Staying Awake through the Acuity of the Heart

A Contemplative Reflection on Luke 12:32–40, Hebrews 11:1–3, and Isaiah 1:1, 10–20 for the 10th August and 9th Sunday after Pentecost and 8th Sunday after Trinity and Proper 19 in Ordinary Time

“Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”
—Luke 12:32

There is a quiet, disarming tenderness in Jesus’ words for this Sunday - spoken not to rulers, but to the little flock, those who live on the margins of certainty, power, and control. In these few lines from the Gospel of Luke, a profound contemplative truth is revealed: the kingdom of God is not a reward for spiritual success, nor a prize for moral achievement, but a gift freely given to those who are able to receive it in trust. “It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” Not sell, not withhold, but give. This is the foundation upon which a Christian contemplative life is built - not fear, but love; not striving, but surrender.

In contemplative practice, we learn to rest in this reality. Trusting in the goodness of God becomes not just a theological idea, but a lived posture to be named every day. As we become still and let go of our compulsions to fix, perform, or protect, we begin to perceive what Thomas Merton described as the deep truth of our being: “At the centre of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth... which belongs entirely to God... It is in everybody, and if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely.”

This is what Christian faith allows us to glimpse - a radiant unseen reality that undergirds all things. The author of Hebrews defines faith as “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” For the contemplative Christian, this is not about clinging to certainties but opening to mystery. Faith is not intellectual assent to doctrine but the cultivation of an inner seeing - the acuity of the heart - that sees beyond appearances and recognises the Kin-dom that is already present in hidden ways.

The world around us often trains us to live by sight - by what we can measure, consume, or control. But the contemplative tradition calls us back to deeper seeing, a perception grounded not in dominance but in communion. To live by faith is to consent to the slow work of God, to entrust ourselves to grace even when the surface of life feels uncertain or empty.

And yet the readings do not leave us floating in spiritual abstraction. The prophecy of Isaiah brings us down to the earth with painful clarity. God speaks not to strangers, but to the very people who claim to know and worship God - and calls out the hollowness of their religion. The liturgy, the sacrifices, the prayers - all of it is rendered void by the injustice it coexists with. “Even though you make many prayers, I will not listen; your hands are full of blood... learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed.”

There is no spiritual bypass here. The contemplative life is not a refuge from reality but a deeper engagement with it. In fact, it is only in silence, in stillness, in honest presence to ourselves and to God, that we are able to see clearly where our lives are misaligned with love. The prophets, the mystics, and Jesus himself all point to this: union with God cannot be separated from solidarity with the suffering.

Julian of Norwich, writing in the 14th century in the midst of plague and social upheaval, articulated a vision of divine love that was both intimate and expansive. “The love of God creates in us such a oneing that when it is truly seen, no person can separate themselves from another person,” she wrote. In true contemplative seeing, we cannot ignore injustice, because we cannot unsee our oneness. To harm another is to harm Christ. To defend the widow, the orphan, and the oppressed is not political correctness — it is Eucharistic.

Luke’s Gospel circles us back again, calling us to readiness: “Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit.” The contemplative is not passive, but watchful — not anxious, but attentive. The lamp that stays lit is the lamp of the heart kept open through prayer, silence, and faithfulness. This is the posture of those who live in the in-between - between promise and fulfilment, between injustice and restoration, between exile and homecoming.

St. John of the Cross, writing from the depths of imprisonment and mystical union, reminds us that this readiness is often forged in darkness: “If a man wishes to be sure of the road he treads on, he must close his eyes and walk in the dark.” This is not the darkness of despair, but the darkness of trust - the willingness to walk forward without grasping, knowing that God is present even when unseen, and that faith sometimes asks us to let go of our maps.

This Sunday’s lectionary gives us both a challenge and a promise. The challenge is to live lives of integrity, where prayer and justice are one. The promise is that we do not do this alone. God is already here, already at work, already longing to give us the Kin-dom - if only we can learn to see, to trust, and to stay awake.

Contemplation helps us do this. Not by removing us from the pain of the world, but by rooting us so deeply in God’s love that we are no longer afraid of the world. The contemplative heart becomes a place of courage, of nonviolence, of compassion - a lamp that lights the way for others even in the night.

May we be such people. People of stillness and action, silence and witness, waiting and working. May our faith be not the avoidance of pain, but the deep seeing of God even in the pain. May we, as Merton prayed, learn to trust that our desire to please God does in fact please God - and that in our seeking, our waiting, our trembling readiness, the Kin-dom is already coming near.

Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash