A Givenness to the Sound of Your Name 05/07/2010
 "Mary" What does your name sound like? What did it mean to "Mary", when she heard "Him" say her name? "Him" who was God. "Him" who she loved. "Him" who had died. And, "Him" who was resurrected. It meant everything to her. No other words needed to be said. Why? Because He knew her. Because He loved her. And "she" knew...He knew...and loved her She knew it was Him...because she knew...He knew...it was her.  I used to pray with many words, but I now pray with less... Do I lack the words, or does the sound of a name embrace the very nature of him or her best? I haven't seen my sons for many months. (Since they left to attend college out-of-state.) I want my sons to know I love them. They have known I love them...when they have known...I know them. I don't know them, as I have or had. My knowing is incomplete. I don't need to know them, as much as I need to love them. I feel I love them more. Because "He" knows them. Because "He" loves them. More than I. I want my sons to know I love them. But more than this, I want my sons to know He knows them. And I want my sons to know He loves them. I want this more. And more. And more. And I am given to this more. I kneel by my bed every night, to pray. And I pray for my sons. Like this: "Gabriel" "Zachary" Only their names. The names of my daughters, Abigail and Grace. And the name of my wife, Genine. And any other name on my mind and/or heart. No other words need to be said. "Gabriel" means "God is my strength". "Zachary" means "Remembered by the Lord". "Abigail" means "Joy of the Father". "Grace" means "Grace of God". "Genine" means "Gracious is God" I say each name and behold them. "Who" Gabe is. "Who" Zach is. "Who Abby, Grace, and Genine are. As I know them. As I love them. Yes. But more than this, as I speak each name, I am given to Gabe, Zach, Abby, Grace, and Genine, to be known and loved, as they are known and loved, by God. By God. Not me. "Then the disciples went back to their homes, but Mary stood outside the tomb crying. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb and saw two angels in white, seated where Jesus' body had been, one at the head and the other at the foot. They asked her, "Woman, why are you crying?" "They have taken my Lord away," she said, "and I don't know where they have put him." At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus. "Woman," he said, "why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?" Thinking he was the gardener, she said, "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him." Jesus said to her, "Mary"." What does your name sound like? Do you recognize a "givenness to the sound of your name" in your life? ___________________________________________A Givenness to Grieving 05/05/2010
 Jesus wept. What is grief? ...unequivocally painful? And, in relationship to death? ...emphatically profound? Excerpts from A Grief Observed, by C.S. Lewis, articulate the painfulness and profoundness of grief, as any work I have ever read:  (Lewis refers to his beloved spouse, Helen Joy Davidson, as “H.”, throughout the text, as he writes in grief of her recent death.) “No on ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing. At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me. There are moments, most unexpectedly, when something inside me tries to assure me that I don’t really mind so much, not so very much, after all. Love is not the whole of a man’s life. I was happy before I met H. I’ve plenty of what are called ‘resources’. People get over these things. Come, I shan’t do so badly. One is ashamed to listen to this voice but it seems for a little to be making out a good case. Then comes a sudden jab of red-hot memory and all this ‘commonsense’ vanishes like an ant in the mouth of a furnace.  On the rebound on passes into tears and pathos. Maudlin tears. I almost prefer the moments of agony. These are at least clean and honest. But the bath of self-pity, the wallow, the loathsome sticky sweet pleasure of indulging in it – that disgusts me. And even while I’m doing it I know it leads me to misrepresent H. herself. Give that mood its head and in a few minutes I shall have substituted for the real woman a mere doll to be blubbered over. Thank God the memory of her is still too strong (will it always be too strong?) to let me get away with it. Meanwhile, where is God? This is one of the most disquieting symptoms.  Not that I am (I think) in much danger of ceasing to believe in God. The real danger is of coming to believe such dreadful things about Him. The conclusion I dread is not ‘So there’s no God after all,’ but ‘So this is what God’s really like. Deceive yourself no longer.’ Of course it’s easy enough to say that God seems absent at our greatest need because He is absent – non-existent. But then why does He seem so present when, to put it quite frankly, we don’t ask for Him? It is hard to have patience with people who say, ‘There is no death’ or ‘Death doesn’t matter.’ There is death. And whatever is matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible. You might as well say that birth doesn’t matter.  