Thursday, March 10, 2011
eh i started writing this aft readg e chapt on being 'alive with prophetic pain' in e rolheiser book. lol i nv got ard to completing it. i figured it's a lent-ish post cos its abt struggling w god and all so i'd just write it later. just so happens tt small tsui's comment on my blogpost today inspired me to complete this so it's nice timing haha
Alive with Prophetic Pain (adapted from Forgotten among the Lilies)
Therefore also the Wisdom of God said, "I will send them prophets and apostles, so that this generation may be charged with the blood of all the prophets shed since the foundation of the world, from the blood of Abel to the blood of Zechariah, who perished between the altar and the sanctuary." - Lk 11: 49-51
As Catholics, one of the experiences that we are most willing to share about is our experience of the Eucharist. We associate this most intimate communion with a deep sense of peace and reverence. Most affirming of all, we associate it with a tangible experience of a divine mystery. It's a cornerstone of our faith that we hold dear.
But there is another kind of experience that many of us have gone through amidst the presence of the altar and the sanctuary - a deep sense of pain and loss. Precisely because we experience God so tangibly in front of the Eucharist, that is exactly where we go to take our broken hearts and broken dreams. We come before our God, trying to find comfort and peace.
But more often than not, we are bitter and angry instead at having to go through such pain. The closer we are to God, the more we rely on Him, the harder the fall hurts and the more intense our struggles. We believe all too often that because we have offered ourselves to God, we deserve, at least, God's peace. So when the hammerstroke falls and we are thrown into the deep end, we feel betrayed. Because God is love. And this in no way at all, no matter how much our head seeks to convince our heart otherwise, feels like love. So we come kneeling before the altar and the sanctuary, silently ranting and raving. If those around us only knew the kind of turbulence that rages beneath the calm surface, they would leave us alone at the pew.
Too rarely do we talk about this other kind of Eucharistic experience. Too rarely do we speak aloud the words of anguish that churn amidst our terrifying inner chaos - "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?" Why, Lord? Why are things happening this way? Why are you doing this to me? Why have you forsaken me?
We are ashamed of our doubts and our struggles, especially so when it is right in front of the tangible presence of God that we experience them so acutely. We believe that there is something wrong in mourning when we are at a celebration; not just an ordinary celebration but the celebration of the Lamb's Supper. And there is some wisdom in not pulling long faces when we struggle and when we fast. But this misguides us from recognizing what our struggles before the Eucharist are - a blessing.
Already, just from the parallel with Christ's words, we see the first aspect of this blessing. To feel as Christ did, to suffer as Christ did - in what more intense way can we model Christ as to bear the cross as he did? But there is more than just shared words and feelings. The Eucharistic rite re-enacts the passion and the death of our Lord - bread that is broken for all. Is it not clear that those who die a little in the presence of the Eucharist are the ones who are the Christ-figures?
After all, it is those whom we love that we feel the most hurt from. If we can angry with God, if we can be bitter at what He's doing to us, if we can rant and rave at Him... does it not suggest that we love Him?
The point of this post is not to share what to do when we struggle. There is vast literature on that already. Neither is it to encourage us to wallow in self-pity or indulge in our weaknesses. Nor is it to encourage us to seek trouble with God. We'll get exactly what we wish for~. Instead, I hope to do two things: first, to remind us to listen to people having these struggles; second, to encourage these people to share your struggles with us. Because these people are the prophets of our time. We'd do well to listen to what they have to say.
mel
eh i started writing this aft readg e chapt on being 'alive with prophetic pain' in e rolheiser book. lol i nv got ard to completing it. i figured it's a lent-ish post cos its abt struggling w god and all so i'd just write it later. just so happens tt small tsui's comment on my blogpost today inspired me to complete this so it's nice timing haha
Alive with Prophetic Pain (adapted from Forgotten among the Lilies)
Therefore also the Wisdom of God said, "I will send them prophets and apostles, so that this generation may be charged with the blood of all the prophets shed since the foundation of the world, from the blood of Abel to the blood of Zechariah, who perished between the altar and the sanctuary." - Lk 11: 49-51
As Catholics, one of the experiences that we are most willing to share about is our experience of the Eucharist. We associate this most intimate communion with a deep sense of peace and reverence. Most affirming of all, we associate it with a tangible experience of a divine mystery. It's a cornerstone of our faith that we hold dear.
But there is another kind of experience that many of us have gone through amidst the presence of the altar and the sanctuary - a deep sense of pain and loss. Precisely because we experience God so tangibly in front of the Eucharist, that is exactly where we go to take our broken hearts and broken dreams. We come before our God, trying to find comfort and peace.
But more often than not, we are bitter and angry instead at having to go through such pain. The closer we are to God, the more we rely on Him, the harder the fall hurts and the more intense our struggles. We believe all too often that because we have offered ourselves to God, we deserve, at least, God's peace. So when the hammerstroke falls and we are thrown into the deep end, we feel betrayed. Because God is love. And this in no way at all, no matter how much our head seeks to convince our heart otherwise, feels like love. So we come kneeling before the altar and the sanctuary, silently ranting and raving. If those around us only knew the kind of turbulence that rages beneath the calm surface, they would leave us alone at the pew.
Too rarely do we talk about this other kind of Eucharistic experience. Too rarely do we speak aloud the words of anguish that churn amidst our terrifying inner chaos - "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?" Why, Lord? Why are things happening this way? Why are you doing this to me? Why have you forsaken me?
We are ashamed of our doubts and our struggles, especially so when it is right in front of the tangible presence of God that we experience them so acutely. We believe that there is something wrong in mourning when we are at a celebration; not just an ordinary celebration but the celebration of the Lamb's Supper. And there is some wisdom in not pulling long faces when we struggle and when we fast. But this misguides us from recognizing what our struggles before the Eucharist are - a blessing.
Already, just from the parallel with Christ's words, we see the first aspect of this blessing. To feel as Christ did, to suffer as Christ did - in what more intense way can we model Christ as to bear the cross as he did? But there is more than just shared words and feelings. The Eucharistic rite re-enacts the passion and the death of our Lord - bread that is broken for all. Is it not clear that those who die a little in the presence of the Eucharist are the ones who are the Christ-figures?
After all, it is those whom we love that we feel the most hurt from. If we can angry with God, if we can be bitter at what He's doing to us, if we can rant and rave at Him... does it not suggest that we love Him?
The point of this post is not to share what to do when we struggle. There is vast literature on that already. Neither is it to encourage us to wallow in self-pity or indulge in our weaknesses. Nor is it to encourage us to seek trouble with God. We'll get exactly what we wish for~. Instead, I hope to do two things: first, to remind us to listen to people having these struggles; second, to encourage these people to share your struggles with us. Because these people are the prophets of our time. We'd do well to listen to what they have to say.
mel