“Peace,” she replies. “Or perhaps joy.”

After a moment she asks him, “What about your own word for life?”

“You wouldn’t want to hear it.”

No, she probably wouldn’t.  The word he is thinking of is “futility.”

Josh, you may remember, is the ex-Christian with whom I correspond from time to time. He admits that a certain amount of happiness is found in life, as well as a certain amount of pain and sorrow.  But at the end, he concludes, it all means nothing.

While he has lost the sense of any meaning to life, Josh has found purpose in his current crusade against Christianity. He has become what we might call a dysvangelist (or more etymologically correct, a “dysangelist”), one who proclaims, not Good News, but bad or disordered news. His co-religionists include the band of in-your-face “new atheists” whose books are hot sellers these days. Josh is less eloquent than they, but no less fervent.

Josh’s mission, however, appears to give him no joy. It is one thing to spend a Saturday afternoon in what we consider meaningless activity. It is quite another to live a life of futility. Something deep in us insists that life has meaning, and the refusal of this basic instinct has the effect of throwing our minds and hearts out of kilter – of untuning, so to speak, the strings of life.

Here are two quotations, one reflecting a psychological approach to meaning, and the other a uniquely Christian insight:

As we see, a human being is not one in pursuit of happiness but rather in search of a reason to become happy … through actualizing the potential meaning inherent and dormant in a given situation.
Once an individual’s search for a meaning is successful, it not only renders him happy but also gives him the capability to cope with suffering.

Viktor Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning: An Introduction to Logotherapy

Every Eucharist is a celebration of our trust that in Christ meaning will triumph in ways that we cannot guess or anticipate. Vaclav Havel, playwright and previous President of the Czech Republic, defined it thus: ‘Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.’”

Timothy Radcliffe, OP, What Is the Point of Being a Christian? (New York: Burns and Oates, 2006), 17.

For the enemy has pursued me,
crushing my life to the ground,
making me sit in darkness like those long dead.

Therefore my spirit faints within me;
my heart within me is appalled.

Answer me quickly, O Lord;
my spirit fails.
Do not hide your face from me,
or I shall be like those who go down to the Pit.

Let me hear of your steadfast love in the morning,
for in you I put my trust.

Teach me the way I should go,
for to you I lift up my soul.

(Psalm 143:3-4, 7-8)

The voice I overheard was talking about me.

“…but she couldn’t even find St. John’s Mercy Hospital.”

I recognized the speaker, as I had given her an ill-fated ride the day before. And yes, it’s true, I have what seems to be a genetic propensity for getting lost. At least I call it genetic. (Anne Tyler, in The Accidental Tourist, called the condition “geographical dyslexia.”) On the other hand, some people think that if I just concentrated, I wouldn’t have the problem at all. And others, like the owner of the voice speaking above, simply take my inability to navigate as a sign of mental deficiency.

Symptoms:

• I have been known to drive for a half hour on the interstate in the wrong direction.

• The words, “You can’t miss it,” send me into quivers.

• After giving up searching and telephoning for directions, I have had to admit that I had no idea where I was calling from (seriously hindering the direction-giver).

• I find highway signs woefully inadequate, disappearing just when I need then.

On the spiritual journey, however, there is a sense in which most of us, left to our own devices, are directionally challenged. The way is fraught with puzzling intersections and foggy back roads and trackless wastelands where we long for a GPS or a printout from Mapquest.

But happily, and often in spite of ourselves, we are being led, even when the haze appears so dense or the night so obscure that we can’t see our hands before our faces. And amazingly enough, we are being guided not just to where we ought to be, but to where we want to be.

The beautiful Latin verses of St. Thomas Aquinas, which we know as “Panis Angelicus,” end with this prayer:

Per tuas semitas
Duc nos quo tendimus,
Ad lucem quam inhabitas.

“Lead us,” we pray, “along your paths…” —

Lead us through everything:

• through interior struggles, through joy and pain, through knowledge and unknowing…

• through prayer, in the body and blood of Christ (panis angelicus: bread of angels), to the divine life of Christ that we receive and are called to live…

• from indifference to love, from judging to compassion, from violence to peace…

Lead us along your paths, because our own roads tend to get us lost.

“Lead us where we want to go,” continues the prayer, in the direction we are already leaning, if we are paying attention to our heart’s longing.

Lead us “to the light wherein you dwell.”

Where we are being led is indeed where we want to be. The goodness of God leads us, not to some desolate wasteland where we will still be wandering around hunting for a highway marker, nor even to a faraway or foreign land, but to the very place for which we were made and for which our hearts long: to the Light that is God’s dwelling and our home.

