS CREAK AND WINDOWS STICK

                                            

The theme of this week, in both Anglican and Roman Catholic churches, seems to be openness to the loving approach of God. I find this particularly opportune, as it has been cropping up in my own meditation for some time now. An analogy occurs to me which, like all analogies, is fallible but still apt and instructive. Even as a child, I always found wonderful the fact that we are surrounded by invisible radio waves and that we have but to turn on a radio for all these programmes to become real, audible and (usually) intelligible. Perhaps the Holy Spirit is like this. Perhaps we are surrounded by Him at all times and have but to turn on (it's instructive that in French the word for "to turn on" is "to open") something in our heart to receive Him: His programme, His teaching, His support, His love. Completely different from "seeking God".

Spiritus Sanctus has always been my instinctive favourite person of the Trinity. But it is curious to see how He is spoken of in the New Testament. In both the Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles, the Holy Spirit is somewhere between a He and an It, not quite a person, rather a force: very specific, circumscribed, almost concrete. Yeshua or one of the Apostles breathes on you and you receive the spiritus -- which, after all, is pneuma, ruach: breath, wind, or spirit. And receiving that spirit, that force, enables you to do things impossible before: preach the Word to hostile and sometimes lethal audiences, tread on serpents and drink poison without coming to harm. May the Force be with you -- in you, indeed.

For the true understanding of the Holy Ghost as a person we have Athanasius and the Cappdocian Fathers -- Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nyssa and Gregory of Nazianze -- to thank. I used to think that the Athanasian Creed, as printed in the Book of Common Prayer, was a rebarbative and most unattractive text; later I discovered how much serious and magnificent thought and devotion it contains. And the three Cappadocians richly repay far more attention that we are wont to give them. Here is a typically gorgeous passage from Gregory of Nazianzus:

Look at these facts: Christ is born, the Holy Spirit is His Forerunner. Christ is baptized, the Spirit bears witness to this ... Christ works miracles, the Spirit accompanies them. Christ ascends, the Spirit takes His place. What great things are there in the idea of God which are not in His power? What titles appertaining to God do not apply also to Him, except for Unbegotten and Begotten? I tremble when I think of such an abundance of titles, and how many Names they blaspheme, those who revolt against the Spirit!

I have always found it difficult -- and have written so here before -- to assimilate the currently-common idea that the Spirit is the love between the Father and the Son. It is a tempting thought in some ways, but a love that is a relationship cannot, surely, be a Person? The idea stems, I imagine, from the Filioque clause, which holds that "the Spirit proceedeth from the Father and the Son" and not, as in Orthodox Christianity, from the Father alone. The Orthodox consider that as a result Western Christianity underestimates the Spirit; and I wonder if they may not be right. 

If it is the Holy Spirit that surrounds us and seeks us, we should do well to ask Him to open our shutters, our windows and our doors so that we may receive Him -- a paradox, but such opening is not something we can do by ourselves. And there is no contradiction there with, say, Holman Hunt's painting of Jesus standing at the door and knocking, for the Spirit and the Son, and the Father, are one God, and when one knocks, the Trinity knocks. Let us open: a little chink will do. Give the Spirit an inch, He will take a mile. Maranatha!