On the Henri Nouwen Society's Advent site, he reflects on Psalm 126:5 like this:Keep your eyes on the prince of peace, the one who doesn't cling to his divine power; the one who refuses to turn stones into bread, jump from great heights and rule with great power; the one who says, "Blessed are the poor, the gentle, those who mourn, and those who hunger and thirst for righteousness; blessed are the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers and those who are persecuted in the cause of uprightness" (see Matt. 5:3-11); the one who touches the lame, the crippled, and the blind; the one who speaks words of forgiveness and encouragement; the one who dies alone, rejected and despised. Keep your eyes on him who becomes poor with the poor, weak with the weak, and who is rejected with the rejected. He is the source of all peace. Where is this peace to be found? The answer is clear. In weakness. First of all, in our own weakness, in those places of our hearts where we feel most broken, most insecure, most in agony, most afraid. Why there? Because there, our familiar ways of controlling our world are being stripped away; there we are called to let go from doing much, thinking much, and relying on our self-sufficiency. Right there where we are weakest the peace which is not of this world is hidden.
It has taken me most of my life to trust that this is true. I have always believed that I must be in control in order to be at rest. Safe. At peace. Some 18 years ago, however, I melted down. Striving to stay in control led me to a breakdown of sorts where the only peace I could imagine involved running away. Thanks be to God there was a wise and clear-headed spiritual director in my life at that time who helped me stay put. Wander in the wilderness, he encouraged me, let it hurt and force you to your knees. Feel it all. And then, maybe if you're lucky, your grief and shame will help you trust God.
In time, it did. Not easily. Not quickly. But authentically. "Right there where we are weakest, the peace which is not of this world, is hidden." It took me about twenty years to hit bottom. I am a very slow learner. Stubborn and arrogant, too. I don't bring my wounds to the surface very easily and can distract myself with good things for decades. I thought of that today when finally, after 4+ years of sitting in my basement, we finally found a resting place for my father's antique deacon's bench.
It was always my favorite piece of furniture in my grandmother's house and then when it joined my family. And when my dad came to the realization that he could no longer live by himself, he asked if I would keep it in the family. My sisters had already done herculean work in cleaning, sorting, handling the sale of the property and getting him relocated. They had taken a lot of the things that were not put in the estate sale, too. But no one had room for this old bench that had been in my grandparent's parsonage during the Great Depression. It was a joy to drive down to Maryland and bring it back to Massachusetts. My dad died just six months later.
Perhaps that's one of the reasons I couldn't bring it upstairs: it takes me a long, long time to welcome my wounds. I didn't grieve for him in any obvious way for three years. It took me almost seven years to acknowledge feelings of loss after my mom died. In the peace of this weakness, however, I've come to trust that God's timetable is perfect. Three years. Seven years. Immediately. However it ripens, that's what is best. I know it took Nouwen decades to truly trust that the grace of God - and the Lord's healing peace - could be his, too. He had to crash and burn before he was ready to relinquish trying to be in charge, too.
Since my crashing and burning time, however, I have worked at practicing waiting on the Lord. Not perfectly at all and often haltingly and reluctantly. I think that's what practice is: getting it wrong over and over on the path to getting it right. Not long ago the importance of such waiting came to me while I was sharing a homily at the close of a L'Arche Ottawa retreat. Since starting to volunteer and visit, people have asked me, "Why do you drive 6+ hours each way to come here?" As one of the border patrol officers on the US side asked, "Isn't there someplace closer for you to go?" Well, sure, but those who trust the Spirit of the Lord know that proximity is not always where we're called to be, right? St. Paul had to make extensive trips beyond his comfort zone. Many of the other early followers of Jesus did, too. My answer to those who want a clear, logical and linear reply never seems satisfying: "I go to Ottawa because that's where I feel God wants me."
So, I was reflecting on the peculiarity of my situation in this homily, and linking it to the experience of both the core members of L'Arche as well as the many young assistants who come from all over the world to experience L'Arche. In one of the homes where I have shared meals there is a house leader from India, an assistant from Kenya, another from Jamaica and another from Japan. In the first home I started to connect with the house leader had taught in the States, one of the assistants was a lawyer from Paris, another a woman from Mexico, an other a woman from Uganda as well as a man from Germany. True, they are in residence and I have been driving up for the past three years, but still these are souls who are trusting the wisdom and timing of the Spirit.
In the middle of my homily the significance of this truth hit me: back when I was very young, most likely about fourth grade, my grandmother and I were talking about religion. She was the spouse of a Unitarian minister and I told her I didn't really like going to their Sunday School. The more we talked, the more clearly I realized that I was searching for an encounter with the holy. "I want to see the face of God!" I announced during this talk. Grandma Deanne was clearly uncomfortable with my piety and brought the conversation quickly to and end. But my passion for the sacred wasn't over.
That's when it all clicked and I said to my friends gathered for Eucharist. "I have been waiting for nearly 55 years for an experience with God's face. And just now it hit me that you, L'Arche Ottawa, you are the answer to my quest. You show me the face of the Lord Jesus the way he taught us in Matthew 25: "Whatsoever you do unto the least of these my sisters and brothers, you do unto me." Now I know the reason why I drive 6+ hours each way to be with you: you are the answer to my prayer. I've been waiting a long, long time to see the face of the Lord - and now I have." There was a brief silence before one of the core members smiled at me and said softly, "Yes... we are Jesus in a wheel chair."
More and more I know that those who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, indeed. I am not in control of God's time table. I often resist and misunderstand. But the peace that passes understanding is waiting there for me in my weakness - and it is the best peace of all.
No comments:
Post a Comment