Walking in the darkness, listening for the silence --some thoughts on Psalm 19

“…not a sound to be heard…”

--Psalm 19:3b

 

 

Walking this morning in the hour before sunrise, I was struck by the depth of the darkness still visible; the depth of the shadows cast across the lawns and into the bushes. Looking up, part of Orion’s belt still lingered high above the treetops.  I was reminded of the night before when my daughter and I had been out walking sometime between nine and ten. As we walked, I commented to her on what seemed to be a difference between the darkness of morning and the darkness of night. And it was not the one I had expected.  In fact, quite the opposite; it seemed to my eye that the darkness of night was more bearable and even somewhat brighter, and that the darkness before dawn was somehow deeper and more impenetrable; perhaps even a little more unsettling.  It was as if nature herself were confirming that old adage: it is always darkest before the dawn.

 

But another aspect of this is the silence.  Before dawn, walking the streets, I am often alone.  Not a soul out, except for the occasional possum slinking off to a day’s rest after a night of foraging. But at night, as Lucia and I walked, there were still sounds of life all around us.  Cars coming and going, people closing up garages, or pulling trash cans to the curb, neighbors out walking their dogs or riding their bikes.  There was activity, signs of life.  And, Lucia pointed out, there were porch lights and driveway security lights to dim the darkness just a bit.

 

But back to this morning’s walk. This morning, on my walk, I was stirred by the stillness and the silence. Pausing in the middle of the street to look up into the lingering remnants of the night, I felt the wonder of the silence and the intensity of the darkness. And for a moment, a deep and impenetrable sense of my own incompleteness and isolation swept over me.  For a brief moment, I felt utterly alone. Yet I was not afraid.

 

I don’t know how long I stood there, before I noticed the headlights of a car stopped some 20 feet away, the driver patiently waiting for me to get out of her way.  I smiled and moved toward the curb and let her pass.  There could only be one reason to get in your car before dawn: a doughnut emergency. And I certainly didn’t want to stand between a driver and her Shipley’s.

 

Her car crept past cautiously, and she nodded, then drove on. Watching her taillights disappear around the far corner, I figured it was time to head home, so I turned around and started back.  And this was when I noticed something else.  The world around me was stirring, scattered birds had begun calling to the dawn, the shadow of a squirrel crept down into the damp grass, testing the cold, and in the distance I could see another person out for their morning walk. Clearly, I had never been quite as alone as I felt in that moment.

 

Walking home, I was heading east and I could see the first rosy glow of dawn blossoming on the horizon. The darkness above it fading into a soft bruise of blue and red. It was beautiful and comforting.  Curiosity made me stop and turn and look back the other direction. And with a kind of strange elation, I realized that behind me I could still see the night.  At one end of the street, the sky was filled with darkness, the moon smiled, and a single star still glistened. And at the other end, the day was breaking.  And in the middle was me… getting positively silly with wonder.

 

Psalm 19 begins with this thrilling image of God’s glory being proclaimed by creation, the day speaks of it to the day and the night to the night.  Not a word is spoken, the psalmist says, but the message is clear, and it reaches the whole world.  Just look around, and even in the darkness of night you will see it –the glory of God’s love is luminous.  It lights the darkest of nights and even the darkness before the dawn is filled with it.  But, to see it, to sense it, to hear it, to know it, we have to pause and look and really listen. We have to listen to the stillness.

 

“…no utterance at all, no speech,

not a sound to be heard,

but from the entire earth it arises,

a message reaching the entire world…” (cf. 19: 3-4)

 

And that message, sung by all of creation, that is our Light.

 

To serve is divine--A Meditation on John 13

 “Jesus knew that the Father had put

everything into His hands, and that

He had come from God and was

returning to God…”  --John 13:3

 

 

Just before the last supper, the night before He was to die, according to John’s Gospel, Jesus seems to have a deeper or more profound knowledge, special insight, into His mission, His role, His person.  He knew that God had delivered everything into His hands—implying a kind of completeness—and John seems to recognize that Jesus understood in a new or special way where He had come from, and where He was going.  Some theologians have interpreted this as depicting or expressing a moment when the human consciousness of Jesus is receding into (or reuniting with) the wholeness of the Divine; as if to say that whatever limits may have been upon His human understanding are fading as He prepares to re-unite completely with the Father. 

