The dessert and the Paschal Mystery

See what other thoughts on Lent are on the MSFL blog.

Sister Ginny, my spiritual director, suggested that I spend some time in the dessert with Jesus.  She sensed in our conversation that it would be a good picture of where I am emotionally.  I have been mourning some deaths lately. I lost a dream job at the local coffee shop, where I was roasting and making sure the coffees were of highest quality. It wasn't for a bad reason, either, the owner just grew to appreciate how much he wanted to continue to do the things he hired me to do.  Still, I loved that job and mourn its death.  I also mourn my sense of direction, or at least clarity of what I am doing.  I am waiting.  Elaine and I are part of a church planting team here in Bay City now, but what do I do while we wait to get started?  And where do I find meaningful work to support my family? I am in the desert.

I am reminded that Lent is an invitation to the desert. We are invited to spend 40 days with Jesus in the wilderness, just as he spent 40 years with the Israelites as they wandered. We are invited to do this in preparation for our baptism into his death and resurrection, our entry into the Promised Land.

This is not an easy place to dwell, the desert. It is a wild place, where shadows of crosses spread across the sand and snakes ply their schemes. The scenery in this wilderness is uncomfortable to look upon, and yet that is precisely why we are here to gaze on the things in the desert places. We are entering into the Paschal Mystery. This is the mysterious way God takes death, the death of God’s son, Jesus, and makes life, eternal life for all people. We are invited to enter into this mystery with the deaths in our lives. Not only the big deaths of loved ones, but we enter also into the mystery with the death of our dreams, our youth, or a job. We are invited to gaze into the mystery and let God transform our deaths into life.

We are reminded of the story of the Israelites who complained on their way through the wilderness. They grumbled saying they wouldn’t eat the food that God gave them – that they wouldn’t take another bite, they would just lie down and die. God in his justice answered their prayer. The last bite they would have to take would not be manna but a bite from a snake. Then they would indeed lie down and would die.

Moses prayed, asking God to save his people. The Lord told Moses a strange thing. He told Moses to make a copper copperhead, a serpenty-serpent as fiery red as the burning of their bites and fever. Anyone who looked on this image of suffering, this thing that had become death in the eyes of the people, would be saved. They had to stare death in the eyes to receive their healing.

“And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness,” Jesus says, “so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life” (John 3:14-15 NRSV). This is good news for our spiritual formation. Lent invites us to put away our triumph for a time and recall the suffering. It invites us to participate, to fellowship in the suffering of Christ.

Centering prayer is a good practice for this reason. We can begin by closing our eyes, and breathing deeply the dessert air around us. Borrowing form the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius, we can enter into the story for a moment, turn our eyes to the cross, feel the desolate wilderness, lock eyes with death. Then as we kneel at the foot of the cross comes the most important part of centering prayer. We must let go of our agenda. We must let die all of our desires for what we want from God. We are in the wilderness, away from all that distracts and calls our attention. Even our good desires and good thoughts of God must give way so that God can do as God pleases in our hearts. We must even look over the shoulder of Jesus on the cross and turn our gaze on the awful abyss of mystery: God. Lent is an invitation well suited for dwelling there for a time. Don’t hurry. Lock the eyes of your soul on God, through the suffering, and pour your love on God.

Trust in emptiness

This week I can greatly identify with Nouwen’s assertion that solitude is not immediately satisfying. My experiences with solitude Monday initiated a week of wrestling with myself.

Yesterday I went with my friend Rich to a retreat center in Dewitt. He has been leading a group of us in exploring the implications of centering prayer for ministry the last few months. We get together once a month for several hours, talking, reading the Cloud of Unknowing, and spending about an hour in silent centering prayer.

I was looking forward to this time, hoping that the time with God would resolve the feelings from Monday. There were moments of connection when I felt the presence, but, by and large, there was nothing. Here lies the tension. I have to trust that God is in fact doing something in that time, even when I don’t see it. I learn from the tension something about fruitfulness, the center of my struggle, as well. Even when I am not feeling like I am bearing fruit, that my six years of preaching and living example aren’t making a difference in my present context, I can still trust that God is still moving, that God’s vital sap is producing the fruit.

From the center

I began to pray a centering prayer in the solitude of my basement office, literally warmed by candlelight.  I could see out the small window, near the ceiling, the brooding gray sky, snow flakes falling and wind a howl. There is God, hidden behind the cloud of unknowing. I hurl my love at the cloud, focusing all my love on the otherness that is the Divine Mystery.

My meditation turns to Haiti, and the thousands and millions of solitary souls hurting there. Faintly, carried on the breeze of the Spirit a song wafts up from my heart. It grows in strength and I begin to sing, “Ubi Caritas…” Live in charity, God will dwell with you. I play and sing for a time with my guitar and then I take my prayer walking around the sanctuary.

Our church is in the middle of our annual missions convention and hung on the walls are posters of various mission fields. As I pass by the images on the poster for Latin America and the Caribbean, I place my hand to the cheek of a woman who could very well be from Haiti. Love wells up wells up within me as I realize again the reality of her personhood. She is unique, not simply an image on the periphery of my life, but a real child of God, uniquely and fully loved by God.