‘I said to my
soul, be still, and let the darkness come upon you
Which shall be
the darkness of God.’ (East Coker, III)
In the first of these
‘Ponderings’ I quoted those lines by T. S. Eliot in connection with the way
this pandemic is forcing many of us into a place of loss. That’s been made worse, for some clergy, by
the absence of ‘real time’ pastoral contact compounded by that instruction from
the hierarchy about not entering churches. This seminal crisis is causing some to
experience an existential darkness seeping through their vocation; the very
things priests were identified as possessing and ordained to express – an
ability to care, an empathic nature, praying the Divine Office in church – all that
and more, has been denied. And, despite
valiant efforts to nurture their calling, some are feeling let down, lost and
fearful.
In that first ‘Pondering’ I said
that this period reminds me of the way Christ entered the darkness on Holy
Saturday with the light of the Resurrection. I touched on this in my second
book, ‘The Mystery of Faith’ when, in Chapter 6, I wrote about Christ’s
descent into this darkness, a darkness he allowed to overwhelm him but which,
in the end, didn’t overcome him;
‘There’s
something of deep significance in Christ’s journey into the realm of Death, for
the effect of his redemption works at both a conscious and unconscious level,
affecting the whole cosmic order. Carl Jung said it also represents the ego’s
deliberate descent into the unconscious where it emerges reborn.
This great
event, celebrated in the – neglected – Liturgy of the Burial of Christ, is
portrayed in orthodox icons by the image of his descent into that
darkness. He breaks into the
prison-house of death and drags Adam and Eve, our archetypal ancestors, from
sleep into the light of his Divinity.
This, arguably, is the great moment of salvation – his victory which
redeems all humankind, even back to the beginning. And our ceaseless task
is to open ourselves more and more deeply to Christ’s gracious, compassionate
invitation to be set free.’ (p.61f)
As both theology and psychology
agree in the importance of this event, it’s clearly of primary importance. God needs to descend into our depths and
illuminate them with resurrection light, something the icon of the Anastasis
reveals. It also reveals just how hard
it was for our archetypal parents, Adam and Eve, to receive that light into
which Christ had to drag them. It’s in that darkness we encounter our vulnerability, the
place where we realise the need for humility, where we open ourselves to the
reality of our human frailty. It’s a
darkness which we proclaim Christ entered; he has broken open that place by the
light of the resurrection, and where Christ has gone, we need to follow despite
any fear we may have; for our gospel is that the darkness cannot overcome
us. Isn’t that what we should be
proclaiming and every parish celebrating?
This year the Paschal Triumph has
an importance that we need to take to heart. We may not be able to be with people in their sickness,
their suffering or their dying, but we can seek to be in that place of dazzling
darkness. Christ invites priests, in
particular, to be open to that for, as part of the Holy People of God, we need
to lead where all must go. Isn’t our
vocation to show the way, no matter how hard, how very hard, it can be? Whatever Christ meant when John records him
as saying in the gospel for Good Shepherd Sunday: “I came that they may have
life, and have it abundantly”, it’s clear the life he offers comes as a consequence
of passing through suffering and death. People
won’t hear about that on the TV News – they’ll only hear it if we tell them
what we’re discovering.
Death and life are, of course, the
twin foundations of our faith – and the former isn’t pleasant! For a priest, at this time, it can be
experienced in a variety of ways. Yet,
through it all, there is one thing that matters, and that’s our faithfulness to
our calling. Not to what we do, for we are
denied much of that, but to the call of Christ ‘who was faithful to the one who
appointed him, just as Moses also was faithful’ (Heb.3.2). As I said in Enfolded, Christ didn’t
save us by his ability but through his disability (p.109). Our faithfulness is,
primarily, to the God who calls us and that must mean faithfulness to be open
to that call – to prayer. About that,
one enclosed sister wrote to me:
‘I think as a
monastic I am aware how beneficial the rhythm and routine of the life we live
is. ... Unfortunately, it is much easier
to form a rhythm when things are normal, so that it is there to fall back on
when they aren't’.