 

Okay, but my first reaction is: I guess.  But, if He’s God, didn’t He really know this all along[1]?  

 

My second reaction, is to ponder. And this morning, reading this chapter of John’s Gospel on the front porch with the blue jays pecking at the peanuts and a flock of thrushes peppering the sky, darting in and out of neighboring trees, hopping about in the grass, I found myself pondering this idea: Jesus suddenly knew these things and knowing them, what does He do?  He overturns all religious and cultural conventions: He acts like a servant and begins washing His disciples’ feet. (cf13:5).

 

And when Peter complains about Him doing this, Jesus doesn’t explain. He just says: You’ll understand this later.  And to make sure, He sits the disciples down and tells them point blank: Pay attention! This was more than just a hygiene lesson. If you want to follow me, I just showed you the way. (cf 13:15)

 

It is easy to be sentimental and say to ourselves, I want to be like Jesus. But, living it is something else.  For instance: last night I came home from work tired, neck tight from slouching over a computer. All I wanted was to change clothes, go for a walk and read a little Agatha Christie. But I could see that Lynne was working very hard, and there were still chores that needed doing, litter boxes that needed cleaning, etc. So, I changed clothes and started to help.

 

At some point I realized there were no dinner plans.  So, I got out tortillas, eggs, salsa and cheese and started making tacos.  And seeing that my wife was just as tired as I was, I brought her a couple of tacos on a plate and gave her a kiss. I told Sophie and Lucy there were taco fixings and warmed up some more tortillas and sat down to eat. A Hallmark movie was on the TV, and I felt like I finally had a moment to myself, so I opened up the I-pad and started looking at the NY Times. But, sometimes Paul Krugman isn’t as fun as Facebook, so I started flipping through pictures and silly videos. Just as I was beginning to wonder why I was watching another TCM commercial, Lynne asked me if I would be willing to rub her neck. For an instant I felt like Peter. Resentment welled up inside me. I had just done everything, cooked, served, even protected the leftovers from a cat. Inside me a voice cried out: What about me? Don’t I deserve to be massaged, or comforted, or even just left alone?

 

But living like Jesus isn’t just about sentiment, and humility, and it certainly isn’t about fairness.  It’s about divinity. Knowing who He is and what He was made for, Jesus empties Himself and becomes a servant—a slave.

 

Pondering these verses, I realize that every moment, every choice, it is all in my hands. I can choose to follow the example of Jesus, or I act like Peter and complain. I can choose to pursue my own desires and ego.  Or I can lay down my life (or my I-pad) in service to my wife, and to God: the one who made me and to whom I will return.

 

And, like Jesus, I can know: This is what I was made for.

 

Lord,

Open my eyes, that I read Your word more clearly,

Open my ears, that I hear Your message more fully,

And open my heart, and let me be filled

with the love that is found there.

---

[1] My instinct, too often, is to look for a loophole or point of debate.  Which may just be part of growing up as the middle child in a largish family. Always watching for a way to score points, make an impression, make myself stand apart from the crowd…   But it probably also comes from studying theology and philosophy at the University of St. Thomas with those delightfully odd Basilians and their Thomistic Center.  We were taught to ask questions, to be curious, to explore ideas and push against the envelope—but always with humility and always in service of the truth. 

 

What kind of God is this? Thoughts on Job and "the heart of the tempest"

“So, the Lord said to Satan... Did you pay any attention to my servant Job?”

–Job 1:7-8

“Then from the heart of the tempest, the Lord gave Job His answer.”

--Job 38:1

From the heart of the tempest, the Lord gave Job His answer.  Out of the heart of the tempest comes the Lord’s answer.  This feels key.

There are two aspects of the Book of Job that are particularly troubling to me:

1.      What kind of God would do this or allow this to happen to His beloved servant? To anyone? Is He malevolent, or just an underachiever?