You show me the path of life.
In your presence there is fullness of joy;
in your right hand are pleasures for evermore.
(Psalm 16:11)

__________

P.S. There are many renditions of Cesar Franck’s “Panis Angelicus” on YouTube, performed by the likes of Luciano Pavarotti, Leontyne Price, and Placido Domingo. Unfortunately, Franck’s version uses only one verse of Aquinas’ hymn, omitting the words cited above.

• In the van on the way to Midway airport in Chicago, I spied a sign reading “Accident Investigation Site.” Now this was not a makeshift notice put up helter-skelter after a crash, but a permanent highway sign. Not far beyond the sign was the site itself, where one could pull or push one’s bashed vehicle off the road. Was the highway department letting us know that accidents were the normal expectation in this location, so that they were consecrating a place in perpetuity on the expressway for investigating them?

• We drove on past, and before long, a truck pulled up alongside us on the right. Written in large letters on its side was the word “Oremus” — let us pray. Yes, indeed, pray so as not to be a beneficiary of the Accident Investigation Site. I

In the airport, two announcements over the public address system caught my attention:

• “A cap has been left at the security checkpoint. Please check your head to see if you are wearing your cap.”

• “John Smith [or some such ordinary-sounding individual], please return to security. Your bag needs to be inspected.”
  If Mr. Smith had really been carrying explosives in his bag, I wondered, would he heed the call to return? At that point he might have decided it would be just as well to initiate the first terrorist attack of an American men’s room.

• Last, but perhaps not least, were the safety instructions by the Southwest Airlines cabin attendant. She concluded: “If you are traveling with a child put your own mask on first, and then put the mask on your child. If you are traveling with two children, it’s time to decide which one you like best!”

All in all: “Our help is in the name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth” (Psalm 124:8).

Now here at the Cenacle we have a ragged row of golden rain trees along the east side of our house. As you may know, rain trees are considered an invasive species in Florida, and if you have one, you’re likely to have a whole grove of them. Anyhow, one of these golden rain trees had been scraping the second floor roof and the wood just under the roof with every breeze, making an eerie screech; so I went outside late in the afternoon to see if I could cut it down before the storm hit. It was a little late to be thinking about it, I admit, but I was afraid it would damage the house if we had any strong gusts of wind. After a brief inspection, I decided that I could not manage it.

However, when I said that to Sister Elizabeth, she convinced me that it really needed to come down, even though by that time, there wasn’t much light left. So docile creature that I am (please do not tell my community that I am calling myself docile), I got the saw and proceeded to work on the tree, with Sister Elizabeth coaching. It was tall, but not very thick. I notched it hoping it would fall away from the house and between the other trees.

Unfortunately, I failed to take into consideration that all the branches were on the house side of the tree. So the entire weight of the tree was inclining it to fall toward the house.

After it was sufficiently sawed, I went in the house to find a rope to pull it down. At first I could find only an old electrical cord, which I wrapped around the trunk of the tree and pulled. That did not work. Finally I found a rope, looped it around the tree, and began to tug. I tugged and tugged and made no headway. Finally it did budge a bit, but as it budged, it simply leaned more and more toward the house.

Night was upon us, a storm was approaching, and a tree almost detached from its base was now leaning on the house near some large second-floor windows. I realized there was nothing more I could do. Sister Elizabeth, who had gotten me into this in the first place, started praying seriously; then she called the neighbors across the street – who weren’t home.

So outside we went again, and I tugged futilely at the tree some more and swatted mosquitoes in between tugs. About this time, we saw our neighbor’s car pulling up to her house, and Sister Elizabeth called out to her. As soon as she had picked up her husband from somewhere or other, they both came over.

She and I tugged together on the rope, while he twisted the tree away from the house, and finally it came down without landing either on the house or on us. There was great relief on all sides, as well as gratitude, both to our good neighbors and to God.

We began calling this episode Wilma’s folly, because we didn’t want to call it what it really was, which was Rose and Elizabeth’s folly. God’s grace was certainly present with us in our foolishness, and palpably in the help of our good neighbors. But what if our prayer had not been so visibly answered? Would we still be able to hear God say, “My power is made perfect in weakness,” if the tree had come through the bedroom window?

What about matters that are more serious: a grave illness or a job loss, for example? What if Wilma had come roaring through North Florida and inflicted the kind of damage here that it did farther south? Or what if the tree had come down on my head? Would I still be confident that God’s grace is sufficient?

O God, may I trust every moment that your power is working in me when I am weak and vulnerable and afraid. For when all is said and done, even amid sorrow or disaster or the rubble of my own failures, you are still God, and I am safe in your everlasting arms.

‘My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.’
So, I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak, then I am strong.
(2 Corinthians 12:9-10)

The poor creature was miserable, hobbling about on three legs, but every time Rosalie tried to reach him to pull the spine out, he backed away. He knew that what she was going to do would hurt.

