Lectio Divina — “Upon”
Memorial of the Holy Guardian Angels
Thursday of the Twenty-Sixth Week in Ordinary Time
Weekly theme: Changed
Lectio — Upon
> “See that you do not despise one of these little ones, for I say to you that their angels in heaven always look upon the face of my heavenly Father.”
— Matthew 18:10
Upon.
There is something wonderfully double-sided about that little word. My guardian angel looks upon the face of God, while God’s providence is impressed upon creation.
And somehow I stand between the two.
Jesus does not describe the angels as occasionally glancing toward the Father. They always look upon his face. Their attention is fixed upon God, and precisely because it is fixed upon God, they can minister within his creation.
Perhaps that is the first thing that must be changed in me today: what I keep my eyes upon.
—
Meditatio — Upon the Water
I am not used to seeing sheep making their way through standing water upon the pastures of The Glenn.
Usually water here is something I look for, pray for, conserve, haul, pipe, or put into a trough. But after the copious rainfall of these last few days, the familiar landscape has changed. The sheep walk where sheep usually walk, but now their hooves splash. The pasture reflects the sky. What was dry ground has become something different.
And perhaps I need that occasional disruption.
I become accustomed to thinking I know The Glenn. I know where the water runs. I know where the sheep travel. I know what belongs where. Then rain falls, water gathers, and creation quietly tells me: You do not know this place as completely as you think you do.
Laudato Si’ reminds me that the Spirit of God has filled the universe with possibilities and that something new can always emerge from the very heart of things. Saint Thomas Aquinas describes nature as God’s art “impressed upon things,” as though the Creator gives creation the capacity to move toward the end he has placed within it.
That changes the way I look upon this wet pasture.
The standing water is not merely an inconvenience. The sheep splashing through it are not merely an oddity. The changed landscape can become a sacrament-like reminder that creation is not a dead machine waiting for me to manage it. God’s artistry has been impressed upon it.
And on this Memorial of the Holy Guardian Angels, I realize something else has been impressed upon my life: a presence I cannot see.
My guardian angel.
Jesus tells me that this angel always looks upon the face of the Father. That means my angel’s attention is not primarily upon me. His gaze is upon God—and from that gaze comes his ministry toward me.
Perhaps that is what I need to learn.
I spend a great deal of time looking upon problems, looking upon failures, looking upon things I think need fixing. But my guardian angel teaches me another order: first look upon God, and then look upon everything else.
The pasture has changed because of the rain.
Can my gaze be changed because of grace?
—
Oratio — Look Upon Me
Father,
your angels always look upon your face,
while you look with mercy upon me.
Change my gaze.
When I look upon creation,
keep me from seeing only property, problems, resources,
work to be done, or things to be controlled.
Teach me to recognize your art
impressed upon every creature.
When familiar ground becomes unfamiliar,
when dry pasture becomes standing water,
when my plans are interrupted
and the world refuses to behave as I expected,
keep me from resentment.
Let surprise become wonder.
Guardian angel,
whom God has placed beside me,
teach me something of your attention.
As you look upon the face of the Father,
turn my eyes there too.
And when I cannot see the road clearly,
remind me that I am still seen.
May the things impressed upon my heart today
change the way I walk tomorrow.
Amen.
—
Contemplatio — What I Look Upon Changes Me
The sheep move through the water, and I find myself thinking about limits.
They cannot make the water disappear. They cannot restore yesterday’s dry ground. They simply place one hoof before another and walk through the landscape as it now exists.
Perhaps that is closer to wisdom than I sometimes manage.
Magnifica humanitas tells me that accepting finitude does not diminish humanity. My vulnerability, suffering, failure and limitations can actually open me to recognizing the face of God and the dignity of another person. My limits need not become walls. By grace, they can become windows.
And suddenly today’s Gospel seems even more beautiful.
The angels look upon the face of the Father.
Magnifica humanitas asks me to recognize the face of the other.
Perhaps those two gazes belong together.
The more deeply I learn to look upon God, the less capable I should become of looking upon another person—or another creature—as disposable.
That is where I must be changed.
Technology can tempt me to believe every limitation is merely a problem awaiting a solution. Management can tempt me to believe every irregularity needs correction. Even here at The Glenn, I can begin imagining that good stewardship means forcing everything into the arrangement I have decided is best.
Then the rain comes.
The pasture floods.
The sheep splash through it.
And an angel I cannot see looks eternally upon the face of God.
I am reminded that I am a creature, not the Creator.
The great works mentioned in Magnifica humanitas—Beethoven’s Ninth, Picasso’s Guernica, Schindler’s List—endure because they make us look again at something we might otherwise overlook: fraternity, suffering, dignity, memory. They resist our tendency to become accustomed to what should still astonish us.
Perhaps creation does the same.
Standing water upon an ordinarily dry pasture can become its own little work of sacred art if I am willing to see it.
And perhaps my guardian angel’s silent lesson today is simply this:
Darrell, be careful what you continually look upon, because what you contemplate will change the way you see everything else.
If I continually look upon myself, everything becomes about me.
If I continually look upon my limitations, everything becomes impossible.
If I continually look upon creation merely as something to manage, everything becomes a commodity.
But if I learn with the angels to look upon the face of the Father, then the whole world begins to look different.
Even a flooded pasture.
Even a sheep splashing through water.
Even my limitations.
Even me.
And perhaps that is the change God is asking of me this week—not that everything around me be changed according to my wishes, but that my eyes be changed so that I can finally look upon what has always been there:
the art of God impressed upon things,
the dignity of God reflected in faces,
and the providence of God watching over me.
Memorial of the Holy Guardian Angels