2.      The Lord’s response.  What is the meaning of God’s “answer” to Job? Or, to put it more concisely: what is God’s answer?

Speaking out of the tempest (aka. storm; whirlwind) God makes no defense of His actions (or inaction).  He offers no explanation of what has happened to Job, to his family, his slaves, his livestock; though God allowed all of it  –even instigated it (in some interpretations).  No. Instead of defending or explaining Himself, God shows up in the midst of some great storm wind, and presents Job with a series of unanswerable questions:

Where is the storehouse of snow? The house of light? Darkness? Can you fasten the stars? Untie them? Will rain fall at your command? Lightning come at your call? Will the wild ox be your pet? Behemoth? Leviathan? What about the glorious horse—did you make that? Surely you did!

At times He even takes an ironic tone, taunting and challenging Job to let it all hang out; take your best shot!

“Come on, display your majesty...

let the fury of your anger burst forth...” (40:10-11)

Though, God never explains Himself, somehow these confounding questions seem to satisfy Job.  How?  I’ve been wondering about that.  There are a couple of possible answers that come to mind: first, that Job is so intimidated by God’s awesomeness that he covers his mouth and retreats—basically acknowledging that he can’t compete with God. In other words, on some level he’s been beaten into submission. Or, second, that somehow God’s response actually satisfies Job, answers the essential question he’s been asking for app. 37 chapters: Why? Why would God do this to his faithful servant?

For the longest time I fell somewhere in the middle of all this. I had kind of stumbled around the edges of this beautiful ancient text assuming that on some metaphorical or allegorical or spiritual level what satisfied Job was God’s awesomeness.  That –yes, he was frightened into submission; putting his hand over his mouth as a way of acknowledging the vulnerability of his position: I’m not worthy…  BUT, somehow the inscrutableness of God’s presence not only intimidates Job, but also satisfies him.

Now, however, I find myself stuck on that tempest, caught by the image of God’s answer coming “from the heart of the tempest.”  Is it possible that where God speaks from is part of the answer that satisfies Job? That God’s answer comes “from the heart of the tempest…”   

 

Let me put this into a little context.  Last week my wife was preparing to teach the beatitudes to her classes, and on the way home we were talking in the car, trying to recall all 8 beatitudes and see if we could put in teachable words the blessedness that arises out of each.  Pretty quickly we got hung up on mourning. 

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” –Matthew 5:4

Inspired by Pope Benedict’s Jesus of Nazareth books and The Ladder of the Beatitudes by Jim Forest, I was speculating on how mourning was somehow positively attached to the identity of Christ, to His presence. He mourned (& wept), and therefore to be like Him…  But I couldn’t even convince myself.  I couldn’t make the connection stick in my own head.  That whole night I was troubled by a kind of sour feeling of my own failure; as if I knew something was true but couldn’t prove it and it was eating at me.  I suspected that somehow I was just wrong; my whole idea of Jesus and the beatitudes was wrong.  And there was also that sting of embarrassment. Here I was trying to say something profound and yet… I couldn’t.  Of course, that isn’t news to anyone who reads these posts.  But, the next morning, I opened my Bible and read:

“Then from the heart of the tempest, the Lord gave Job His answer.”

--Job 38:1

And I almost slapped myself. That was what I was trying to say!  It is from the storm, from the heart of the tempest that God speaks to us.  Why is it blessed to mourn?  Because when we are mourning, we are entering into the heart of the tempest.  There –in the midst of life’s storms, in the heart of the tempest—the Lord will speak to us; He gives us His answer.  It comes out of the heart of the tempest.  Which says to me, that God’s long list of awe-inspiring questions and imagery is only part of His answer to Job. God reveals Himself not only through this series of questions, but also through how He shows up.  God reveals Himself through the storm, through the strife, in the heart of the tempest He reveals Himself.  On the road to Calvary, He reveals Himself…

So—of course—Yes! Blessed are they who mourn; of course, they will be comforted –because in their mourning God reveals Himself to them.  It is in the mystery of mourning that God’s mysterious nature may be glimpsed; and our insufficiency made ineluctably clear.   

