When in pain, we often curl up. Shut others out. Protect ourselves. Needing time to think or feel or rest. Isolating too long however works against us. We cease to cry out. We cease to connect.
The writer of this psalm laments, words reaching out of isolation.
“Hear my prayer, Lord; listen to my cry for mercy. When I am in distress, I call to you…” Psalm 86: 6-7a (NIV)
We can practice reaching out. Even if we do not want to now. We can prepare for the time when isolation becomes harmful. Like the psalmist we can cry out to God or others in our suffering. With a loud voice. With shaking hands or clenched fists. Asking God or the universe to hear our cries. Witness our distress. Answer our calls.
You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased. Luke 3:22
A few years back I began repeating this biblical text to my sons. Words spilling out when I was at the very end of my patience or beyond tired. Often accompanied by placing my hand on their heads of tangled hair in an unofficial gesture of blessing.
These words calmed me. Diffused any situation. Whatever it was. Reminded me that no matter what I loved them with every connected molecule of my being. Later, I would laugh at my audacity. Knowing it would take some time for them to realize I was quoting scripture.
My eldest son asked me on the day of his dad’s one year memorial mass, “How can you be proud of me when I haven’t done anything with my life yet?”
Through tears, I babbled some sort of response. Praying it was enough for my hurting son on that raw and painful day. Later, I thought of what I could have said, still wanted to say. So, I wrote this letter and found it among my many drafts not so long ago, still unsent.
After the 13th of August, 2017
To my beloved sons,
Did you know the root of the word “believe” finds its way back to the word “beloved?” What a wild play on words! To say we believe in something or someone is to acknowledge our love for them.
After all that has happened, I still believe in us, in our family, and in our love for one another. We loved, Dad and I, by believing in one another and in you.
Right now you may not believe in anything. Yet you love. You have loved more in the past twelve months than ever before. Loved Dad in loss and grief. Loved me at my absolute worst. Loved one another in the midst of chaos. And most importantly loved your selves–your grieving, traumatized, messy, lost selves. You may not feel you are loving right now. But here’s what I believe (and therefore love): We cannot face adversity without courage. And true courage is born of love.
I am and remain proud of you both. Not just of who you are right now but of who you will become in life. Not that I know or can see or predict the you that you will be. But I believe in you both.
“Do not fear, for I am with you, do not be afraid, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you…” Isaiah 41:10
“And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” Matthew 28:20
Reflection
God said, “I am with you.”
Jesus said, “I am with you always.”
Statements opposing our abandonment. God gone. God disappearing. Leaving us alone. All alone in living hell. All alone suffering. All alone sitting in despair. Words telling us God stays with us. Is present with us. We, never alone. Always together with God.
How? How is God with us always?
I don’t know. I just know sometimes things shift. Something opens up within me unlocking breath’s captivity. Or something I once thought an impossible goodness becomes reality. Or someone shows up with life-giving words. Are these moments of God being with me embedding in my body? Surrounding my soul? Being the breath that I breathe?
Who knows? What I know is that these small shifts keep hope alive in me one moment at a time.
Healing Practice: Holding Possible Truth
It’s hard to fully hold this possible truth of God being with us always. But others can hold this possibility for us. Some already do without us even knowing about it. Today ask someone you trust to hold this thought for you. Maybe pick three people. Who cares if they believe in God or not. That’s not their job right now. Their job is to hold this possibility for you.
Prayer
God, are you always with us? Even when we cannot feel your presence. Even when we cannot trust your presence. Even when we cannot believe in your presence. Hold us God in your seemingly absent presence as we attempt this possibility of hope. Amen.
The congregation I serve, St. John’s Lutheran Church in Rock Island, Illinois, begins almost every worship gathering with some words. Part wording from Reconciling Works of which we are a Reconciled in Christ (RIC) congregation. Part stand against centuries of racism. Part land acknowledgement. These words continue to evolve over time with additions and refinements as we grow in awareness and understanding.
We call these words our centering statement. They differ from the beliefs we chant in our Christian creeds, the abridged origin story of the birth of Christianity. Words we sometimes question, embrace the mystery of, wonder about, balk at the embedded patriarchy of. The words of our centering statement that we gather with each week are who we want to be, who we intend to be. In a sense, an ideal. The best version of ourselves as individuals and a community following Jesus that we work toward and grow into word by word.
So, we assemble each week. Hear a few announcements (sometimes it seems like too many). Then sound stills and air shifts while in body and voice, one or all of us says:
Here at St. John’s, we create this place for all people by being a Reconciling in Christ (RIC) community which means we consciously work to publicly see, name, celebrate, advocate, and welcome people of all sexual orientations, gender identities, and gender expressions. We also publicly support and work toward dismantling all minimizing and wounding isms including racism. In this ongoing work of full belonging for all people we acknowledge that the land we worship on this day was once the home to the first peoples of this area including the Sauk, Meskwaki, and Illini peoples. We acknowledge that their way of life was tragically altered and continues to be diminished.
Something then swirls in Spirit’s air. Surrounds us. Holds us. Sinks into our bodies as we begin breathing together. Inhaling in all we just said aloud and in our hearts. Exhaling out our daily sorrows. Three times before hearing music, the prelude. The part of our worship life that we (like so many congregations) tend to chat through. What we have just done though through word and breath allows us the space to absorb sound while we continue breathing, with our hands placed on our hearts or holding our shoulders in a hug.
This practice of saying, breathing, and listening connects us to ourselves, God, and one another. Reattached and restored, we enter our ancient, familiar, liturgical practices for the next hour. Concluding with being sent out into our human constructed communities. Hanging on to all of our words like anchors.
Heat swells, radiating out,
I flush,
Not in a flash,
(I am past that)
But in a spike without illness.
Sudden warmth startles me,
Colliding with night’s coolness,
Before slithering away,
Never intending to stay.
Twice, this occurs,
First when I ask my mind,
“Do I suffer from anxiety?”
Second, when I ask my heart the same question.
Relieved,
(somewhat)
When asked,
My gut has nothing to say.
The body practice described in my poem above is based on the work of Suzanne Rivers. I learned about the practice in Susan Raffo's book, Liberated to the Bone: HIstories, Bodies, Future published by AK Press. This practice begins on page 150.
Image by Martina Bulkova for pixabay.
Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez 