Finding more in scripture

By Sr. Mary Grace Thul, OP

Scripture can offer us many things: wonderful quotes, moving stories, and powerful examples of how to live. But there is one more thing scripture offers us: a person hidden within.

Jesus is amazing in his failure to fit the image people had for him. He did not come off as the typical carpenter's son. Nor did he act like the savior of the world. No wonder people were confused. Jesus as a person was totally unscripted, without a formula, and with no predictability.



That is because Jesus was a man on a mission. But what was that mission? It is recorded that he walked countless miles, endured privations, cold nights, and endless crowds in an effort to get his message across.

And yet, that was not Jesus ultimate goal. His goal, if you read scripture carefully, was people. It is recorded that every time Jesus was as being interrupted by those who wanted concrete help, he stopped to offer compassion. Whether it was a leper begging for a cure, a women seeking help who had been outcast in her society, or a child dying, Jesus stopped whatever he was doing to attend to the real physical need of those around him.

Not only did Jesus stop, he did not always wait to be asked. He let his humanity bring his compassion to another by touch, by power going out from the hem of his garment, by curing the withered arm while his detractors watched to accuse him.



This is the Jesus I want to discover. This is the part of scripture that gives me power. For it teaches me to also bring compassion to another through a touch, a thought, a hug.


And what better way can I spend Holy Week?

There would be diminution

Probably the question most common to all ages is the question of evil. I have my own theories, about the power of free will and its effects on others; God's ability to bring good from it all. So, I was intrigued when I read Anscar Vonier's words: It is a certain truth that if God in his providence exterminated every evil deed at once, killed every evil-doer, the final sum of goodness would be less. We have our Lord's own words for it; there would be diminution.

Vonier’s words are startling. He isn’t just hinting that having only good in our lives would bring us little. He is saying, that without the choice, without evil in our world, we would be less. He believes this because there is the fact--an absolute certainty, goodness inevitably produces goodness; it is unconquerable, it cannot be stifled, it has greater ramifications than evil can ever have...

Perhaps we concentrate too much on the question of evil, and forget the power of goodness. And yet, we all know, light means more when you have known darkness, hope holds more power when you've experienced the heaviness of despair. The list goes on and on...

When I have a choice, my choice empowers. The same goes for good and evil. My choice of good is more powerful than the evil that beckons. And making that choice reaches out to empower all who are seeking good.

I become my image of God

I have often maintained that God is to us what we want God to be (see Road to Emmaus). So it was with interest that I read the following from Caryll Houselander:

There is a widespread idea today that it does not matter what our conception of God is like...but as our conception of God is, so we ourselves become. If we think God is hard, we grow hard; if we think God is a kill-joy, we become kill-joys; if we think of God as omnipotent secret police, all-present, all-seeing, all-terrible, we shrink from God, and the heart that shrinks from God shrinks to nothing. (From Lift Up Your Hearts)

Houselander's words do hold an important truth. Those whose God is severe do become severe and judgmental. Those whose God is kind and merciful are generous with mercy. And those whose God is vague and far away, well, they tend to flounder with no particular direction and no particular purpose.

In this light it is good to reflect on my image of God. Because it is the character I am taking on for myself.

A light that is not liked

Seeing and not seeing. It's often a topic here on Monastic Ponderings. I become conscious because I want to see. I practice compassion so that my heart will respond better and know more. I meditate so that I am aware. It all implies a willingness to journey. But there is another aspect to journey: a willingness to accept what that journey brings us.

It happens that sometimes I fail to see, not because I am spiritually blind, but because I don't like what I find. The revelation is not what I expected, I had hoped for more, or less, or better. I find myself in disbelief that after all I've done, this is the result? And so my journey has brought me to a point I do not want to be, with a decision I do not want to make, and a revelation I do not like. The resistance can be ever so slight, but it is there. And I wish I had remained blind…

It just goes to show that no one ever "arrives" at a place where struggle ceases, despite rhetoric to the contrary. The journey will always have its challenges, and we will always have choices. Paul complained about his own battles, and received this reply: "My grace is sufficient for you."(2 Cor. 12:9).

Perhaps this is the meaning of psalm 139:12 Darkness is not dark for you, and night will be light as the day. When I seek for light, I must realize, I may not like what I find. Revelation is not always exciting. Transformation may hurt.

But this too is journey.

Refusing to carve it in stone

Deuteronomy 5:8 instructs You shall not make for yourself any graven image. We are prone to interpret that as false gods, the kind the early Israelites made and set up before themselves and worshipped.

But is that the true meaning of Deuteronomy 5:8?

I think not. I think it is telling us, don't take an incident, an action, a thought or a value and hold on to it as thought it alone is true. Because that is carving it in stone. And life is not like that.

That is death.

Life is change. Life is learning. Life is journey.

I think that is one of the many reasons why we are urged to forgive. Because to refuse to forgive is in effect saying that that one action, that one incident, is carved into my memory. I will never let that memory go. I will always look at that person in light of that one action. And that too is death. 

We do the same with opinions. We get an opinion, and then we hold on to it, and refuse to see some other value or way of looking at something. In effect, we have carved it into stone and then worshipped our ideal as true.

And any graven image is a dead image.

To refuse to carve an image in stone is to honor life.

I have heard it said that if we say we know someone like a book, then we really don't know that person at all. Because we are not books. We are human beings.

And so, beware of setting in stone. It is the opposite of growth, enlightenment, and transformation.

Relinquishing my agenda

Darkness is not dark for you, and night shines as the day. (ps. 139:12). The concept continues to haunt me. When I speak of darkness, I am speaking of struggle, of unknowing, of confusion. So to have the psalm say that to God, darkness is not dark cannot mean God makes light of our human condition. I think it means that what we see as darkness can actually be a source for great light.

I think back to the benefits darkness has given me in the past. It made me stop and reflect, it destroyed preconceived ideals and notions, and I sank deeper into meditation. I stopped asking questions, because real darkness blots out even the formulation of questions. Darkness made me silence, so that I opened not my mouth. I became still before God. And because my expectations were dashed, I just sat there in silence and waited. Without knowing it, darkness forced me into contemplative prayer.

Only later in looking back do I see the rich fruits that came from such darkness. I was concerned about what I was giving to God. I'd forgotten God had something to give to me. I could only receive it after I relinquished my agenda and sat still before the Divine Presence.  My darkness taught me a different kind of prayer, one of listening.

Perhaps that is the real meaning behind the phrase of psalm 139. The very trials that punish the soul often reveal the hidden beauty we've not tapped into. And we seem to need the darkness so that we push ourselves beyond what is comfortable, what is admirable, what is acceptable. Nothing can seem more devastating than to sit before God, dumb and knowing not what to say. And even as the soul groans, "Lord, what is it you want from me?" the soul is taking flight into a new type of faith, a new form of hope, into a light not known among mere mortals. Perhaps this kind of darkness releases the soul into the divine light of grace that brings the soul into a new sphere of understanding. Maybe this kind of darkness is no more than a cocoon where transformation takes place.