Wednesday - March 19, 2025

READING  Contemplative practice is a “heart-centered knowing that is receptive rather than grasping, intuitive rather than logical, and a slow ripening rather than a quick fix. In this inner spaciousness we begin to transform our wounded and broken places to remember our original wholeness. Slowly we become people who live in and respond to the world through love. Becoming people who live in the fullness of love is the deepest hunger of all. “ Christine Valters Paintner WORDS OF HOPE In this year’s Lenten book study, deeply rooted in contemplative practice, one of the weekly exercises is lectio divina, a type of holy reading, for passages from the desert fathers and mothers. Recently after a story in which Abba Arsenius is held up as an icon, Paintner asks us to “imagine that [the Abba ] blesses you with simplicity and openness. He extends his hands to you and offers the gift of a handmade empty clay bowl. Receive it in your open hands and spend a few moments pondering the inner spaciousness the bowl creates.” I didn’t have to imagine; I knew that bowl: my Hopi Heart Bowl, as I call it, brought back from the Old Oraibi community in Arizona many years ago and used in classes and groups over decades to hold prayer requests, forgiveness needs, and the names of loved ones who have died. This season I sit with it during my morning prayer time. Running my hands over its sides, I feel the contours of the cool clay and seek out the one hairline crack in the upper edge. I remember standing in the home of the woman who made the bowl with her own hands. She was not a famous potter, but one who lovingly created it and painted the black heart designs in the Hopi style. When I discovered the crack, for a moment I was tempted to set it back on the shelf, but quickly, without fully knowing why, decided to purchase it—beautiful and flawed together. Now I hold it before me in prayer asking God to let its emptiness teach me what I need to know this Lent. Emptiness—what is it to me? Lack, or need, or loneliness—being without, a kind of poverty. And yet there’s an openness and spaciousness as well. At these associations, tears gather along my eyelids—both grief and gratitude flowing. To try to stop the pain that comes, we often fill up our bowls with media addictions, food, multi-tasking, working ourselves into exhaustion. But here is a call to allow the pain of this emptiness that I might know the fullness of what only God can give. As I open to the meaning of this practice during Lent, one scripture from Philippians 2 comes clearly to mind: “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.” PRAYER This Lent, O God, let us sit with open hands, empty hands before you, that our hearts may be transformed in your love. Amen. DEVOTION AUTHOR Dr Pat Saxon