So, maybe this is the time to
look at your Rule of Life and check what norm you have created in relation to praying,
and not simply saying, the Divine Office each day. Occasions when we enter the wonder of Christ’s
prayer to the Father through the Spirit not just twice, but maybe four or more
times a day. But any prayer – especially
meditation – can become boring, especially when it doesn't seem there's any
consolation in it. But Christian meditation – or contemplation – isn’t passive
‘quietism’ but desiring to be where Christ is; and whether that’s in the joy of
heaven or the darkness of hell, we’re called to be there. Whatever we experience (and it’s not the experience
we’re to desire, but God) we’re called to be faithful to the way that
leads to divine union. As sister pointed
out:
“Learning to inhabit
boredom when it is around is important; not easy, but we get into patterns of
distracting ourselves when things are not very exciting. If we can sit with boredom and restlessness
when they are there and realise that they are normal – we don't need to feel a
failure or guilty, just sit with the discomfort. We are being pushed to realise that our value
is in being and not doing – doing flows from being – and it is uncomfortable
for people. On the whole we take our
identity and value from what we can do, and for lots of people having the usual
opportunities for doing taken away is very uncomfortable! We don't really know how to be alone and
unoccupied. We will face an apparent
void we think, nothing there, if we are not 'doing'.”
That clearly speaks of the way
our life is united with Christ’s oblation ‘of himself once offered’ – and an
oblation isn’t a pleasant thing! It’s
bloody and involves the apparent loss of everything that makes life meaningful
but, as I said in Enfolded, ‘We follow one who was a failure in the
sight of most of his contemporaries, yet who could never have been a failure in
the sight of his Father. Jesus wasn't
formed for success but for faithfulness’ (p.57). It’s the way of the saints: of Theresa of Lisieux
who wrote in ‘Autobiography of a Soul’:
‘He allowed my
own soul to be plunged into the thickest gloom. The thought of heaven which had
been so sweet from my earliest years became for me a subject of torture. The trial did not merely last for days or
weeks. As I write, it has gone on for
months and still I am waiting for relief. I wish I could explain what I feel, but it is
beyond my power. One must have passed
through the tunnel to understand how black its darkness is.’
She had wanted to be a priest and
now God allowed her a share in Christ’s passion whereby she had to live by
faith – and love – alone. It’s the way
of St John of the Cross who, thrown into a dungeon by his Carmelite confreres
because they didn’t approve his reforms, produced from that place of
deprivation some of the greatest poetry ever written. Who said:
“Never give up
prayer, and should you find dryness and difficulty, persevere in it for this
very reason. God often desires to see what love your soul has, and love is not
tried by ease and satisfaction.” – St. John of the Cross, Special Counsels:
Degrees of Perfection #9
Perhaps this pandemic
is forcing us to face what lies beneath the surface of our lives, inviting us
to consider where we look for our primal meaning. Without so many of the norms of ministry we
might experience a sense of being overwhelmed by darkness. One of the reasons why it’s important to
continue to offer Christ’s oblation is that it’s concerned with overcoming the
darkness of death – it unlocks the gates of Hades and, with great tenderness,
sets prisoners free. Unfortunately – and
misleadingly – some say of that day that it’s when Christ ‘rested’, a day of
“dead silence” (Pastoral Letter, Archbishops of Canterbury and York, 2018)
when nothing happened. But, lying at the
heart of the Paschal Mystery, it’s the greatest day of salvation, the day when
what is most important occurs.
Feelings of loss and confusion
can drive us away from our calling, yet it’s precisely at this moment we need
to be present to prayer. Present to the
Spirit moving within us as we open our heart – with all its messy emotions – to
God whose ongoing work of salvation will be occurring at the deepest levels. Prayer which isn’t just the words we utter
but what happens in a heart inclined to God; which goes on gently even when
we’re unconscious of it. We have to set
up the rhythm – like the rhythm of breathing – because prayer is the heartbeat
of life.
It may be that this pandemic is
forcing us into places we would never enter by our own efforts. Now, like the contemplative, God invites us to
enter the worlds lostness with the flickering light of Christ. Not our flame but his, carried in our
heart. We may fail at times, fall flat
on our faces or even run from this calling, but it’s fundamental to the nature
of priesthood. All we need to do is be
there, in the darkness and despair with the light of Christ’s love. He does the work.
John-Francis
Friendship
April 30th
2020
In the early evening the Cross is taken from the altar and ‘buried’ so
that the body of Jesus doesn’t remain on view but is taken from the cross and laid in the tomb, thus completing the Liturgy of Good Friday. A small table, surrounded by flowers and candles, should be placed in the chancel and, during the Liturgy, the Cross is taken from the altar and placed beneath the Epitaphios (burial shroud) on the table, symbolising the Tomb of Christ, thus completing the biblical account of this day. Here is a short Liturgy of the Deposition that can be used for this observance.
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