I look up at the night sky. Is anything more certain than that in all those vast times and spaces, if I were allowed to search them, I should nowhere find her face, her voice, her touch? She died. She is dead. Is the word so difficult to learn? I have no photograph of her that’s any good. I cannot even see her face distinctly in my imagination. Yet the odd face of some stranger seen in a crowd this morning may come before me in vivid perfection the moment I close my eyes tonight. No doubt, the explanation is simple enough. We have seen the faces of those we know best so variously, from so many angles, in so many lights, with so many expressions – waking, sleeping, laughing, crying, eating, talking, thinking – that all the impressions crowd into our memory together and cancel out into a mere blur. But here voice is still vivid. The remembered voice – that can turn me at any moment to a whimpering child.  Thinking of the H. facts – real words, looks, laughs, and actions of hers. But it is my own mind that selects and groups them. Already, less than a month after her death, I can feel the slow, insidious beginning, of a process that will make the H. I think of into a more and more imaginary woman. Founded on fact, no doubt. I shall put in nothing fictitious (or I hope I shan’t). But won’t the composition inevitably become more and more my own? The reality is no longer there to check me, to pull me up short, as the real H. so often did, so unexpectedly, by being so thoroughly herself and not me. The rough, sharp, cleansing tang of her otherness is gone. It was H. I loved. As if I wanted to fall in love with my memory of her, an image in my own mind. It would be a sort of incest. And suddenly at the very moment when, so far, I mourned H. least, I remembered her best. Indeed, it was something (almost) better than memory; an instantaneous, unanswerable impression. To say it was like a meeting would be going too far. Yet there was that in it which tempts one to use those words. It was as if the lifting of the sorrow removed a barrier. Praise is the mode of love which always has some element of joy in it. Praise in due order, of Him as the giver, of her as the gift. Don’t we in praise somehow enjoy what we praise, however far we are form it? I must do more of this. I have lost the fruition I once had of H. And I am far, far away in the valley of my unlikeness, from the fruition which, if His mercies are infinite, I may some time have of God. But by praising I can still, in some degree, enjoy her, and already, in some degree, enjoy Him. Better than nothing. Of H., and of every created thing I praise, I should say, ‘In some way, in its unique way, like Him who made it’. It doesn’t matter that all the photographs of H. are bad. It doesn’t matter – not much – if my memory of her is imperfect. Images, whether on paper or in the mind, are not important for themselves. Merely links.  Take a parallel from an infinitely higher sphere. Tomorrow morning a priest will give me a little round, thin, cold tasteless wafer. Is it a disadvantage – is it not in some ways an advantage – that it can’t pretend the least resemblance of that with which it unites me? I need Christ, not something that resembles Him. I want H., not something that is like her. The mystical union on the one hand. The resurrection of the body on the other. I can’t reach the ghost of an image, a formula, or even a feeling, that combines them. But the reality, we are given to understand does. Reality of the iconoclast once more. Heaven will solve our problems, but not, I think, by showing us subtle reconciliations between our apparently contradictory notions. The notions will all be knocked from under our feet. We shall see there never was a problem. And, more than once, that impression which I can’t describe except by saying that it’s like the sound of a chuckle in the darkness. The sense that some shattering and disarming simplicity is the real answer.  The resurrection of the body. We cannot understand. The best is perhaps, what we understand least. It preserves mystery. Therefore, room for hope." My Grief Observed? I wept. I am given to grieving. Painful and profound. ...because of life, ...because of death, ...because of resurrection. Do you recognize a "givenness to grieving" in your life? ___________________________________________A Givenness to Resurrected Recognition 04/21/2010
 Is the resurrection recognizable? Do I recognize it? Now? But how? I must be given to those who have recognized the resurrected Christ, if I am to have any hope of resurrected recognition. The resurrection accounts, of the New Testament, introduce me to Mary, Thomas, Peter, Nathanael, James, John, Cleopas, and disciples of Jesus. Who recognized the resurrection? Those closest in relationship to the crucified Christ.  