Standing in the morning light of the stained glass window of the church, praying and chanting the Matin prayers, it soon came time for the Matins Gospel, Luke 24 and the disciples on the way to Emmaus. Luke has been my favorite Gospel since my twenties, and this passage is one reason why. One of my Bible bookmarks is a business card size reproduction of the painting of Jesus and the two disciples. And given that T. S. Eliot makes reference to this passage in "The Waste Land" cinches the deal.
As Father Patrick cried out "Let us be attentive" my attention was focused. Eyes closed I let the Gospel words pour through me. I was not prepared for how deeply I would be moved. The passage spoke to me of the palpable nearness of Jesus, and the intimacy of what is clearly intended to typify the Eucharist so awakened a longing in me that I felt as though I were being turned inside out. The thought of ever being given the chance to commune from the chalice stirred in me an almost overwhelming awe and what I can only describe as a fearsome wonder. When my time comes, I know I will both be drawn with the gravity of a dozen suns, and yet I know I will have only one response. I am not worthy.
I apologize for sounding so melodramatic. Believe me, I've toned down the rhetoric. But Sunday's Matins experience was so profound that the memory of it gives rise to the same intensity of response.
In which case it is not good to go through one's files so as to make room for new files. Especially if those files contain papers written in one's "previous life" as a conservative non-denominational evangelical. I re-read the paper I wrote for my ministry class, "Thoreau's Walden and the Minister's Personal Life." I looked over my paper on Ecclesiastes, footnotes and all, to which I had appended a poetic retelling. (And yes, you may safely assume that these were not usual fare for papers at the college.) There was my senior sermon, as well as my salutatorian address. I had kept some of the poems by a classmate of mine, who'd left the Bible college to pursue a journalism degree. I stayed in touch with her for a couple of years, then she disappeared into silence. Bible college, despite some personal tragedies, such as my parents' separations and divorce, was among the best periods of my life.
Then I hit the "Church newsletter articles" file. I once served a small rural congregation in central Illinois. I had the best of intentions, a fair amount of ministry experience (considering I was just hitting my late twenties), and the optimism borne of conviction. It was to be the most damaging and horrible experience among Christian people of my life (though others have come close). Unsurprisingly, these newsletter articles i had written--despite their smiling, goodnatured propaganda--give hints, I can see now, of the ups and downs and the growing tensions. The "professionalism" is just a bit too crisp. The positive tones a bit too forced, but not enough to let some pain creep through. I went through every last one, keeping most, throwing out some of the more innocuous ones.
That time, my last in ordained ministry, was excruciating in its denouement. It brought my marriage to the brink of destruction. I worked three jobs, and we still had days we ate little. We retreated into our cocoons. It was the darkest time of my life. It tested me in ways I never want to be tested again.
I suppose they call it the meantime, because this time of transition, this standing between two destinations, can be so cruel. Is there any of God's people who did not travel desert pathways on their pilgrimage? If so, I'd like to know their route. If not, I'd like to be the first.
This present meantime, though, is not nearly so agonizing. Or, if it is, it is so because of fullness, not because of absence. When we left that last ministry, the January winds of winter in central Illinois whistled around the eaves of our apartment drawing forth without words the deep loneliness we felt from God's people, from one another, from ourselves. And, yes, from God. Now, however, though there are challenges and anxieties, and I may still feel stretched thin, but it comes of being too filled--or at least the promise of it. Once God felt so far away as to be without existence. Now God feels so near that I seem to be undone.
The Psalmist says of God, "All things are Thy servants." The joys of Bible college, the darkness of Christian faithlessness, the bittersweetness of standing just within the door of the wedding feast.
Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
"My ears had heard of Thee, but now my eyes have seen Thee. I repent in dust and ashes."
Posted by Clifton at July 22, 2003 09:35 PM | TrackBack