Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

Even if I don't see it again - nor ever feel it  I know it is - and that if once it hailed me  it ever does- And so it is myself I want to turn in that direction not as towards a place, but it was a tilting  within myself,    as one turns a mirror to flash the light to where it isn't - I was blinded like that - and swam in what shone at me    only able to endure  it by being no one and so specifically myself I thought I'd die from being loved like that. 

Early morning darkness beckons. Wrapped in robe and last-quarter moonlight, I stand, pulled by a cold simplicity toward the threshold of myself - edge of starlight, edge of stable - where resounds the ancient Gloria.

You can prepare but still it will come to you by surprise crossing through your doorway, calling your name in greeting, turning like a child which quickens suddenly within you. It will astonish you how wide your heart will open in welcome for the joy that finds you so ready and still so unprepared.

It's not only Who was born in Mary's womb fifteen hundred years ago, but Who is being born in your womb now?

We are all meant to be mothers of God. And since that is true, what good is it to me if this eternal birth of the divine Son takes place unceasingly but does not take place within myself? And what good is it if Mary is full of grace if I am not also full of grace? What good is it to me for the Creator to give birth to his Son if I also do not give birth to him in my time and culture? This, then, is the fulness of time. When the Son of God is begotten in us.

Before supper in the upper room, breakfast in the barn. Before the Passion Feast, a feeding trough. And here, the altar of Earth, fair linens of hay and seed. Before His cry, her cry. Before His sweat of blood, her bleeding and tears. Before His offering, hers. Before the breaking of bread and death, the breaking of her body in birth. Before the offering of the cup, the offering of her breast. Before His blood, her blood. And, by her body and blood, alone, his body and blood and whole human being. The wise ones knelt to hear the woman's word in wonder. Holding up her sacred child, her God in the form of a babe, she said "Receive and let  your hearts be healed, and your lives fulfilled  with love, for this is my body, this is my blood."

Dear Lord, I have swept and I have washed but still nothing is as shining as it should be for you. Under the sink, for example, is an uproar of mice - it is the season of their  many children. What shall I do? And under the eaves and through the walls the squirrels have gnawed their ragged entrances - but it is the season when they need shelter, so what shall I do? And the racoon limps into the kitchen and opens the cupboard while the dog snores, the cat hugs the pillow; what shall I do? Beautiful is the new snow falling in the yard and the fox who is staring boldly up the path, to the door. And still I believe you will come, Lord: you will, when I speak to the fox, the sparrow, the lost dog, the shivering sea-goose, know that really I am speaking to you whenever I say, as I do all morning and afternoon: Come in, Come in.

If you want the Virgin will come walking down the road pregnant with the holy and say, "I need shelter for the night, please take me inside your heart, my time is so close." Then, under the roof of your soul, you will witness the sublime intimacy, the divine, the Christ taking birth, forever, As she grasps your hand for help, for each of us is the midwife of God, each of us. Yes there, under the dome of your being does creation come into existence externally, through your womb dear pilgrim- the sacred womb of your soul, As God grasps our arm for help; for each of us is His beloved servant never far. If you want, the Virgin will come walking down the street pregnant with Light and sing...

"Hail, space for the uncontained God" From the Agathistos Hymn, Greece, 6th Century We know the scene: the room,variously furnished, almost always a lectern, a book; always the tall lily. Arrived on solemn grandeur of great wings, the angelic ambassador, standing or hovering, whom she acknowledges, a guest. But we are told of meek obedience. No one mentions courage. The engendering Spirit did not enter without consent. God waited. She was free to accept or refuse, choice integral to humanness. Aren't there annunciations of one sort or another in most lives?

            "In the sixth month, the angel Gabriel..." Luke 1:26 Bellini has it wrong. I was not kneeling on my satin cushion quietly at prayer, head slightly bent. Painters always skew the scene, as though my life were wrapped in silks, in temple smells. Actually I had just come back from the well; placing the pitcher on the table I bumped against the edge, spilling water on the floor. As I bent to wipe it up, there was a light against the kitchen wall as though someone had opened the door to the sun. Rag in hand, hair across my face, I turned to see who was entering, unannounced, unasked. All I saw was light, white against the timbers. I heard a voice I had never heard. I heard a greeting, I was elected, The Lord was with me, I pushed back my hair, stood afraid. Someone closed the door. And I dropped the rag.