Seeking Some Refuge, Maybe

Psalm 142 Complete Jewish Bible (CJB)

142 ⁽⁰⁾ A maskil of David, when he was in the cave. A prayer:

^2 (1) With my voice I cry to Adonai,
with my voice I plead to Adonai for mercy.
^3 (2) Before him I pour out my complaint,
before him I tell my trouble.
^4 (3) When my spirit faints within me,
you watch over my path.
By the road that I am walking
they have hidden a snare for me.
^5 (4) Look to my right, and see
that no one recognizes me.
I have no way of escape;
nobody cares for me.

^6 (5) I cried out to you, Adonai;
I said, “You are my refuge,
my portion in the land of the living.”
^7 (6) Listen to my cry,
for I have been brought very low.

Rescue me from my persecutors,
for they are too strong for me.
^8 (7) Lead me out of prison,
so that I can give thanks to your name;
in me the righteous will be crowning themselves,
because you will have treated me generously.



This morning I was looking over the Lindisfarne Community website and ran across a video of Abbot Andy talking about our prayer book “A Way of Living.” He said something about the historical monastic tradition of the Daily Office (set times of prayer during the day) being originally a recitation of the Psalms.

In my lectionary reading today I ended up eventually coming back to Psalm 142, after being sidetracked into looking up ‘ox-goads in biblical times’; as well as ‘armor-bearer.’ Nothing really jumped out at me.

From the other readings for today (1 Samuel 13:19-14:15; Acts 9:1-9; Luke 23:26-31) only scraps emerged. From Samuel it was the taunt “Come up to us; we want to show you something.” From Acts, it was the phrase “belonging to the Way.” From Luke, it was “For if they do these things when the wood is green, what is going to happen when it’s dry?”

In my practice of Lectio Divina, I’ve found that a reliable synergy takes place in which many disparate trains of thought and reflection converge, and something emerges that has a flavor of all those different “ingredients.” They may not contribute any specific point, but they blend in, like spices in a cake.

So, today I felt moved to tell a story about a couple of texts I got from a friend yesterday. The first text said “Are you home?” and the second said this: “I was thinking of seeking some refuge maybe.” This friend of mine is going through some really hard times right now.

I feel like I should give some background here on my struggles to understand the role of a solitary and a hermitage-keeper within the traditional ideas of “ministry.” I’ve felt called to solitude all my life, and as a Christian I’ve always felt strongly attracted to the stories of the anchorites and eremites in the mystical traditions of the church. Since being professed and recognized within the Lindisfarne Community as a “solitary,” I’ve been trying to come up with a good description of how that calling might manifest itself in service to others in a way that fits the label, “Ministry.”

I think I might have found a way. It’s not a synopsis with bullet points, or a resume with my experience and qualifications. No, it’s a story of how people keep showing up at my door looking for a quiet place; a place of serenity and ease; a place of refuge. They don’t want to “hang out;” they don’t want to watch TV or play games; they just want to be here.

My hermitage was the first place a friend of mine came, the day her husband died.

Yet another friend called me awhile back and asked if he could come and just sit in the dojo.
(“Dojo” means “place of the way” in Japanese, and denotes a place used for practice.)

The friend who texted me yesterday had also come to my door once before, looking for counsel.

I’ve always thought that the best way to identify “a call” is by taking it literally. Is whatever-it-is a thing that real-live, breathing, walking, talking people are calling on you to do? I used that method to figure out that my singing in church is a ministry. I intend to use that method, in a sideways (and maybe even ‘bassackwards’) sort of way, to talk about the hidden and wordless ministry of a “Solitary” —

along with what use a hermitage can be put to—
that of offering a “place apart;”

a refuge where individual people can find an empty, quiet place;

a clear space mindfully and actively maintained;

a refuge protected from all sources of distraction or urgency;

a sheltered place where disorder and commotion may not enter.



Back to my story or, more properly, my friend’s story. She came in with a take-out bag containing the quintessential comfort-food, macaroni-and-cheese, along with a large espresso. I laughed because that combination was so evocative of the pain and sadness; resentment and anger; that was filling her days.

She sat down and talked; I listened and offered her some limited practical advice, but mostly I talked about compassion, and how to find it—for the person that was causing her all the misery; for the system that she felt was letting her down; and also for herself.

Here’s the kicker though— this morning when I read the Psalm, I read it as if it was meant for her, not me. It was as if she was speaking to me through the Psalm, and the startling thing was that it seemed that what she had asked of me was exactly what the Psalmist had asked of God!

It was then that I remembered our Community Prayer from the Lindisfarne Community’s Rule:

“That I may be as Christ to those I meet; that I may find Christ within them.” 

I realized that I was reading this psalm as a prayer on behalf of my friend; as a prayer my friend was speaking in her own heart; as a connection formed from the compassion between us.

It was hard to hear the psalm as if it was my friend speaking to me— it felt presumptuous—

but I did hear it, and I didn’t dare to deny it:



Before me she poured out her complaint, before me she told her trouble.
When her spirit fainted within her, I watched over her path.

She cried out to me, asking me to be Christ to her.

She said to me, “Your hermitage is a refuge,
a help for me in the midst of all the troubles in the world.”


She wanted me to listen to her cry, for she had been brought very low.
She asked me for a space of relief from her persecutor, 
for it was all too much for her.


She asked me to lead her out of the trap she felt she was in, 
for a little while, so that she could give thanks to the Spirit of God;
and so that she could remember that everyone who cares about what’s right
would nod in approval of her choices, if they knew what she had done—

because I had held an open space for her, and given her time 
to understand that God would always treat her generously.