The Lenten journey is long … it can be challenging. We get tripped sometimes, we see things we’ve done, been part of and – truth be told – we would rather not look into the mirror, as we might really see ourselves. Fear of what we might find can be daunting, paralysing and most certainly fear making.
What will we see if we look deep? What will we hear if we deeply listen? How will we respond as a tear long held begins as a trickle, picking up momentum until our soul heaves with release? Lent is a time of exile, a time of preparation to see suffering, name suffering, perhaps choose suffering … but why?
The Promise … Easter … it makes even my typing these words seem facile, trite …
How do I share something that moves within me at a fundamental level? That emboldens me to make choices that stretch beyond words, perhaps even the rationalising tendency of our human intellect? How do I impart to another that though The Promise calls us into places of human brokenness, crafted by us, structured by us, they are also redeemable by letting go of ourselves? How do I share with you that you have the ability to change the world? Not by buying this nor trading that, but by a simple choice to offer tenderness to another, to speak truth to yourself, by claiming solidarity with those who are marginalised and learning that in community – even when difficult – we all shine?
In the world of blogging, one of the traditions is to use one’s own story, one’s own questions to invite engagement, perhaps even reflection. I wish I could share just one pithy story from this last week that would so hook you that we would begin a conversation. To explore The Promise – the beckoning light that calls everyone – to see in that mirror not something broken or corrupt, but beautiful. I wish I could talk about a faith community that takes steps to spend radically to support ministries in a time when there is no way to determine where scattered seeds will bloom or describe a child who chooses for a birthday an invitation for those who want to give, to give to someone else other than her. I wish I could paint a story of friends, family, Sisters and Brothers who put themselves in the way of harm to care for those who are just beginning to stand. I so would love to be able to point to the places where the earth bleeds and where our own hands can and do heal. But words fail … I stumble … tears of joy come with the dawn’s break, so I will leave it to the Bards in our midst … the music-makers and artists … where my words are inadequate to impart import, the gift of harmony and a tune can open the mind to hear the body and – in turn – the Spirit becomes connected.
The Promise began in the choices of the one in whom I commit myself. The mystery of Resurrection is … incomprehensible … the paradox is that each choice since then in the name of a Rabbi named Yeshua changes lives, transforms stories, humbles and encourages me to hold another’s hand … what’s The Promise mean to you?