the wisdom of tears...

Nearly every night during Advent and Christmastide, I sit silently in the glow of the Christmas tree lights and the Advent wreath candles before bed - and wait. Sometimes I sit in the silence. Other times I add a CD by Loreena McKinnit or Medieval Babes and let their haunting melodies take me to wherever the music wants me to go. 

I rarely have any idea what I am waiting for. Just, as Anne Lamott says about grace that, "(While) I do not at all understand the mystery of grace (it is clear that it not) only meets us where we are, but does not leave us where it found us." These night journeys often evoke tears: tears of joy for those I cherish, tears of sorrow for the ways I have wounded those i love, tears of remorse for the amends I haven't yet accomplished, tears of awe for the beauty all around me, and tears of fear for the escalating danger that defines this moment in time. In the early days, I had no idea why I wept. But slowly, fearfully, and then lovingly, I started to accept my tears rather then fight them. For within there is a unique wisdom waiting to be revealed. For decades I have long trusted the poet, Pat Mora, to be open-hearted and grounded guide into the wisdom of weeping.

The desert is powerless
when thunder shakes the hot air
and unfamiliar raindrops slide
on rocks, sand, mesquite,
when unfamiliar raindrops overwhelm
her, distort her face.
But after the storm, she breathes deeply,
caressed by a fresh sweet calm.
My Mother smiles rainbows.

When I feel shaken, powerless
to stop my bruising sadness,
I hear My Mother Whisper:

          Mi'ja

don't fear your hot tears
cry away the storm, then listen, listen.

Two nights ago my tears said to me: "Hello darkness my old friend, I've come to talk with you again..." Smiling at the irony I realized that right now it feels as if we are not simply circling closer to the darkness of the Winter Solstice (for a stunning celebration, check out the live streaming of Paul Winter's festival from St. John the Divine tonight at 7:30 at this website: @ http: //solsticeconcert. com), but we're descending into an obscurity of political fear, grief, and violence unlike anything the majority of Americans have known. Brother Paul's lyrics kept popping up: "And the people bowed and prayed to the neon gods they made; and the signs flashed out its warning in the words it was forming, and the sign said the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement halls and whisper in the sounds of silence." Our consumerism has not saved us. The world is on fire. Our arrogance and violence has not saved us. We are more afraid than ever before. Our science and technology has not saved us. We know what needs to be done but can't find a way to break out of our greed and ignorance. Our brash and vulgar way of being bullies in the wider world has not saved us. We are the laughing stock of Europe, the lap dog of Putin's oligarchs, and a fading empire with no moral authority. Geneen Marie Haugen captured this dilemma well in her Wild Faith blog: 

How do we hold both the magnificence and tragedy of the world, as if we stand at a threshold with Janus, the Roman god of beginnings and endings, looking in two directions? How do we find the way if we can't see around the bend? In our time of disturbance and radical change, we are crossing a threshold, a portal, or an unseen bridge from one world to another. It could be said that the bridge is either collapsing beneath us, or being made as we walk together. 

Snark is not sufficient for this season; nor is it a strategy for strengthening the soul for the anguish still to come. Slipping back into the privilege of our self-righteous, ideological critiques does nothing to train us in embracing both the magnificence and tragedy of this moment in history. But our silent tears do. They open our hearts to reality. They instruct us in the discipline of listening rather than speaking. They lead us beyond ourselves. They soothe us within and nudge us outwardly towards paradoxical solidarity with everyone else who weeps. Often tears are how the Spirit speaks to God's people. In my tradition, the shortest sentence in our Scriptures is: Jesus wept. It tells us he prayed with his eyes. He listened with his heart. He learned to trust his sighs too deep for human words. 

In the days to come we shall need to have safe places where we can learn the wisdom of our wounds - and maybe practice trusting our tears. This invitation of the Spirit cuts beyond religious differences. It invites us into the realm of the Beloved Community that exists beyond faith, culture, race, gender, class, and age, respecting all without a singular allegiance. Rilke gives us a clue about this new way of being in a complicated time:

Quiet friend who has come so far,

feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change...

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent Earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

PS - After posting this - and a few others during Advent - a friend wrote to me and asked, "Why are you writing so many sad blog posts? Are you depressed?" Part of me was bit annoyed and I wanted to reply: "Aren't you paying attention!?!" But my better angels prevailed and I said, "No, not depressed. Sad? Yes. Frightened? Without a doubt. Uncertain? Absolutely. But I am not depressed." In my heart there is a joy born of trust. I trust, beyond what is obvious, that God's love is greater than all our brokenness, greed, and violence. Like our Lady my "spirit rejoices in God my savor" and I hold all these things in my heart.

I have also come to know that in times of trial there are two essentials: solidarity with compassionate fellow travelers, and, prayer. Solidarity with compassionate fellow travelers means community: a small, safe place where we can take care of one another. Feed one another. Hold one another. Listen and weep, laugh and sing, bring solace and peace when the world has gone to hell - as it does from time to time. And prayer can mean any type of opening our hearts so that we can nourish trust. Some call it faith. I believe trust is better for me because trust doesn't imply any theology, doctrine or abstract thinking. Community and trust is what will see us through the coming darkness.

So please, don't fret for me, ok? Just make certain you are connected with those who love you and you can count on because you're going to need them. If you already have a spiritual discipline of prayer, keep at it. If not, it is not too late to make one your own. If you need help, send me a note and I can offer a variety of suggestions so that you, too can nourish the love within.