What was experienced before recognition? Weeping...at a tomb. Unbelief...without witnessing wounds. And emptiness... more than empty nets. Troubled and terrified, frightened and foolish, doubting and downcast. Am I any different? When was the resurrected recognized? ...when recognizing the relationship. Jesus spoke the name of Mary. Peter heard the name of the Lord. Known by Jesus. And knowing Jesus. Recognition within the context of a personal relationship. And now in relationship to the resurrected Christ. ...when recognizing the woundedness. Thomas recognizes Jesus by His wounds. The wounds of the resurrected remain and are revealed. Even in the resurrected Christ. ...and when recognizing the blessedness, brokenness and givenness. Will my heart burn within me, when the resurrected is revealed to me, in the blessedness, brokenness, and givenness, of those I journey with from Jerusalem ...the place of the paschal mystery? The road of Emmaus begins at the end of my own driveway. If we are given to resurrected recognition, thirteenth verse of the twenty-first chapter, of the Gospel of John, is just as true today, as it ever was: "Yet not one dared asked Him, “Who are you?” - Knowing it was the Lord". I want to be given to recognizing resurrection, given to recognizing resurrection…in you, and recognizing the resurrected Christ, in “you”….the hope of glory. Now. The seventeenth verse of the twenty-eighth chapter from the gospel of Saint Matthew reminds me: "When they saw (the resurrected) Him, they worshiped Him; but some doubted." If I truly given, to the transforming grace and power of the resurrection… I recognize these words, from the beginning of Saint Paul's first letter to the Colossians, and woundedness, blessedness, brokenness, and givenness, in my relationships... And I present _______ mature in Christ, and recognize Christ in ______, the hope of glory! "Now I rejoice in my sufferings for ________sake, and in my flesh, I complete what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions, for the sake of His body that is, ________, of which I became a minister, according to the divine office, which was given to me, for ________. To make the Word of God fully known, the mystery, hidden for all ages and generations, but for now, made manifest to His saints. To them, God chose to make known how great among the unworthy, are the riches of the glory of this mystery, which is Christ in ________, the hope of glory. Him, we proclaim, warning every man, and teaching every man, in all wisdom, that we may present ________ mature in Christ. For this, I toil, striving with all the energy, which He mightily inspires within me". Do you recognize a "givenness to resurrected recognition" in your life? ___________________________________________ What do I enjoy? Rich Mullins was certain that God enjoys the universe. But what does God enjoy more than this? God enjoys our enjoyment of it. I'm becoming certain of this. James Bryan Smith wrote in An Arrow Pointing to Heaven: "Laughter was for him (Rich), a great sign of grace". I want to be given to laughter in this regard. The author quotes Rich, as to have described God's exuding delight, in this way:  "The longer I live, the more I have the feeling like God looks down, like when you've just bitten into a vanilla ice cream cone, you just get the feeling God's going, "Yes!" "He enjoys it!" "And I made his taste buds, and I made vanilla, and he's putting it all together, and he's experiencing what I created him to experience." G.K Chesterton writes in Orthodoxy, of God shouting "Yes!" to every living thing every day:  "It might be true that the sun rises regularly because he never gets tired of rising. His routine might be due, not to a lifelessness, but to a rush of life. The thing I mean can be seen. . .  . . . in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grownup people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon.  It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and have grown old, and our Father is younger than we are. The repetition in nature may not be mere recurrence ...it may be a theatrical encore." Easter makes me believe this probably more than any other day. I shout "Yes" today, because God breathes life into every living thing every day. I exude delight today because of just a few words, from chapter twenty-one of the Book of Revelation, reminding me, again, and again, and again, to behold God "making all things new". Making. Not made. Or to be made. Is it possible that God breathes life every morning and every evening, in me, in my life, in my marriage, in my family, in my relationships, and in my love of Him, and says to me, "Do it again"? It's very possible, isn't it? Why? Because God is creating...and resurrecting...and making all thing new. Now. Not limited to the seven days when God created the world, nor to the day God raised His son from the dead. But again. And again. And again. Not the same...not as yesterday...and not as tomorrow. But new. And the next day? New. And the day after that? New. I am given to exulting in the monotony, of every morning and every evening, of every day, by God making all things new. Does this give me hope? Not just hope. Enjoyment. Like Rich Mullins, I am certain that God really enjoys all things made. But I'm even more certain, that even more than this, God extremely enjoys it, when we extremely enjoy God making all things new! "Do it again." Exult! Shout "Yes" today and every day! God does. Do you recognize a “givenness to exulting in monotony by the making of all things new" in your life? ____________________________________________A Givenness to Venerating Sacred Wounds 04/02/2010
