a time for reflection in montreal - redux

Fr. Richard Rohr has written that the story of Job teaches us that: "Ultimately, God cannot really be known through theology, the law, or common sense. God can only be related to and known through relationship." We can gather and accept information about the Sacred, we can collect volumes of wisdom distilled from the experiences of others about the Divine, too. But, as Rohr insists, unless we are ready, willing, and able to "feel deeply we can not know deeply either. It is only because Job is willing to feel his emotions that he is able to come to grips with the mystery of suffering in his head and heart and gut." And that mystery, as Fr. Teilhard de Chardin writes, is that:

Not only our unavoidable ills but our faults, even our most deliberate ones, can be embraced in a (holy) transformation, provided always that we repent of them. Not everything is immediately good to those who seek God; but everything is capable of becoming good.

This insight is almost always absent from traditional Reformed theology and its various spiritualities. In both Eastern Orthodoxy and Roman Catholicism, however, it is known as the Pascal Mystery, where even something as deadly as the Cross can become a life-giving blessing by God's grace and even an iota of faith/trust. Fr. de Chardin writes:

The flower I held in my hands withered in my hands. At the turn of the lane a wall rose up before me. Suddenly, between the trees, I saw the edge of the forest which I thought had no end. A flame burnt up the paper on which my thought was written. The testing time had come. But it did not bring the unalleviated sorrow I had expected, of being pulled up short by the uncertainties and limitations of every single particular good. On the contrary, a glorious unsuspected joy invaded my soul. And why was this, Lord, if not because, in the collapse of those immediate supports I came so dangerously close to accepting for my life, I knew with a unique experiential certainty that I would never again rely for support on anything save Your own divine consistence. (Teilhard de Chardin A Book of Hours, pp.147-8)

Two practices help me trust such a mystery: sitting silently with the wisdom of our wound. Silence is vital. Incrementally, it strips away my excuses, illusions, and defenses if I sit with it long enough. It is a strict but compassionate master that will not let me deflect or deny truth. And the truth that is always waiting to be born within the pregnant wisdom of my wounds is that my angst, my fury, my resentments, and addictions really are not what they seem. They are not a destination, but rather the doorway to grace if I am willing to let them teach me. And their lesson is so absurd and counter-cultural that I want to reject it: namely, that whatever I am feeling is usually the exact opposite of what I should do. When I want to lash out, it would be better to take some time out. When I want to scream, it would be best to shut up. And when I want to run away, the Sacred invites me to stay put. 

Sitting silently with the wisdom of my wounds takes practice. I still mostly hate it. Yet, without practicing and honoring the paradoxical wisdom of my wounds, I bring more hurt and darkness into the world. Fr. de Chardin adds:

Human suffering, the sum total of suffering poured out at each moment over the whole earth, is like an immeasurable ocean. But what makes up this immensity? Is it blackness, emptiness, barren wastes? No, indeed, it is potential energy. A price has to be paid for the struggle. The earth groans in travail with Christ. Like a wagon that creaks and grinds, progress advances painfully, bruised and tearful. Suffering holds hidden within it, in extreme intensity, the ascensional force of the world.

In one of his most vulnerable songs, Springsteen puts this well in "Living Proof."