‘Eyes and Ears, Doors and Light’

‘This, too: a soul that’s closed, a Carmelite –

Closed up to things that happen here below;

Yet, also, wholly open and alight

To look upon what the eye can never know.’

(Elizabeth of the Trinity)

These striking words are taken from the poem ‘The Carmelite’ written by Elizabeth of the Trinity in the first year of her novitiate at Dijon Carmel, in 1902, They are preceded by a deeply sensitive and honest account of Elizabeth’s understanding of the Carmelite vocation, the joys and the trials of a life ‘invaded’, one which is entirely ‘Christ-filled’.

It is a rousing and an insightful piece of poetry from the hand of a young woman barely 22 years of age, who has experienced, observed and discovered so much in such a short lifetime. It is indeed well worth reading the text in full as Elizabeth holds before us both a glimpse into the demands of the cloistered life and those very real everyday challenges we can face as Lay Carmelites.

Elizabeth’s considered use of the words ‘closed’ and ‘open’ can in fact lead us on towards somewhere most compelling and radical in terms of conviction, spirituality and priority, namely to the body of teaching in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke that we refer to as ‘The Sermon On The Mount’. 

Reading the teaching of Jesus specifically around prayer and right relationship with God in the Gospel of Matthew (chapter 6: 5-15) two things are made abundantly clear. One relates to solitude and visibility: 'go into your room and shut the door'. The other to omniscience and trust: 'your Father knows what it is you need'.

On the face of it the first instruction might seem easy enough to follow, for we open and close doors, pass through entrances and exits, all the time, be it within our home or in our workplace. 

Yet it does require a certain inner courage and resolve to not only ‘shut’ the physical object of ‘the door’ but also to ‘shut out’ the pre-occupations and the disruptive noise of the world outside. Finding a quiet space to trace our relationship with God, to carve out the room or capacity for that relationship to flourish is tough going. ‘The things that happen here below’ can consume us, often trouble us, do exhaust us!

Then there is the level of willingness and trust required to ‘open up’ to the eternal presence so clearly conveyed by Jesus, namely ‘your Father’ who ‘knows’ the very essence of who and what we are, and is capable of solely directing and guiding us in loving movement. In a flash, in a touch, in our own very space, we can be shaped anew.

It might indeed feel quite daunting to consider that the divine holds all that is good and right for us, and that these unspoken ‘needs’ of ours – which we interpret so very differently - God shall meet so as we can grow to become the best version of ourselves, in our complex lives, over time, not without struggle, but always in God’s abiding presence. Any sense of unease and restlessness is offset by the wonder and freedom of knowing our limitations, an informed humility and returning to something of the child. For ‘… the little child will strew flowers’, St Therese of Lisieux gently reminds us.

Silence, emptiness and gratitude all play their part in ‘opening’ us up to ‘what the eye can never know’. And those profoundly beautiful words of the ‘Lord’s Prayer’, situated at the heart of the Sermon on the Mount, can burn and shine through to lessen any burden, ‘alighting’ our souls to a new approach filled with mercy and wonder. They are words that take us beyond language into the human condition and its waywardness, but dwell on moments of breakthrough and contentment in Truth - ‘lead us’, ‘deliver us’, ‘daily bread’.

The Carmelite Tradition has always maintained a particularly strong focus on the idea of a place of genuine 'encounter' with the divine, often referred to in writings and reflection as 'the cell'.  Our Rule of Saint Albert encourages meditation on the ‘law of the Lord’ from within ‘the cell’, a genuine space, yes within community life, but rooted within the human heart, so as to learn, to listen and to receive. In many ways such an idea still presents a real challenge in the course of our busy (… sometimes overwhelmingly so!) lives. 

How are we to craft or designate such a space or 'a cell'? What significance or value will our own 'cell' hold? How might we ensure we stay in, or near to, any 'cell'? There is the real threat that ‘the cell’ – our hard fought precious and sacred place – can get forgotten or marginalised as we prioritise what the world expects us to prioritise.

To allow the flow and gifts of love into a space of seclusion can paradoxically shed light upon both our weaknesses and upon our courage. On our dependencies and desires, along with our source of strength and liberty. St Therese stresses the importance spiritually of being fully aware of both! It is no bad thing to encounter ourselves, as we truly are in the one given moment, ready to unravel, to loosen all the barriers and the blockages we construct, ready within the silence and intimacy of our 'cell'.

This sacred ‘cell’ – where Therese insists we can all find ‘joy’ – can contribute much to our sense of self-discovery, of integrity and renewal. It can help us recapture the thrill of prayer, even redefine prayer. Cardinal Anders Arborelius (OCD) in his recent book 'Carmelite Spirituality' writes of the importance and influence of such growing spiritual 'awareness' in the chapter entitled 'Remain in the Holy Spirit': He writes:

'There is always prayer in us! Gradually, this awareness of God's presence can become more acute and transform our days and our nights. We can only go to sleep and pray - when we abandon ourselves and our problems into God's hands'.

Which perhaps brings us neatly back to what it might mean for Lay Carmelites, to step again into the world, once we wake or emerge from our ‘cell’, after precious time spent with God.

Across the ‘Sermon on the Mount’, the values of compassion, of justice and tenderness in all relationship ring out. We are called to respond again to the omniscient faithfully. This scope of compassion, justice and tenderness is not fully recognized by humanity. That deep and painful truth only leads us back to the eternal, to the source of that very compassion and tenderness that raises us, that refreshes us.  

We ‘step out’ or ‘step back’ into the world from our room or personal place never quite the same person, free to view and to comprehend again the ways in which we have been transformed, what we are to embrace, what we are to avoid, when we might need God, and how we can freely share in and accept the fullness of Creation. We can move from external and internal discord and division without others knowing or seeing, and by taking one space, our space and God’s presence more seriously than ever. 

That form of reassurance in faith is what Elizabeth of the Trinity refers to as ‘radiance’. It is sustaining and accessible. It is a radiance that shall ‘never leave’ us, within the cell and beyond its walls or parameters. God might be absent from view but God is truly present in recollection, in renewal and awareness of our physical, emotional and psychological state. God heals holistically in Matthew chapter 6, verse 8. It is this ‘great light’, this source of healing, that leads St Elizabeth on to say ‘Make my soul Your home of rest’. 

‘To look upon what the eye can never know …’ and to be filled with joy each day edges us towards a simplicity and towards a radiance. There we can acknowledge that we do have baggage, that we hold fear and desire (often too tightly!), but it can all be left outside of the ‘closed’ door at the point of us closing it!