The Knitting Theologian

Here is a wonderful meditation from St. Augustine pertinent to another verse in today’s Gospel:

To the one who has, more will be given; from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away. (Mark 4:25)

I found this meditation in Magnificat magazine, which I heartily recommend.

You are told to love God. If you say to me: Show me whom I am to love, what shall I say if not what Saint John says: “No one has ever seen God!” But in case you should think that you are completely cut off from the sight of God, he says: “God is love, and he who remains in love remains in God.” Love your neighbor, then, and see within yourself the power by which you love your neighbor; there you will see God as far as you are able.

Begin, then, to love your neighbor. Share your bread with the hungry and bring into your home the homeless poor; clothe anyone you see to be naked, and do not despise your own flesh and blood.

What will you gain by doing this? “Your light will burst forth like the dawn.” Your light is your God; he is your “dawn,” for he will come to you when the night of time is over. He does not rise or set but remains for ever.

By loving other people and caring for them you make progress on your journey. Where are you traveling if not to the Lord God, to him whom we should love with our whole heart, our whole soul, or our whole mind? We have not yet reached his presence, but we have our neighbor at our side. Support, then, this companion of your pilgrimage if you want to come into the presence of the one with whom you desire to remain for ever. (quoted in Magnificat Magazine, vol. 10, no. 12, January 2009, pp. 399-400)

In keeping with my post on secrets, I can see how I tend to isolate myself from others because of the shame I feel. But when I isolate myself from others I feel even more distant from God. The way around it, as I see from St. Augustine, is to reach out to others, to push aside my reticence and reluctance and acknowledge my need for others, for companions on this journey through life.

I am losing my secrets on the road to sanctity, and even though I know it is necessary it frightens me. See, I have these secrets that I’ve carried around with me for most of my life. I’ve held onto them like possessions, even though I don’t look at them or use them.

In the past few months, as my life has changed, I have given away many possessions that I just don’t need anymore, and I continue to do so. The other thing I am doing is telling my secrets, which is, of course, much harder than loading a bunch of stuff into the car and taking it to Goodwill.

For there is nothing hidden except to be made visible; nothing is secret except to come to light. (Mark 4:22)

Every time I come across this verse it knocks me flat. This morning was no exception. I sit there in meditation, and I ask God to show me what He wants me to learn from the verse, and He of course does, and then I sit there and struggle with the challenge of being confronted with the ugliness of my own sin and my belief in God’s love and mercy, which is more of an intellectual belief than an emotional certitude.

Losing my secrets for me means sharing my secrets, both to a very few trusted friends and in Confession. How grateful I am that my parish offers Confession just about every day, if I will only bestir myself to go.

And what do I discover when I do? God’s compassion, right there, in the person of the priest to whom I confess. Here’s a thing about secrets. When I don’t tell them, when I only dwell on them in my mind, what I tell myself about them is harsh and condemning. And then I come to believe that God will also say those things to me. But that isn’t what happens.

I was terrified of Confession as a child. I didn’t experience it as an occasion of grace. I got yelled at too many times for forgetting the Act of Contrition. I couldn’t see any value in it; I couldn’t understand why it was a sacrament, and so, of course, I stopped going.

Now I am trying to keep a commitment of going to Confession once a month—or even more often, when I get tripped up by one of my habitual sins—and I am finding that God is much, much bigger than that harsh, condemning voice in my mind. He is infinitely compassionate and merciful, and all I have to do is tell Him my secrets.

In today’s gospel, Luke 5:12-16, a leper begs Jesus for healing.

Now Jesus was in one of the towns when a man appeared, covered with leprosy. Seeing Jesus he fell on his face and implored him. “Sir,” he said, “if you want to, you can cure me.” Jesus stretched out his hand, touched him, and said, “Of course I want to! Be cured!” And the leprosy left him at once.

I hear immense compassion in Jesus’ words. Bottomless. And it seems to me that Jesus has the same answer for anyone who goes to him and begs, as the leper did, to be cured, or freed from sin. Jesus’ compassion extends to all sinners, and he does indeed want to cure anyone who asks in all sincerity.

Now there is something important about the way in which I ask. Sometimes I ask, but I also have the desire to retain some control over the situation. “Lord, make me chaste, but not yet,” as St. Augustine famously said. I think sometimes I say, “Lord, make me clean—but not too much.” Is it any wonder then that perhaps nothing happens? After all, the leper didn’t say, “you can make me a little better.” He said, “you can cure me.”

The key seems to be a wholehearted request and an acknowledgment of God’s will. Jesus does want to cure me. All I have to do is ask with my whole heart.

Tonight concluded a three-day parish mission at Holy Family Parish in Kirkland, WA presented by the Apostles of the Interior Life, a group of consecrated women from Lawrence, Kansas.

The mission was a wonderful experience. Three evenings of reflection and prayer, on these themes:

1. A call to holiness and prayer
2. A call to conversion and a penitential celebration
3. A call to the Eucharist

Three sisters came to lead us. and one of them spoke each night. I have never participated in a parish mission before, and I thought this one was well worth it. Apparently a lot of people agreed with me: although the church wasn’t packed, it looked to be at least three-quarters full each night.

I hope to post more details on each theme in subsequent posts—no time! no time!—but in the meantime, a question or two for you:

Have you participated in a mission led by the Apostles of the Interior Life, or do you know them from their work at college campuses? What do you think?