My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

 Far from my deliverance are the words of my groaning.

O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; 

And by night, but I have no rest. 

Yet you are holy, 

O you who are enthroned on the praises of Israel. 

In you our fathers trusted; 

They trusted and you delivered them. 

.   .   .

By happy accident, I read the wrong bit of Psalm this morning. (I should have read Psalm 24.1-6, but never mind.)

The astonishing thing, though, is that I read it at all. For the last couple of months, I haven't been able to approach the Scripture: the darkness had become that dark. But in the life of the soul as in the cycles of day and night, it seems that the night is darkest just before the dawn. 

It is a happy accident, because for eighteen months or so, I have been utterly bewildered by this age old question: 'why have you forsaken me?' Why is it that our forebears trusted and were delivered? Why were they not disappointed? 

Slowly, though, the light has been creeping back into my soul. And today I find, to my surprise, that the sun shines. The sun shines more brightly than I thought it ever would again. 

The shadows persist, to be sure, and the road ahead still looks like a rocky climb. But I know that the light still shines, and I am not afraid. 

Tuesday of the sixteenth week of the year

They tempted God in their hearts
by demanding the food they craved.
Yes, they spoke against God, saying,
“Can God spread a table in the desert?”


Yet he commanded the skies above
and the doors of heaven he opened;
He rained manna upon them for food
and gave them heavenly bread. 


Psalm 78 (77 LXX)

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The psalm for the day recounts the story related in the first reading, from Exodus. The people complain, and God provides. I owe this observation and its connection to the gospel for today to a friend who is a priest. In his homily he pointed out that the parable of the sower is about the sower--it's not a parable about the different types of soil. The sower goes out to sow, and sows the seed generously: he gives. I insist that my children ask politely, say please, and don't demand things. But God, my friend observed, complies with the demands of the people and responds to their complaining by more abundant generosity. 


Now that's what I call preaching the good news: he came that we might have life, and have it abundantly. And we didn't even say 'please.'

Our Lady of Mount Carmel

Inspired by the Carmelite Order, the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel invites reflection on the life  of prayer and devotion to Mary that characterizes the Order. Although we may remember St Teresa of Avila and St John of the Cross for their mystical experiences, their lives were spent in obedience and prayer. The remarkable sense of God's presence is the fruit of a disciplined attention, and, for St John, followed a long 'dark night of the soul'. May his life continue to inspire us as we walk through the valley of the shadow.

.    .    .

...for his steadfast love endures forever.

.    .    .

So goes the line, repeated in all 26 verses of Psalm 136 (135 LXX). Every saving act of God recounted in today's psalm should remind us (it seems to say) that God's steadfast love endures forever. The psalm concludes with a stanza that makes me wish I could drop everything and go to Mass immediately:

It is he who remembered us in our low estate,
   for his steadfast love endures forever;
and rescued us from our foes,
   for his love endures forever;
he who gives food to all flesh,
   for his love endures forever.

O give thanks to the God of heaven,
   for his love endures forever.

I am reminded of the ultimate saving act of God, in which God remembered us in our low estate and came to join us. The Son of God came down, so that we might be raised with him, delivered from sin and death, and given new life. And that life, that deliverance, is remembered, celebrated and received anew in the sacrament of Christ's body and blood. No matter how steep the mountain or how stormy the skies, the Lord gives himself as our food, our strength for the journey, for his steadfast love endures forever.

St Bonaventure

St Bonaventure (from the short description on universalis) 'wrote extensively on philosophy and theology, making a permanent mark on intellectual history; but he always insisted that the simple and uneducated could have a clearer knowledge of God than the wise'. Amen to that: the only thing that keeps me doing theology is the belief that it is more important for a theologian to be faithful than to be clever. I pray that I will be faithful, by God's grace.

.    .    .

How shall I make a return to the LORD
for all the good he has done for me?
The cup of salvation I will take up,
and I will call upon the name of the LORD.


Precious in the eyes of the LORD
is the death of his faithful ones.
I am your servant, the son of your handmaid;
you have loosed my bonds.


To you will I offer sacrifice of thanksgiving,
and I will call upon the name of the LORD.
My vows to the LORD I will pay
in the presence of all his people.


                                        Psalm 115 (LXX)

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Today a friend posted a video to facebook, a song by Casting Crowns (not in my repertoire) called 'Praise you in the storm'. I clicked the link, as the verse from 'On Christ the solid rock I stand' started in my head: 'When darkness veils his lovely face/ I rest on his unchanging grace; / beneath the high and stormy gale/ my anchor holds within the veil'. 


It's been storming for a while now, eighteen months at least, and I (like the writer of 'Praise you in the storm'), think it could well be time for the storm to end. The clouds do have their silver linings, to be sure, but I am more than ready for a season of fair skies.  I am not asking for happily ever after, of course, just a season of smooth sailing in the sunshine, or an easy walk through a meadow. 


That's my plan, but it doesn't seem to be God's plan. And so I understand why thanksgiving is a sacrifice: to give thanks for what I don't want, trusting that I have what I need, and that however hard the road, and however I may stumble along it, I am never beyond the reach of the one who has loosed my bonds. 


     On Christ the solid rock I stand;
     all other ground is sinking sand.
     All other ground is sinking sand. 

Tuesday of the fifteenth week of the year

See, you lowly ones, and be glad;
you who seek God, may your hearts revive.
For the Lord hears the poor,
and his own who are in bonds he spurns not.
                                   Psalm 33 (LXX)

. . . .

'...his own who are in bonds he spurns not.' Would anyone familiar with the hymn 'And Can It Be' not be reminded immediately of the penultimate verse?

Long my imprisoned spirit lay,
Fast-bound in sin and nature's night.
Thine eye diffused a quick'ning ray;
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light.
My chains fell off, my heart was free;
I rose, went forth, and followed thee.

It is the lesson I forget most often, I think: that God rescues us because we need it, not because we deserve it; Christ came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance. Thus the last line: 'I rose, went forth, and followed thee.' And, as I am reminded often by theologians I read (Rowan Williams comes to mind particularly), the rising and going forth is not a once-and-for-all repentance. Again and again, I ind myself 'in bonds': I need rescuing more often than I like to admit.

But not more often than God is willing to save.

St William of York (8 June)

They are not of the world, even as I am not of the world. Sanctify them in the truth; thy word is truth. As thou didst send me into the world, so I have sent them into the world. And for their sake I consecrate myself, that they also may be consecrated in truth.

John 17. 16-19

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Not of this world? Gregory of Nyssa wrote about his sister Macrina's life and death, and throughout his description tells us what it meant for her to be in the world, but not of it. What stands out about Macrina's life, most of all, is the hope that characterized her every word and act.

To live in the 'not-yet' and be of the 'already' is the challenge of Christian life. The only requirement, it seems to me, for answering that call, is hope. Macrina had it, and the saints through the ages shared it. Fortunately, her hope and ours comes not from a grim determination to set our sights on heaven, but by the gift of the Holy Spirit. Hope is ours for the asking, given by God to all of us who are on the journey.

Poor in spirit

I never got beyond 'poor in spirit' during Lent: it isn't a starting place, from which we grow to become spiritually rich. It is, rather, an acknowledgment that we are earthen vessels, waiting to be filled by the Spirit. Acknowledging weakness does not set us on the path to becoming strong, but turns us toward the Source of all strength.

Jean Vanier reminded me this morning of the revelation of God in our weakness, in his reflection on his participation in the Pope's pilgrimage to Lourdes in 2004:

During that time I walked close to John Paul II. I was moved by the seriousness of his disability, his speech difficulties due to Parkinson's disease. One person told me after the pilgrimage, 'It was too hard to watch him on the television. He should retire--or die--soon!' How many times I have heard that said about people with disabilities. It is an attitude that humanly speaking is understandable! It is hard to see and be close to people in pain. Through his physical poverty, the Pope reveals a mystery; he is a living symbol of the presence of God in weakness. Even more than by his words, through his fragile body he is teaching us now the value of each human life; he is showing us a path towards holiness. I was also touched by his humility and courage, the spark of life in his eyes, the way he accepts the humiliating reality of his condition today and his extreme tenderness. His is a sign of the glory of God who is manifested in and through his poverty and vulnerability (Our Life Together, p 520).