The constant in experiencing, witnessing, and sharing this blessing is silence. As the moderator of the Contemplative Outreach FB group noted: "When going through a storm, your silent presence is more powerful than a million words." Silence becomes sacramental in its healing mode - and that is yet another reason why presence feels so hard - to enter, trust, and nourish silence when surrounded by pain takes practice and faith. By nature we want to help. To fix. To resolve. Deep within I suspect we know there is nothing we can do, yet "doing" gives us meaning and validation. It is the way of the world. To resist doing, therefore, is so very counter-cultural. Not only does it look as useless as Sabbath, it can feel that way in our hearts - at least for a time. Only those willing to walk through the valley of the shadow of death in silence, however, get to taste and see the goodness of the Lord. Those who pray, "How long, O Lord?" silently in their souls while sitting still in the aching quiet get to join Mary Magdalene in greeting the risen presence of the holy in our humanity. Malcolm Guite puts it like this in his sonnet to Mary Magdalene:
Men called you light so as to load you down,
And burden you with their own weight of sin,
A woman forced to cover and contain
Those seven devils sent by Everyman.
But one man set you free and took your part
One man knew and loved you to the core
The broken alabaster of your heart
Revealed to Him alone a hidden door,
Into a garden where the fountain sealed,
Could flow at last for him in healing tears,
Till, in another garden, he revealed
The perfect Love that cast out all your fears,
And quickened you with love’s own sway and swing,
As light and lovely as the news you bring.
For the last few days I have been aching for the sounds and solace of being with others in community. I've even flirted with violating my own sanity and inviting a few local people to join me on Sunday morning when I try to hold my FB live stream outside in our wee chapel. I know better. It is covid exhaustion speaking to me like the serpent in the garden. And I won't go there. What do they say about coincidence? It is God's way of remaining anonymous? Yesterday, while Zooming with our loved ones in Brooklyn, we spoke of possible Christmas visits. I am slowly working on our basement to become decent living quarters for family visits. It is a great space but will take lots of work and is a winter project. During this chat, my wise daughter said something like, "We could even put off celebrating Christmas by a few weeks so that we all are certain about the safety of our bubble. I want to be extra, extra careful about this for you, ok?" Her words echoed in my heart last night as I put to rest - at least for now - any other thoughts of sharing Sunday's Eucharist in community. On a whole other level, its time for me to befriend the silence yet again. The wise and wounded Jan Richardson wrote this Blessing for the Chaos that I am going to print out and post on my prayer wall:
let there come silence.
Let there be a calming of the clamoring,
a stilling of the voices
that have laid their claim on you,
that have made their home in you
that go with you even to the holy places
but will not let you rest,
will not let you hear your life with wholeness.
For the foreseeable future - at least the next nine months and probably longer - I am being called (WE are being called!) to be at peace with a lot more silence. This will come to pass. This is not the end. And within the silence are moments of conversation and presence I can learn to savor like going to vote at City Hall (momentarily) or visiting the library in full PPE regalia. And then, as I've seen posted so often recently, with the season of shared solitude is over, THEN we can embrace and rejoice and experience another layer of presence. But now is not that time...
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