What can come out of the dark? -part 2-

John 20:11–12

...As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb and saw two angels in white, seated where Jesus' body had been...

Present only there

John 20:13

"Dear woman, why are you crying?" the angels asked her.

Because my dad's gone, and I don't know where he is.

Because I saw him cry like that.

Because twice, I held him as he cried.

Because of the loneliness of the people where he lived.

Because he left me a long time ago, and I miss him.

Because our reconciliation came only when he was so out of it.

Because I never saw him dead, and I don't know whether he ever looked peaceful.

Because I saw a stranger feed him.

Because of his childlike moment of joy when the guitar man came.

Because I gave him so little such joy, but maybe somehow I could have?

Because no efforts to bring him relief or joy seemed to help.

Because to visit with God, I had to visit my dad.

Because while my dad was sick, Jesus seemed present only there.

Because Jesus's compassion, like my mother's, consisted of silent, patient presence.

Because we couldn't fix it.

What can come out of the dark?

John 20:11–14

The disciples then went back home
but Mary stood outside the tomb weeping.
As she wept, she knelt to look into the tomb
and saw two angels sitting there....

They said to her, "Woman, why do you weep?"

"They took my Master," she said,
"and I don't know where they put him."

After she said this, she turned away and saw Jesus standing there
but she didn't recognize him.

I did a little bit of artwork related to this passage, which you can see by clicking here. A warm thanks to Designs in Light for the photography.

To be found

Luke 15:8–9

Suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Won't she light a lamp and sweep the entire house and search carefully until she finds it? And when she finds it, she will call in her friends and neighbors and say, "Rejoice with me because I have found my lost coin."

This Sunday's scripture is one I pondered a few years ago when my spiritual director assigned it as part of the first week of the Ignatian Exercises. I wrote this poem during that time and just revised it.

My fevered search for the lost shiny coin
that was God Who Made Sense:
Light the bright lamps of the mind!
Sweep the corners of reason!
Empty the pockets of theodicy!

What work!

At last work wears out
and I fall exhausted on the floor
and lie flat and deathly
and the silence makes room for a question:
Is the story about the woman's search—
not mine
but hers?
her fevered search for the lost shiny coin
that is me?
She calls for lamps,
She sweeps the corners,
She empties her pockets....

And what more can a coin do
(small, flat, and round
lost in dust under a bookshelf
or the kitchen stove)
but lie there
and hope like anything that the woman
driven by love
will never call off her search?

Darkness

John 20:1

While it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb.

Yesterday I painted some images while considering David Whyte's beautiful poem "Sweet Darkness." You are welcome to detour from wherever else you were headed and have a look at them.

Waves of sand

Luke 13:10–17

When Jesus saw her, he called her forward and said to her, "Woman, you are set free from your infirmity." Then he put his hands on her, and immediately she straightened up and praised God.

I had a dream a few weeks ago that has already served me a few times as a touchstone. In the dream, a young man is in a desert, and waves of sand are sweeping over him as if they were water. He has to stay upright and pay attention so he won't be smothered.

What are my waves?

.... the thought of an overwhelming problem in the world or in the life of someone I love .... an impulsive idea that seems to need my immediate attention .... a tangled situation that I don't know how to solve .....

In her sermon yesterday, our vicar pointed out that the bent-over woman doesn't ask Jesus for healing. Jesus sees the woman and heals her, and now she's able to straighten up. So that's what she does.

And here I am, able to straighten up, after many episodes of Jesus' healing in my life over the years. I'm not helpless when the waves come, so before acting, I'm trying consider whether maybe the idea is not quite as urgent and brilliant as it seems; maybe the problem I'm obsessing about is not actually mine to solve.

It will pass. Let it go.

A maddeningly long wait

Luke 12:32–40

It will be good for those servants whose master finds them ready, even if he comes in the middle of the night or toward daybreak. But understand this: If the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into.

Okay, so...
Servant = me
My master = Jesus
House = the world
House's owner = whatever's calling the shots around here

What does it look like to be ready? What helps me stay ready, even if it's a maddeningly long wait?

It helps me that Jesus predicts a maddeningly long wait. Thank you, Jesus, for being realistic. It's not a surprise to you, I guess, that this world is a dark room in which people seem to be stumbling all over each other. But someday the door will open, and light will break in from the outside. That's how I picture it, anyway.

Staying with Jesus

John 19:38–42

[My paraphrase...] Two wealthy men who've been pretending not to be Jesus' disciples come forward to claim his dead body, prepare it for burial, and lay it in a tomb.

