Monday, April 13, 2015
What I have found useful is to tell a story, to share a personal experience of, say, the Blessed Virgin Mary, that will offer insight into why the Church has long venerated her as the God-bearer, the Queen of Heaven and Earth, or Our Lady of Sorrows. After all, it is no surprise that people would have an easier time connecting with my lived relationship with Mary than with a dry abstraction. In seminary, I was taught that the Hebrew Bible was the story of one people's attempt to come to some kind of understanding of their identity and their relationship with God. Scripture, Doctrine, and Tradition--often spelled reverently with those initial capitals that convey authority--are at best a best-guess, an attempt to codify a faithful people's experience over time of mysteries that defy rational explanation. That is not heresy, but humility before the mystery of God. We feel, we cogitate, and then we struggle to find words that can capture our deep experience of God. We want to nail it down, but alas . . . One my favorite French words is insaisissable, which translates clumsily as "uncapturable" or "elusive." The translation misses something, maybe its all those s's hissing away musically like air, invisible, and yet perceptible. Maybe we should rely less on theologians and more on poets, storytellers, artists . . .
There is no guarantee that what we or Billy will find on the other side of the grave/mine will be all peace and light. In the example of Jesus' life, crucifixion, and resurrection, we detect a model for our own striving, for reaching beyond places of certain death and despair to grasp the potential for continued growth. Like Billy, who knows what kind of people we will grow into beyond the mine? Jesus shows us that giving into death is not an option, and that it is worth the risk to venture into unknown territory, even if it promises uncertainty, the discomfort of growth, and the possibility of failure. The Resurrection, in this understanding, then, is not a single event, but an orientation of hope built on trust, trust that God is leading us toward something good and that we have what it takes to engage what we find waiting for us, however insaisissable it may be.
This past Sunday focused on the story of Doubting Thomas. I always have an easy time relating to him, his skepticism, his demand for empirical proof. He would make a great patron for postmodern seekers. What rises to the surface of his story for me is his failure to recognize the risen Christ; and perhaps that's because, Jesus, like us, is changed by his experience of transformation, of crossing the threshold of hopelessness and death and emerging into the light of new life. His wounds, like ours, remain; they become integrated into us as we mature and grow and learn. But we become different people. As our seminarian preached yesterday, these wounds become scars, which remind us of all we have been through, all we have survived, and that is an empowering message. Thomas's story invites us to put our hands into our own wounds (and those of others) as a sign of our own triumph over the grave. It may not answer the question about our ultimate destiny following bodily death, but it illustrates nonetheless the striving for hope that Jesus commended us to practice. Easter is a time to affirm that in the midst of death, life is still possible. Our wounds serve as reminders that on the other side of suffering, shame, and despair may be a transformed person we don't yet recognize.
Easter joy and blessings,
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Abundant blessings for a solemn Holy Week and a deeply holy life,