I have had moments in my life where the Holy Spirit has cut through me like an electric knife, and what the Lord was asking me in that moment was clear as the sky. I know better than to hesitate or delay, and grace has always followed those little acts of obedience to make the way possible.
Other times, and more often now, it is the silence of the Lord that meets me. This is not Endo's Silence--the non-response of the Almighty in the face of seeming futility and the absurdity of faith in suffering that precipitates a crisis of faith and meaning. Nor is it a silent balm that heals wounds when words cannot do pain justice.
It is not the thundering silence of the saints, who like Elijah hear the Lord in the quiet whisper. It is likewise not the uncomfortable silence of simply an absence of noise, wondering if there is anyone on the other end of the receiver or if one is simply talking to one's self in one-way conversation.
True, communicative silence is a rarity. Think about the places you can go to achieve it. Podcasters retreat to the sealed capsule of their car to escape the chaos of their homes. You can get silence in the middle of the night as you lie in bed staring at the ceiling when everyone is asleep. But other than that, we are followed by noise like a lapdog.
When we come before the Lord in Adoration, the silence before--and from--the throne is a respite from the savagery of the outside world. Not all of us have inner-silence, which must be cultivated and procured over time, the thing of contemplatives.
When the beloved disciple reclined and laid his head in the bosom of our Lord, his posture was as intimate as one could get. And this is often the inner-posture I adopt in adoration--not physically, but in my spirit. When I come before Him, my defenses drop, for I know He sees me as I really am. I have nothing to bring, nothing to show for myself, nothing to brag about. All I have is brokenness and failure. This is the intimacy of a King to His servant; we are not slaves or indentured servants, but friends.
But our words fail. Nor does He waste words on us, lest we die. His silence in the Host, where deep calls to deep, is not maddening, not futile, not absurd except on the surface. His silence is a gift, for nowhere in the savagery of the outside world can we enter into not Emptiness of the Void, but fullness of life. It does not arm us with pep-talks, but disarms us of the illusions we have about ourselves and our abilities.
It has been a long time since I have 'heard' the Lord speak to my spirit in definitive ways in which I respond, "Yes! This is what I must do, the answer to the unasked question!" Where I have asked, "What should I do, Lord?" and He tells me.
No. Instead, silence is all I hear. I have no clarity, no monk-like inner-peace, but like standing on the shore before an ocean of such magnitude and mass, all I experience is my own nothingness and smallness. In the crashing of wave after wave, waiting for a response, all I hear is silence. Not enough to question "why am I here? Why do I drop to my knees before this bread?" but in faith I continue to come to Him as if He could answer me and maybe one day, will.
I continue to come prostrate before the throne, not even sure what to say or ask, but just to offer myself as a sometimes-barely breathing oblation of sacrifice which I have to trust is pleasing to Him. If He wants my heart, I will give it to Him. But not all of it, for I am not perfect, not made in perfection, but piece by piece, trading parts of myself for these portions of silence in return.
Perhaps I should rage more often. But I have not been subject to real tragedy--not had my children ripped from the land of the living or been subjected to financial or existential ruin or had my back against a wall. Perhaps I should make more demands: "Why won't you speak!?" Perhaps it's a sign of my own luke-warmness and lack of trust, that I do not put Him to the test, as the Lord says, "Test me in this" (Mal 3:10), not having put anything of substance on the line. Perhaps I am too comfortable. The silence feels neutral--not healing, not consoling, not disheartening. Just like--putting the time in, waiting, for when something--anything--will come to pass.
At ten til midnight as i type, the house is quiet. I am surrounded by my sleeping family. But the silence of the Lord when I am before Him is different. I know He is there, sitting in His monstrance, judging the nations and waiting to take all men to Himself. As St. John Vianney asked an old farmer what he did before the Lord in the tabernacle, maybe all I can say is to echo his words: "Nothing. I look at him, and he looks at me."
No comments:
Post a Comment