Cavetime Reflections

"The fullness of joy is to behold God in everything." [Julian of Norwich]

We did not have a flashlight, but the three of us decided to go into the cave anyway. As is always the case with these kinds of things, I hid my trepidation and spoke my chutzpah into being. "Yes, of course, let's go." Guided only by the light of Andrea's phone, we ventured forth, crouching almost immediately as the roof of the cave fell and the ground rose as if to kiss it.

Soon we were on all fours. Because my distrust of the ceiling was greater than that of the floor (probably something to do with the laws of gravity--the floor was not going to fall on top of me), I crawled like a crab, awkwardly scooching my way over slippery rocks, extending my feet out to test the next one.

How far in would we go? How far could we go? Here we were, moving blindly both literally and figuratively forward into this cave. I was no longer afraid, not really. It seemed I had left my fear at the entrance because now, my only thoughts were of what I was doing in that exact moment--my movements from stone to stone, over the slow trickle of icy water heading in the opposite direction.

About fifty feet into our crawl, we ran into two hikers on their way out. "Do you want to use our flashlight? Really, it's no problem. We'll wait for you at the entrance, but take as long as you need." Of course, we took it, thrilled by this unexpected kindness. We thought we had been alone in the cave. "Keep going," the hikers told us. "You're almost there, and it's so worth it."

We forged ahead with our new lamp, bumping our way, despite improved visibility, towards an unknown but apparently worthy destination. After a bit, however, we started to hear it. It was gentle, rumbling and satisfying: a bass line vibrating so that we could feel it through the cold rock.

And then we pushed through, and suddenly, the smallness we had felt for so long opened into a room, a secret space tucked away from everything else, beneath boulders and trees and all that was on the outside. Here we were! This room, so completely hidden and yet made known to us as if it had been made for us.

I looked up, and from the ceiling fifty feet above us, poured forth a steady and heavy waterfall. Its rushing filled the room, and the coolness of its mist blew past us like a whirlwind. I felt my chest lift towards the source of the water, like a heart opener drawing me up to something that seemed so alive and strong. Something like nothing I had ever experienced before.

Behold, the Mystery of Life!

Be Still

Right now, more than ever, I can almost feel the hands of God gripping my shoulders, shaking me back and forth--not gently, but forcefully. Be still, Virginia. Be still, be still, be still. BE STILL.*

Part of this is because I'm currently surrounded by many holy women; I live with three Catholic sisters and work with a fourth. And on top of that, I have countless mentors, reminding me, always: be present, be at peace, be. I hear this at my job, in my home, during prayer, during church. The only problem with being still is that my entire being is against it.

I like action. I want to serve; I want to do. I want to tutor kids, volunteer with hospice, bake bread for my community, bike to work, go camping, mentor a teenage refugee, grow a garden, build things, keep bees (what a ridiculous thing, but yes, I want to do it!), make art, play music, advocate for ALL the causes I care about, become a lawyer, learn Spanish, travel the world.

Some of this (in a generous view of what generally motivates Virginia), is a desperate need to be one with those around me. To love, to serve, and to become one with all of God's children (even all of God's creation). Jesus says, "Love your neighbor as yourself." I want to live this so much. But often, in the midst of [relentlessly, tirelessly] doing this, I find myself with these hands on my shoulders, demanding that I be still, and instead of listening, I shout back, "Leave me alone, God! Can't you see I'm trying to love your people?!"

Be still is God's mercy manifest. It is God's You have done enough to my own "I can never do enough." It is also the preface to Know that I am God, the reminder that I, Virginia, am not.

Jesus says, "Love your neighbor as yourself," but right before that he says, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind." And sometimes that means being still and centering my heart, soul, strength, and mind in God, knowing that God is always enough for when my enough is not.

When I've done all I can possibly do to end the world's suffering and injustice, I can rest in God's mercy. And when I've burned out and felt depressed (because, of course, I can never possibly end the world's suffering and injustice), and I spend an entire weekend watching Netflix and eating unholy amounts of chocolate, then too, I can rest in God's mercy. Because even as the world continues to be a place of disunity and pain: He is God, and in that I am still.

~~~

*I imagine God speaks in italics, not in quotes because I think italics are felt more than they are heard... and I have always felt God more than I have heard God.

**And before anyone misunderstands, let me clarify: service is not something I feel like I HAVE to do in order to be "all right" with God. It is not by works that I am saved, but my faith without works would be dead.

The Kingdom of God is NOT like a Toaster

Here is a question I'm trying to ask more often: "Is there anything I can do for you?" I started asking this a lot when I became a hospice volunteer. It's hard because it involves admitting that you have no idea what to do. It says, "I don't know what you're going through or what help I could possibly be." It's saying, "I don't have the answer."

To a certain extent, most people are able to get to a place of compassion. We are able to recognize that others might need help, but after that, our systems of helping start to fall apart. We approach a situation, assuming what this person or these people need, usually based on what we have and what they don't have. Instead of asking, which would make us feel ignorant and useless, we plow ahead with our own notions of how to improve the situation.

Compassion that recognizes the inherent dignity and ability to self-determine in each person enables that person to decide what he or she needs. This is what Christ did, right? Throughout the gospels, we see Jesus being approached by lepers and paralytics, blind men, bleeding women. They approach and plead him to heal them. They say, "This is what I need: to be healed," and Jesus doesn't dismiss them. He allows them to communicate their needs and meets them. We see this in the story of the royal official in Capernaum, who comes to Jesus and begs him to heal his son. Jesus does. We see this in the story of leper, who prostrates himself before Jesus, begging him to heal him. Jesus does.

Compassion is about recognizing and responding to needs, as determined by those in need. This is why we must continue to strive for a discourse where black men and women lead conversations about the experience(s) of being black, where women lead conversations about the experience(s) of being female, etc. These kinds of conversations are only possible if we acknowledge: How could I possibly know what it's like unless I experience it? How could I possibly know what you need unless I ask?

So as a hospice volunteer, I ask the woman with probably less than two weeks to live, this woman who must be experiencing so much physical and emotional pain, "What can I do for you?" And she tells me she wants a cherry popsicle. So I go to CVS and get her cherry popsicle. And at the end of our visit, I ask again, "Is there anything I can do for you?" And she tells me to pray that she'll die soon. So I tell her I will.

Now, as I begin working for a non-profit whose mission is to walk with the poor, I am learning this all over again. We cannot go into the 20 countries we work in worldwide with an imperialist mindset: we know what you need because it is exactly what we have and you don't. We reject that attitude. We refuse to attempt to change the cultural, religious, and political practices of those we serve. Instead, we ask them what they need, and if they say, "We need you to wash our feet," we wash their feet. We don't change their minds.

At a meeting yesterday, I heard a story about a community in Uganda that was recently provided a well. This well was right in the center of the community and enabled all of its members to come to a close and convenient location to draw water. Some time later, it was discovered that instead of using the well, the women in the community continued to walk the long distance to a stream to retrieve water, the same as they had done before the well was built. And when asked (ASKING!--what a brilliant idea!) why they did this, the women said, "We did not say we wanted a well. Walking to the river everyday is the only time us women have to talk about our husbands!"

Whether this story is fact or myth, it's truth is evident. A person's or community's needs can only be determined by that person or community. The non-profit I work for is built around this concept. And yes, I'm sure some people wonder, "Wait, so if you're a religious organization, why don't you share your faith and religious values with those you serve?" (As a rehabilitating cynic, I'm trying not to roll my eyes at this question.) 

Consider this example (borrowed from the director of the organization): you have this friend who is struggling to meet her basic needs. You visit her and see the conditions in which she lives; she is poor and has little. When you visit, she usually shares some plain bread with you. Plain bread! You can't imagine having to eat plain, stale bread for breakfast every morning, so you decide she needs a toaster. A toaster will make her feel like she has a home, and she won't have to eat plain bread anymore. It's perfect. So you bring her this brand new toaster, and she expresses gratitude, but she also seems slightly sad. You encourage her to open and set it up right away. When she is reluctant, you do it for her. You plug it in, but when you try to turn it on... nothing. She looks at you sadly. "I don't have electricity," she says.

And this is why we ask.

Of course, the Kingdom of God is like many things (mustard seed, yeast, etc.), but the Kingdom of God is not like a toaster. Not really. The Kingdom of God is not the thing you bring to the person in need to make her life better. The Kingdom of God is the friendship you have with that person, the reciprocal relationship that recognizes the dignity and the Divine in each other--the relationship that asks, "What do you need me to do for you?"

"Hold on, just a second," you might say, "I think you're forgetting--Christ is all anyone needs." How easy for us, whose basic needs are met, to say, "All you need is Christ."