“The Blessed Virgin endured a long and cruel martyrdom in her heart for our sakes, and for love of us. Frequently, and with feelings of tender love, contemplate her standing at the foot of the Cross, and join her in bewailing and weeping over sin, which, by causing the death of Jesus, rent in twain the heart of Mary. Pledge your heart to this Mother of sorrows, by some habitual act of devotion and mortification, in remembrance and in honor of her bitter sufferings. Also, endure something for love of her, imitating her patience, resignation, and silence.”— Fr. Ignatius of the Side of Jesus, p. 259
“I do not know whether [Jesus] is a sinner or not, I only know this much, I was once blind, and now I see.”—John 9:25
“I came into the world to divide it, to make the sightless see and to reveal to those who think they see it all that they are blind.”—John 9:39
Our lack of self-knowledge and our lack of wisdom make humans do very stupid and self-destructive things. Because humans cannot see their own truth very well, they do not read reality very well either. We all have our tragic flaws and blind spots. Humans always need more “light” or enlightenment about themselves and about the endless mystery of God. Here are some themes from today’s Gospel reading.
• The “man born blind” is the archetype for all of us at the beginning of life’s journey.
• The moral blame game as to why or who caused human suffering is a waste of time.
• The man does not even ask to be healed. It is just offered and given.
• Religious authorities are often more concerned about control and correct theology than actually healing people. They are presented as narrow and unloving people throughout the story.
• Many people have their spiritual conclusions before the facts in front of them. He is a predefined “sinner” and has no credibility for them.
• Belief in and love of Jesus come after the fact, subsequent to the healing. Perfect faith or motivation is not always a prerequisite for God’s action. Sometimes God does things for God’s own purposes.
• Spirituality is about seeing. Sin is about blindness, or as Saint Gregory of Nyssa will say, “Sin is always a refusal to grow.”
• The one who knows little, learns much (what we call “beginner’s mind”) and those who have all their answers already, learn nothing.
“God of all Light and Truth, just make sure that I am not a blind man or woman. Keep me humble and honest, and that will be more than enough work for you.”
There’s a poster that reads, “Let us begin again,” St. Francis of Assisi, with a speckled bird soaring above the looping letters. Us, not me. Begin again. It doesn’t say “begin again while looking back at the past that still hurts and confounds us” or “begin again while worrying about the bad things that might happen in the future.” I’ve been studying psalm-words—Lord, refuge, mercy—and isolating them, but now I need to put them back together. I disassembled the psalms to examine them closely, like a leaf under a microscope, finding the opening and closing of the stomata. But the true beauty of a leaf, like our human lives, exists when you watch it bud, grow, and fall with all the other leaves. Together. So I am looking out over the breathtaking view of the psalms as I hope we never forget to begin, again and again. To know, no matter what, that we are walking in love and beauty when we seek.
“Temptation to a certain sin, to any sin whatsoever, might last throughout our whole life, yet it can never make us displeasing to God’s Majesty provided we do not take pleasure in it and give consent to it. You must have great courage in the midst of temptation. Never think yourself overcome as long as they are displeasing to you, keeping clearly in mind the difference between feeling temptation and consenting to it.”— St. Francis de Sales
How many times have you, or someone you know, pressed down the overwhelming grief inside them, judging their own lament? Betraying the truth of their own sorrow, their need to cry? It happens so often—but what if we think of these expressions as love songs? I think we’d accept, even welcome, their expression. Jesus quoted the psalms, and I’ve been moved by the assertion that Jesus sang the psalms as he grew up. A part of daily Jewish life, people knew them by heart. I let my imagination wander. What did Jesus sound like when he sang? You know his voice was beautiful. But not at that end. Not at that hour of torment. It was undoubtedly a gruesome and gut-wrenching sound. The lesson for us is this, I think—if Jesus turned to the psalms in his deepest hour of pain, why wouldn’t we?
“From the natural point of view we come to know God from the vestiges of Himself that He has left in the splendors of the visible universe: the blazing red sunset, the snow-covered mountain peaks, the graceful flight of a bird, the breathtakingly magnificent complexity of a single living cell. On a still more exalted level we know Him in the loveliness of the saints – but it remains a knowledge of the infinite through the finite.”— Fr. Thomas Dubay, p.188-89
What exactly is refuge? It’s vastly different than shelter. Refuge is deeper, scarier. The stakes are higher when you need refuge. Shelter is from temperatures dropping and the chance of rain. You can probably make it through without shelter. But without refuge, you’re vulnerable and truly alone. Refuge is wind blowing the cedars as far as they will bend, thunder that jolts you and an absolutely black night that has suddenly fallen. And you’re running toward home. The need for it is deeper in the body. When you find shelter, you can calmly peer out. But the need for refuge makes you look within. I could never add up the number of hours I’ve spent alone staring out the window at that void. Those are the deepest darkest loneliest hours. I feel that darkness filling me, as I am part of it. In you, Lord, I take refuge; let me never be put to shame (Ps 31:1). When I remember to say a prayer, it comes as a cluster of stars on the periphery, and I’m not quite sure I even saw any green sparkle, but I try again. A Hail Mary. A Jesus Please. I can’t even call that relief “embers” because embers stay awhile. When I cannot sleep because I am reliving some conflict I endured that day, one I feel I cannot undo, when I’m imagining some future event which I fear is going to flood me with more heartache and sink me, and God, at last, finds me in the dark, I fall asleep, and when I wake up, I don’t know at what point I finally let that refuge enclose me. The psalms are all about the contrasts in our lives. Like a riveting black-and-white photo, there’s gradations: vivid cool to dramatic warm to dramatic cool. Refuge honors the challenge of the silver tone moments turning to noir.
“When one is given the Spirit of wisdom, one is able to perceive God’s fingerprints upon the wonders of the world. One is able to see the pattern God has established in history (world history, faith history, and even our own personal history). This should leave us with a sense of comfort, for it means that life is not chaotic. God has a plan.” — Rev. Jude Winkler, OFM, p.62
The psalms keep teaching me that to be emotionally and spiritually whole, there’s no drawing lines inside the human heart. It’s like my students keep showing me. We can feel it all. Rejected and radiant. I think the psalms show our inner lives are a celestial place, a Milky Way, and as John Muir wrote about everything being connected, “When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.”
“I would, then, that I could convince spiritual persons that this road to God consists not in a multiplicity of meditations nor in ways or methods of such, nor in consolations, although these things may in their own way be necessary to beginners; but that it consists only in the one thing that is needful, which is the ability to deny oneself truly, according to that which is without and to that which is within, giving oneself up to suffering for Christ’s sake . . . For progress comes not save through the imitation of Christ, Who is the Way, the Truth and the Life, and no man comes to the Father but by Him.”— St. John of the Cross, p. 91