Which sends me back to my other question: what kind of God would do this to His beloved servant?  I guess the same kind of God who would send His only begotten Son to die for the sins of others.  That cry from the cross: My God, my God, Why hast thou forsaken me? is prefigured in the questioning of Job, the demanding of God to show Himself. 

So, in our suffering, in our mourning, perhaps we are being offered a chance to see Christ, to see God, and to be comforted by knowing we too have a part in His cross.  We share in His grace. We share in His mystical body.  And to know that, is to be blessed.  

“…do everything for the glory of God…”

“…whatever you do, do everything for the glory of God.”

--1 Corinthians 10:31

“My son, give glory to the Lord, God of Israel,

and confess…” –Joshua 7:19

This past Sunday we heard the story of the leper who said to Jesus, “If you are willing, you can make me clean.” (Mk 1:40b) After the Lord heals him, this man goes about telling everyone about the miracle and the man who “made him clean.” He is understandably excited, but it is interesting –and always troubled me that as soon as this man leaves Jesus, he does exactly what the Lord has told him not to do. Jesus tells him:

See that you tell no one anything, but go, show yourself to the priest and offer for your cleansing what Moses prescribed… (Mk 1:44)

So, why isn’t the leper called on the carpet? He received a miracle, was given a pretty simple directive (basically for a leper to be declared clean required a priest to sign off that the sores were gone) but instead of obeying it, he does the opposite. You’d think that if this was a fable or morality tale or something like that, there would be some kind of consequences for this vociferous leper; even if it just meant Jesus wagging a miraculous finger at him.        But, instead we get only the lovely detail that this man sang the Lord’s glory so successfully that Jesus couldn’t make it into the towns because people kept streaming out to Him. All because of this “disobedient” leper. That’s interesting to me.  He does explicitly what the Lord tells him not to do, but clearly he does it for the glory of the Lord, and thus becomes an early and highly successful evangelist.  Whatever you do, do it for the glory of the Lord!

Another twist on this might be found in the Old Testament reading from Leviticus which shows how a leper was supposed to behave:

“The one who bears the sore of leprosy shall keep his garments rent, his head bare… and shall cry out: unclean, unclean… He shall dwell apart, making his abode outside the camp.”  (Leviticus 13:44-46)

To submit to this treatment must have been devastating to a person and to a family. But, to endure it with anything more than resignation and growing despair or resentment requires a deep, a profound trust in God. But how?

Reading Joshua the other morning, I came across the idea of giving Glory to the Lord in a very different context.  It is in the story of Achan who is to be put to death for stealing loot that had been put under the ban. When Joshua discovers what Achan has done and how it has brought a curse upon the Israelites, he goes to him and says:

My son, give glory to the Lord, God of Israel, and

confess what you have done, hide it not…

And Achan does confess. Directly he takes Joshua and shows him the items. And immediately Joshua has him (and his family and livestock) lead out of the village and stoned to death.  That’s pretty brutal, that swift shift from the tender sounding, “My son, give glory to God, confess what you have done…” to:  Take him out of the camp and kill him. And his family! And while you’re at it, let’s kill and burn his livestock, too![1]

            That is a hard shift and a hard bit of glory to be asked to give to the Lord.  But if we take Paul seriously (and please tell me if this sounds too Calvinistic), we must do everything for the glory of God. When we are healed let it be for the glory of God, and when we feel cursed, let that too be for the glory of God. St. Therese reminds us that even our tiniest acts --to stoop and pick up a dropped pin—we should do for love of God. 

Do everything for the glory of God!  That in itself is the greatest witness we can offer. And, like Bernanos’ Country Priest said:  All is grace… Yes, even the stones they throw at us.

---

[1] (Of course there is a lot more to be said for the story of Achan. And there is some scholarly debate about whether the original words mean the family is stoned or merely forced to witness his stoning. Read Joshua. I dare you.)