At that point Rosalie was powerless to help him. But as she watched him, something happened. Black Bart became very still, and she could see him come to a decision. He then hobbled over to her and went totally limp in her arms. Rosalie was able to remove the prickly pear spine, and all was well.

Loving God,
when I am anxious,
when I am in pain,
when I fear loss of control,
may I go limp in your arms,
trusting your wisdom,
and surrendering myself entirely to your loving care.
Amen.

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up,
my eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things
too great and too marvelous for me.
But I have calmed and quieted my soul,
like a weaned child with its mother;
my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.
O Israel, hope in the Lord
from this time on and forevermore.

(Psalm 131)

It was indeed an impressive storm. As you might imagine, once in it, we could barely see the lights of the car ahead of us. At the point when it became almost impossible to tell whether or not we were on the road at all, we pulled over on the shoulder to wait it out with other prudent drivers.

Too often in daily life, it seems all we can see ahead of us is a wall of clouds. The road itself disappears. Even the usual markers become invisible. Wisely we pull off to the side to pray, to ponder, to avoid the most obvious dangers; but we can’t spend our whole lives there. Eventually we have to make decisions, take steps, move along. If we don’t, life moves us along willy-nilly.In fact, no matter how cautious we are, no matter how carefully we plan, the reality is that we never really know what the future holds.

Sometimes God graciously gives us an intuition that we are on the right path. Something happens — perhaps something small and apparently insignificant that we would miss if we weren’t paying attention — that lets us know we are where we were meant to be. It is like being on the highway, fearing we are lost, and finally seeing a sign saying, “Gainesville 25 miles.” Aha (we say to ourselves), I was on the right road all along, although I didn’t know it! And we breathe more easily.

No, we can’t see the future. What we can be confident of is that we are headed for glory, but what glory will actually look like, once we get there, again we don’t know. We do know that in moving toward glory, glory is already in our midst, and that when we arrive at our final destination, a place will have been prepared for us and — wonder of wonders — we will know that we are expected, and that we are home.

Lead, kindly Light, amid th’encircling gloom, lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home; lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.

(John Henry Cardinal Newman, 1833)

Perhaps it was because I was in the back of the four-seater, which along with the engine noise and my earplugs made conversation difficult. Perhaps it was because we flew higher than I am accustomed to in a little airplane. Whatever the reason, I became very conscious of our smallness and our fragility in the vast expanse of the sky.

We were supported only by air. Anything solid was 7500 feet below us, but even the Florida coastline seemed to be more marshland than firm earth. Before long the clouds thickened and nothing of earth was visible. I was not frightened, but awed by our weakness combined with our audacity to venture into the sky in this little fabric-covered Maule aircraft.

So it is with our spiritual journey, which can be much more spine-tingling than flight. A humble audacity is required, as it is when taking off in a single-engine plane. While all may seem clear at first when we are feeling our feet solidly planted on what we think we know, there comes a time when we have to trust God entirely even though we can see nothing and perhaps feel nothing.

Here is what Saint Gregory of Nyssa says in his Life of Moses:

Leaving behind everything that is observed, not only what sense comprehends but also what the intelligence thinks it sees, it keeps on penetrating deeper until . . . it gains access to the invisible and incomprehensible, and there it sees God. This is the true knowledge of what is sought; this is the seeing that consists in not seeing, because that which is sought transcends all knowledge, being separated on all sides by incomprehensibility as by a kind of darkness [163].

Dwelling in Mystery beyond our comprehension, we have no choice but to rely on God-with-us — Emmanuel — who is more present to us than the air and a support infinitely more firm. Upheld by what we cannot see, God is teaching us to see by not seeing and to know “the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge” (Eph 3:19).

I will lead the blind
by a road they do not know,
by paths they have not known I will guide them.
I will turn the darkness before them into light,
the rough places into level ground.
These are the things I will do,
and I will not forsake them.

Isaiah 42:16

The article deals not only with traditional human views of suffering and the question of God’s relation to human suffering, but also with the faith of the Guthrie family and the other members of their church. One of these supportive friends, Wayne Buchanan, is quoted as saying that “we will go down with the ship, believing in our hearts that God is in control.”

This quote has come back to me during the illness of one of our sisters. Although we know that God does not desire pain for us, still we have to believe that God is ultimately in control. The Resurrection of Jesus shows us this. Our own experience of letting God bring good out of painful events shows us this. The beauty and mystery glimpsed from time to time amid distress also show us this. No matter what happens, we are never out of the hand of our loving God.

The eternal God is your dwelling place,
and underneath are the everlasting arms.
(Deuteronomy 33:27, RSV)