 Have you been hurt? Do you still feel the wounds? Are there remaining scars? Millions of people venerate the body of Christ crucified, in Roman Catholic churches worldwide today. But I've come to question how given I really am to ‘venerate’. And who I'm venerating. My wife, Genine recently felt hurt. There's a greater givenness in me to listen to her, receive what she's said, and even behold or 'venerate her sacred wounds', when she’s been hurt by someone I’m not in close relationship with. But will I be given to embrace her, when the pain has been inflicted by someone we both love…and I felt the same wounds?  I easily venerate the fake wounds of a plastic, nonliving, body of Christ, on a cross before me, on Good Friday in church... ...but struggle to venerate the real and sacred wounds of ‘you’, the body of Christ, living outside the church, and crucified today or any other day. Who is to be venerated? All who are wounded. This parable from the Gospel of Saint Luke exposes the sacred wounds that I am to ‘soothe’ of those of any faith: “A Jewish man was traveling on a trip from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he was attacked by bandits. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him up, and left him half dead beside the road. By chance a priest came along. But when he saw the man lying there, he crossed to the other side of the road and passed him by. A Levite walked over and looked at him lying there, but he also passed by on the other side. Then a despised Samaritan came along, and when he saw the man, he felt compassion for him. Going over to him, the Samaritan soothed his wounds with olive oil and wine and bandaged them. Then he put the man on his own donkey and took him to an inn, where he took care of him. The next day he handed the innkeeper two silver coins, telling him, ‘Take care of this man. If his bill runs higher than this, I’ll pay you the next time I’m here.’ “Now which of these three would you say was a neighbor to the man who was attacked by bandits?”, Jesus asked. The man replied, “The one who showed him mercy.” Then Jesus said, “Yes, now go and do the same”. What if there's a givenness to venerating sacred wounds? I first came to ask this question after hearing Father Bill Jarema, Founder and Director of the Mercy Center for Healing the Whole Person, share this story on a men’s retreat I once attended: Veneration of the cross is common at the chapel of the center, not only on Good Friday, but every Friday. Many have come, and continue to come, just to touch, hold, and/or kiss the crucifix there. A woman felt compelled to stop by the center to pray one Friday, as she drove home from work. She couldn’t dismiss the thought of her son from her mind while she was there, and venerated the cross because of him; she had not seen her son, since his father asked him to leave the home several years ago. Late into the evening, she reluctantly left when assured by the center staff that they would continue to pray for her son through the night. Her husband’s nightmare suddenly woke her in the wee hours of the morning. He told her that he was awakened from the sensation of fire singeing the hair on his legs. He went on to tell her that he had dreamt of barely holding onto the side of a cliff, while fire raged below. A voice from the top of the cliff frantically yelled for him to reach the hand extending to grab him. His wife interjected, “It was the Lord, wasn’t it!” “No”, her husband emphatically replied, “It was our son.” At that moment, the doorbell of their home unexpectedly rang. The couple was startled by its sound and questioned why anyone would be at their door at such an hour. Hesitatingly, they opened the door and were left speechless upon seeing their son standing on the porch before them. Emotion griped each word, as he told them, “I have contracted AIDS. I am very sick. Many nights I parked in your driveway, but was too afraid to tell you. But for some reason…nothing…nothing could stop me from ringing your doorbell tonight.” The father embraced his son, perhaps as never before, and told him how much he loved him and how sorry he was. And the son died in his father’s arms. Was the body of Christ venerated? It was. Were wounds healed because of it? They were. Even though the son died. A second men's retreat, led by Father Miguel Roland, made me consider veneration further. Father Miguel had us mark the places of our bodies that had been wounded. Then, he invited men come forward, oldest to youngest, to present their sacred wounds as the body of Christ, to be venerated. Men came forward and lay prostrate. Father Miguel encouraged the remaining men to come and 'venerate' these wounds, as prompted by the Holy Spirit. There was something profoundly sacred and healing, in the reverence and honor of men venerating the wounded body of Christ - made real in the humanity of other men. I can't heal the hurt, the wounds, or the scars. But I can venerate them. Because they're sacred. This is why I venerate the body of Christ. On Good Friday. Or any Friday. Do you recognize a “givenness to venerating sacred wounds” in your life? ___________________________________________ Have I been caught? And am I glad to have been caught? I believe I have. And I believe I am. Why? Because of these lyrics from the late singer and songwriter, Rich Mullins:  "There's a wideness in God's mercy, I cannot find in my own. And it keeps this fire burning, to melt this heart of stone. Keeps me aching, with a yearning, keeps me glad to have been caught, in the reckless, raging, fury, that they call the love of God. Now I've seen no band of angels, but I've heard the soldiers' songs. Love hangs over them like a banner, love within them leads them on. To the battle on the journey, and it's never gonna stop, ever widening their mercies, and the fury of His love.  Joy and sorrow are this ocean, and in their every ebb and flow, now the Lord a door has opened, all hell will never close. Here we're tested and made worthy, tossed about but lifted up, in the reckless, raging, fury, that they call the love of God. Oh the love of God! And oh, the love of God! The love of God!" I've been caught. But in what? ...the wideness of God's mercy. ...the reckless, raging, fury of God's love. ...and gladness, because of this. Do you recognize "a givenness to being caught in mercy's wideness and love's fury" in your life? ____________________________________________A Givenness to Outliers Staying Found 03/19/2010
 How could a "good" shepherd, or herdsman, ever possibly leave ninety-nine of his sheep to look for one stray sheep?  Malcolm Gladwell may know. Especially if the 99, the lost lamb, and even the herdsman, are 'outliers'. Is there any cause for worry? Consider the words of this author, in his book entitled Outliers: “Cultures of honor tend to take root in highlands and other marginally fertile areas, such as Sicily or the mountainous Basque regions of Spain. If you live on some rocky mountainside, the explanation goes, you can’t farm. You probably raise goats or sheep, and the kind of culture that grows up around being a herdsman is very different from the culture that grows up around growing crops. The survival of a farmer depends on the cooperation of others in the community. But a herdsman is off my himself.  Farmers also don’t have to worry that their livelihood will be stolen in the night, because crops can’t easily be stolen unless, of course, a thief wants to go to the trouble of harvesting an entire field on his own. But a herdsman does have to worry. He’s under the constant threat of ruin through the loss of his animals. So he has to be aggressive: he has to make it clear, through his words and deeds, that he is not weak. He has to be willing to fight in response to even the slightest challenge to his reputation – and that’s what a “culture of honor” means. It’s a world where a man’s reputation is at the center of his livelihood and self-worth.  “The critical moment in the development of the young shepherd’s reputation is his first quarrel,” the ethnographer J. K. Campbell writes of one herding culture in Greece. “Quarrels are necessarily public. They may occur in the coffee shop, the village shop, or most frequently on a grazing boundary where a curse or a stone aimed at one of his straying sheep by another shepherd is an insult which inevitably requires a violent response.” The “culture of honor” hypothesis says that it matters where you’re from, not just in terms of where your great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents grew up and even where your great-great-great-grandparents grew up. That is a strange and powerful fact. It’s just the beginning, though, because upon closer examination, cultural legacies turn out to be even stranger and more powerful than that." I disagree with Malcolm. The survival of a herdsman MUST depend on the cooperation of others in the community ...because his sheep could be stolen at night, ...because he’s under the constant threat of ruin, through the loss of his animals, and ...because he doesn’t have a crop field; if he did, he wouldn’t have concern of a thief wanting to go to the trouble of harvesting an entire field on his own, would he? A herdsman does have to worry, if he is not in relationship to others of the community, nor in relationship to the faith of the community. His reputation, livelihood, self-worth depends on them. The herdsman may seem to be off by himself. But is he an outlier?  What is an 'outlier'? This author defines it in this regard: Out-li-er (noun): Something that is situated away from a classed differently from a main or related body. A statistical observation that is markedly different in value from the other of the sample. I also agree with Malcolm, when he concludes, "The outlier, in the end, is not an outlier at all." It is impossible for any "outlier" to say with truthfulness, "I did this, all by myself." Outliers appear at first to lie outside ordinary experience. But they don't. The "culture of honor" hypothesis says that it matters where you're from. Especially when you're from a community that lives by faith. When these relationships matter, spiritual legacies may turn out to be more powerful, and even stranger, than cultural legacies. A herdsman has to be willing to fight because "the critical moment in the development of the young shepherd's reputation is his first quarrel". Especially when 'fighting the good fight of faith’. The 'Good Shepherd' questions all herdsmen, with these words from the gospel of Saint Matthew: "What do you think? If a man has a hundred sheep and one of them strays, he leaves the ninety-nine in the hills and goes to look for the one that has strayed, doesn't he?" What do you think? Doesn't he leave the 99 in the hills, because of his belief (especially in his community) in 99 staying found until he returns? It's not a matter of being found. Rather, it's a matter of staying found, isn't it? Thomas Merton writes of 'staying found', in A Year with Thomas Merton - Daily Meditations from His Journals, as he prays: "Good Shepherd, You have a wild and crazy sheep in love with thorns and brambles. But please don't get tired of looking for me! I know You won't. For You have found me. All I have to do is stay found." I want to be given to outliers staying found. My 'ninety-nine', left in the outlying hills...staying found. Any outlying 'stray'...staying found. And even me, an 'outlying herdsman'...staying found. Do you recognize a “givenness to outliers staying found” in your life? ___________________________________________A Givenness to Unveiling Her Beauty 03/06/2010
 Is she "beautiful"? Does she know that she's beautiful? And what “beautiful” really means? “Beautiful” means “full of beauty”. Really. Does she ever really know that she is full of beauty? And would she ever really believe it to be true? My daughters loved to play dress-up like most girls, when they were little. Play clothes magically transformed the girls into story tale princesses, whose dreams came true, as they became adorned with flowing gowns and flowering tiaras, elegant gloves and exquisite heels, dazzling diamonds, glamorous gemstones, and radiant red rubies.  We would ballroom dance to the Disney movie, Beauty and the Beast. I pretended to be the “Beast”. While each of my girls pretended to be “Belle” ...or a girl who would forever be known as “Beauty”. My daughters are now 13 and 10 years old. They no longer don the dress of “Belle”. And I no longer need to dance with them on my knees. Yet, deep in their hearts, they still and always will desire to be “Beauty”. More than pretty. More than lovely. More than possibly anything else. Girls. Women. My daughters. My wife. “She” wants to be known as beautiful. How will she ever become known as “beautiful”? By the unveiling of her beauty. In Judaism, there is a special ceremony, known in Yiddish as the ‘bedeken’, to veil the bride just prior to her wedding. It is the first time the couple sees each other before the actual ceremony. The groom is escorted by his father and the bride's father, the rabbis, and the others of his wedding party, to the bridal reception area for the veiling ceremony. Accompanied by his friends, who dance and sing in front of him, the groom leads the procession to the bride. He approaches the bridal throne and covers the bride's face with a veil which remains in place during the traditional Jewish wedding ceremony. The groom is then escorted back to the groom's reception room by the men, to prepare for the wedding ceremony. The veiling accordingly underscores that, from this day on, the truest beauty of the bride is reserved for her husband alone to behold.  The veil signifies the groom's public demonstration to not only embrace the physical beauty of his bride, but her deeper, hidden, inner beauty. The veil is finally removed when the couple has pronounced their vows, so that they can seal their union with a kiss. My daughters often ask me, “What should I wear?” But what they’re really asking is, “What should I wear to look beautiful?”  Abigail and Grace are just like Lucy. The youngest of girls, in C.S. Lewis’ story entitled, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. “She” discovers something quite magical. In a place least expected. In the wardrobe. And in herself. Dressed in the only garment she can find in the wardrobe, she journeys through the timeless adventures that await her, and braves the harsh, dreariness of the endless winter that’s under evil the spell of the White Witch. No different than the life of most girls. Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times film critic, wrote in 1988 that French actress, Juliette Binoche, was "almost ethereal in her beauty and innocence”. And yet, she told the New York Post, “I never felt I was beautiful. I think it comes from childhood. We didn’t have mirrors at home, so I never saw myself.”  The bride's procession to the altar doesn’t begin in the back of the church. Nor does the 'father-daughter dance' wait 'til music plays at the wedding reception. It begins in the back of the wardrobe. In her bedroom. Of the domestic church. Of her very own home. Years before proposal and engagement. Moments after she was born. As the bride of a new groom, And/or as the bride of Christ. My daughter, my wife, and my sister. There is to be a givenness in me to removing her veil. Now. Her truest beauty is reserved for her husband and/or God alone. But during the rituals and celebration of “her” life, a public demonstration of acknowledging and embracing not only the physical exterior beauty, but the often hiddenness of her inner beauty, must be made. I want to be especially cognizant of this with my daughters, Abigail and Grace. And even with my wife, Genine. By my words and listening. By my touch and embrace. By how I look at them. And their heart.  