The Gift of Structure

When I was beginning my work at the Cathedral of St. Philip in Atlanta, I was gifted by the imposition of a structure, something that was new to me. It came in the form of the Daily Office, that is, prayers to start the day, and prayers at the end of the day.

The Anglican version of the monastic life was transposed by Thomas Cramner into two times of daily prayer as opposed to the eight offices in a Benedictine monastery. For people who were not cloistered within the confines of a monastery, how might they find and observe a structure that kept them focused? Cramner came up with a natural rhythm: the Daily Office, Morning Prayer and Evening Prayer.

I consider myself so blessed to have landed at the Cathedral at such a formative time in my ministry. We had Morning Prayer every morning at 8:30 and Evening Prayer at 5:30. It provided a structure that would become my pattern of life throughout my career as a priest. With all the urgency, interruptions, and vicissitudes of life, having some structure was amazingly helpful to a young priest.

I got into a habit of going to a local gym around 6:30 in the morning to play racketball for 45 minutes, work out in the weight room for thirty, steam room for 15, shower and get to the Cathedral by 8:15. I could get to Mikell Chapel by 8:30 to join the Bishop and my fellow Canons for Morning Prayer. That was followed by coffee in the kitchen as we checked in for the day. I can’t imagine a better way for me to get centered in my new life at the Cathedral. It felt monastic to me in many ways, a true rule of life. To be there, often with my bishop, and my colleagues was a profound way to get my day off to a good start. “Coffee hour” is a liturgical “hour’ in the Episcopal tribe.

Having a community certainly helps. Since leaving the Cathedral, my Daily Office is more of a self-discipline, and more difficult to maintain. Over the last three years, it has become a part of my “rule” as a Franciscan, praying the office, reading the lections from scripture, and praying my intercessory prayers for fellow Franciscans and for those on my heart. My original rhythm of Morning and Evening Prayer, instilled at the Cathedral, with the aid of a supportive community, laid a foundation for me now that I am solitary. I am grateful and often think back to those days in Mikell Chapel with Bishop Judson Child, Herb Beadle, David Chamberlain, Bruce Shortell, and Lloyd Wells. I miss that community.

As we move into Lent, a time of self-reflection and amendment of life, let me ask you to pause and reflect on how you begin your day? Do you have certain rituals that form the start of your daily work, activities that form a structure that supports you? For me, it has changed as I have more freedom in my life with less demanding tiime commitments. I am able to extend my centering/meditation time, lingering in silence. When I was on the island, I would often spend long periods of time on my deck which was adjacent to the marshes of Glynn, listening to and watching the wildlife, mainly the birds. I felt as if it was a gift given to me as I moved into a more intentional focus on our Creation and our stewardship of it. Now, living by the Chattahoochee River, I watch and listen to the geese and ducks make their morning flights across my sky. I have three particular trees that I feel a connection to, one a magnolia, one a towering conifer that reaches skyward, and one wispy tree that poses in front of my window. It’s the wispy one that I am currently in conversation with as it is bereft of leaves, but in winter, waiting. I identify with her.

In my quiet time, I am aware of my connection to the Creation in a way that is fresh and new, even though I have always enjoyed being in nature, bathing if you will in the majesty of the mountain, enjoying the waves of the sea, resting in the lull of the lake. But now, things feel different. Less active, more connective.

My mornings are sacred as I set aside, dedicate time for journaling, which is intended for no one other than myself. I can write thoughts and feelings that I do not have to censor or worry about reaction, just free-form thoughts as they bubble to the surface. What a gift that is, no longer concerned about the political ramifications of what I might say, who I might piss off. After years of “positioning” for acceptance and consensus, how liberating it is to allow a free flow of thoughts. I laughingly remember a phrase that was applied to my grandmother, the salty Glennie Mae McBrayer, who was said to “call a spade a bloody hoe”. It got her into trouble here and there, and I know that I received a gene or two from that Scots line of McBrayer. I am sure that many former parishioners and friends may be surprised to even think that I paused to consider the effects of my remarks, but God knows, I did. Journaling releases me from the plague of an audience that I must play to. I commend journaling to those of you who have not tried it or left it behind in your past. It can be liberating…and revealing.

I also have adopted a discipline of writing every day. At times, this may be an article on coaching, the work that I am doing with young priests and ministers mostly. Or perhaps my time is directed at leadership or organizational development. Truth is, this is my best time, the time that I end feeling satisfied, as if I am doing what my Creator intended for me to do. It is always a gift, even in tough times when it is a struggle to dig out the words from my heart. It is a strange joy as I am in process, searching for words, phrases, images, but a deep sense of satisfaction when I complete. like any physical activity of desire and completion. On the other hand, there are those days when the wrongly attributed quote of Hemingway feels true about the work of writing: you just sit down at your typewriter, open a vein, and bleed. As my patron saint, St. Ringo truly said, “It don’t come easy.”.

As you are moving through your time of Lent, ask yourself as to the rituals that help to order your life.

Are there certain ways that you bring to your day?

Are there discernable patterns in the course of the day that you may or may not be aware of as you go through it?

Are there typical ways that you close your day, ending it in certain patterns?

These structures provide the lines on the field of play on which we live, move, and have our being. It’s worth the venture, every so often, to examine how we are living this one precious life as the ordering provides a structure that is, in fact, a container in the chaotic thing known as existence.

Growing up, there were five days of school, measured, meeted out, demanded. Free time limited. Saturday was free form but Sunday always meant Church. That was my structure growing up. It was outwardly imposed, socially accepted.

Nowdays, there is little imposition. It’s mostly all chosen, which can be good or bad.

My question for this week in Lent: how are you choosing to structure your life?