I've been working my way through the gospel of John, and for round about a year I've been mired in the crucifixion. Jesus' willingness to suffer astonishes and puzzles me something awful, because the implications are really frightening. Back in March or April I wrote the following question on the bookmark that I keep in my breviary:

Christ is not driven by a need to avoid suffering. What does life look like, knowing this?

What did going forward with life look like for these two men who had just watched Jesus willingly endure suffering?

For one thing, they stayed with him, tolerating the discomfort of a sight, sound, smell, and touch that just about everyone else wanted to get the hell away from.

I'm struck by the tenderness of the scene. It must have taken them hours. They probably washed blood and sweat off of Jesus' body. Was what they did women's work? It was intimate in the extreme. They stayed with Jesus.

My cupboard is bare

(My blog has moved to SleepOnTheHearth.com. Please visit!)

Luke 11:1–13... Teach us to pray. Hmm.

...one of [Jesus'] disciples said to him, "Lord, teach us to pray..." ...Then he said to them, "Suppose one of you has a friend, and she goes to that friend at midnight and says, 'Friend, lend me three loaves of bread, because a friend of mine on a journey has come to me, and I have nothing to set before him.'

"Then the one inside answers, 'Don't bother me. The door is already locked, and my children are with me in bed. I can't get up and give you anything.' I tell you, though he will not get up and give her the bread because she is his friend, yet because of the woman's boldness he will get up and give her as much as she needs."

I heard this, went home, and sat in my chair to reflect. Here's what hit me: This woman is not asking for something for herself. She's asking for food for a visiting friend, because her own cupboard is bare.

In my intercession for the people I love, my cupboard is bare—and Jesus is telling me what I can do about it. If I go to my creator God, who is far more powerful and compassionate (one assumes) than any of my neighbors, and ask for something on behalf of a stranded visitor who's in my house, God will not refuse me.

So....

1. In this particular passage, Jesus is talking about asking on behalf of others, not on behalf of ourselves, and
2. He's talking about asking for *food* ... necessities; sustenance, not luxuries, and
   
3. The one praying is literally the "intercessor" in that she herself will deliver the bread. (*sigh*)
   

The rest of my prayer time went something like this....

God, God! It's the middle of the night inside me, I am so tired inside, and I have no power to help these people I love. Help, help! They are tired too, and they need food, and only you have it. Please provide it. I can't save them! I can't heal them!

And if I must be the one to deliver what you give them, I will, if you show me how. I don't want to. But you know that.

(*sigh*)

Who takes care of me?

Luke 10:25–37

But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?"

That is, "Who must I love if I want to inherit eternal life?" And then Jesus hit him with the story of the good Samaritan:

A man is robbed and beaten. A man just like the lawyer asking the question, perhaps? Two upstanding citizens walk past without helping, but a Samaritan (read: outcast) bandages his wounds, gets him a room at a hotel, and leaves a credit card in case the man needs more help.

Jesus asks which of the three is a neighbor to the man who was robbed. The Samaritan, of course.

Neighbor = the one you must love if you want eternal life.

Neighbor = the amazingly generous outcast who isn't too busy to help the story's "me" (the man to whom Jesus is replying).

Therefore, the one you must love if you want eternal life = the amazingly generous outcast who isn't too busy to help you and others like you.

Jesus packs three massive concepts into one little story: Receive the love of the Samaritan, love as the Samaritan loves, and love the Samaritan. I'm humbled by the difficulty of doing any of these things.

In my right mind

Luke 8:26–39
Jesus cast a squadron of demons out of a crazy guy. And then...

...they found the man from whom the demons had gone out, sitting at Jesus' feet, dressed and in his right mind; and they were afraid.

At the 8 a.m. contemplative mass at St. Cuthbert's, a twenty-minute silence follows the reading of the gospel. I listened to the story about the lonely, unclothed, crazy man who had broken his own chains again and again, but still wasn't free, and how it was only Jesus who could clean up the nasty mess of his life.

And then I sat there for twenty minutes at Jesus' feet thinking and feeling this:

I am in my right mind. I haven't always been and might not always be, but for now, I am in my right mind. And I am grateful.

At 9 I headed off to visit a place and a group of people among whom I could possibly wonder if I really am in my right mind. But I went with a deep, unexpected, inexplicable peace, along with a willingness to forgive and even to see my own wrong-doing. Wow.