The bride stands to the groom’s left at the altar. This tradition dates back to the time when he would need to have his right hand free for his sword if he would need to defend her at a moment’s notice. “She” stands to my left for now. Am I given to defending her from any onslaught that may disfigure her perception to believe that she is not beautiful? At a moment’s notice? She is beautiful. Because she is full of beauty. She and every girl. She and every woman. She. Her. How will she ever become known as “beautiful”? By unveiling her beauty. Do you recognize a "givenness to unveiling her beauty" in your life? ___________________________________________ Would I recognize the face of the bridegroom? Twenty-two years ago, the face of the bridegroom was my own. I awoke today looking for ‘Him', as never before. See if you recognize the 'Bridegroom', in the discourse of Adam and Anna, from The Jeweler’s Shop, by Karol Wojtyla: ADAM Then I told that woman (Anna): "The Bridegroom will come shortly…" I said this, thinking of the love which had so died in her soul.  The Bridegroom passes through so many streets, meeting so many different people. Passing, he touches the love that is in them. If it is bad, he suffers for it. Love is bad when there is a lack of it. ANNA And then again, he repeated that the Bridegroom would walk down this street shortly. This news, heard for the second time, not only fascinates me, but suddenly awoke a longing in me. A longing for someone perfect, for a man firm and good who would be different from Stefan, different, different… And with this feeling of sudden longing, I felt different and younger myself.  I must even have started running; looking at the men I was passing – ...The first of them did not even look in my direction when I brushed past him. He walked clearly lost in thought. He may have been thinking about his business. Without even turning his head, he just said, “Sorry.” I did not try to stop him; I was, however, ready to attract his attention. I don’t know how it was that I then felt ready to try and make every man notice me. It might have been just a simple reflection of that longing, but I was convinced that no one could take that right from me. The second passer-by I met reacted differently. When I looked him in the face, he noticed my look and stopped. He returned the look, walked two steps toward me and said, “I must have seen you somewhere before…  He went on to say, “How about stepping into that club… A little light music would do you good…” “And then?” He did not reply, and I seemed to take fright at that “then”. And then I understood even more clearly what the expression “a casual woman” might mean.  I don’t know how many steps I took or in what direction. I must have walked from the avenue surrounding the old part of town toward that church in whose recesses stand the statues of saints.  In a niche at the back – I remember – is a crucifix, in front of which a lamp burns at night. I seemed to see its light already, dimmed by the multicolored glass of the lantern. I kept walking, however, still thinking about the same thing, coming forward, as it were, toward every passing man. One passed by so fast, and so close. Another took his hat off, looked intently at my face, and quickly put his hat on again; I heard him mumble something like, “No, I don’t know her" – and he walked away. There’s a car; an expensive one. The window is partly lowered, a man at the wheel. I stopped. I stopped and fixed my eyes on the car, the windows, the man. The man looked. I approached. He lowered the window even more. He had a low, warm voice when he said, “Won’t you join me?” I shall be somebody again. He repeats the words once more. Won’t you join me…? I want to; I think I want to very much.  I think I had already put my hand on the door handle. I only had to press it. Suddenly, I felt a man’s had on mine. I looked up. Adam was standing above me. I saw his face, which was tired; it betrayed emotion. Adam looked me straight in the eyes. He did not say anything. His hand was lying on mine. Then he said, “No". ADAM “No”. ANNA I felt the car moving past us. In a moment it was gone. Adam let go of my hand. I must have said, “It’s strange that you should come back; I thought you’d disappeared for good. Where were you all this time?” ADAM I came back to show you the street. It is strange. Not because it is full of shops, neon light and buildings, but because of the people. Look, on the other side of the street there are some girls passing by; they are walking, laughing and talking loudly among themselves.  Ah, I don’t suppose you know where they are going. Their lamps are out so they are on their way to buy some oil. They will fill the lamps, and the lamps will burn again. ANNA Oh yes… ADAMThey are the wise virgins. Count them. There ought to be five. They’ve gone past. You’re wondering why they are not wearing long oriental robes. They are dressed according to the climate and customs of our country. But they are carrying lanterns and people are surprised, wondering where they are taking them. Or maybe they are not surprised, for nowadays people are not usually surprised by anything. And now look over there. There are the foolish virgins. They are asleep and their lamps are lying by the wall. One has even rolled across the pavement and fallen into the gutter. To you it seems that they are asleep in those recesses, but in reality they too are walking down the street. They are walking in their sleep. They are walking in a lethargy – they have dormant space in them. You now feel that space in you, because you too were falling asleep. I have come to wake you. I think I am in time. ANNA | Author
Theodore
Allan Telepak writes from the very "givenness" of life. Here is the author as a missionary to the Mayans of the Yucatan. Archives
|
RSS Feed