Tin Man

Listening to Fr Henry's sermon on Sunday, which he humbly said he was inspired by one of his best buds, Fr. Milam Joseph (who just happened to look a LOT like my father who raised me), got me to thinking about Dorothy and her quest to find the Wizard, who could do anything, including get her back home to Kansas.

Many times we seek a God who will perform magic for us. A God who will "get me a husband, a job, money, a college degree, a new car, a red sled for Christmas." Or maybe "a brain, courage or a heart."

I mean, God ought to DO something, right? After all, he's God.

But God is not like anything we can imagine, yet imagining is one of our human tools/gifts to be able to embrace him...or her. Without words, sometimes, is the absolute best way to let God inside us. What our soul craves, our minds cannot even conceive.

Suddenly as I write, all the pieces fit together. Godly play! Of course, how foolish and dense can I be, this is what He wants me to tell you: Godly play.

I received the prayer chalice on Sunday night. It was a full moon. It had been a long day. I sat for an hour with a woman whose baby only lived three hours. I watched this young woman, who had the face of a saint, speak of her faith and how she needed to take care of her family, be strong...and how she realized, in the midst of her grief, that a stranger is often the best person to grieve with...because there is no need to "take care" of them. The bond has not yet been created.

Maybe it is a good thing that God is invisible. Were He corporeal, we would probably keep trying to suck up to Him instead of love Him.

So in those holy moments, we talked about life and death and God. And how we take care of each other. The whole of the message from Jesus "Love God, Love your neighbor as yourself."

But in times of grief, and when we are very young, we do not have words for God. All we have is feeling, and most of the time, in times of great emotions, we don't have a clue how to name those feelings.

I know I dreamed intensely last night, but I cannot remember what I dreamed. Perhaps some good person will pull it out of me before the day is over. I talked yesterday with a friend who is not well at all. It broke my heart to tell him I could not visit this week because of family obligations. Yet, he is intimately a part of what I call family now. He was his usual jovial self. And I still don't know if I did the right thing. There will be a day when I will have to let him go. And on that day, the poetry will flow because I will have no other way to express my feelings...poetry is often how I grieve.

But tears and laughter are almost the same thing. They both are strong and healthy ways to release all the feelings pent up inside us. And quite frankly, neither one should be judged as good or bad. Laughter can be a way to avoid a truth, and tears can mask joy. Only as we go through them do we learn what they mean.

Back again at UD on Saturday (kind of scaring me being there), I asked a question of a philosopher (not a priest): "What is your greatest influence?" And he looked pointedly at me, (it was about the third question I had asked, the first being how CS Lewis' book, "The Last Divorce" might be a Protestant version of purgatory, which he answered reasonably well) and said, "Sin. Just like you." and the whole room burst into laughter.

I was very confused by his response and I did not think it was funny. But to be completely truthful, I do not recall reading his books...although I know I have read something of him. Sin? I thought. Sin is not the greatest influence in my life. God is the greatest influence in my life. And for a split second, I tried to understand what he meant and why that particular crowd thought it was funny. But I had an agenda and would not be distracted. I asked again. Another cute answer. So I asked a third time and this time I tried to be as clear as possible: "Consider Lewis, who admits to being strongly influenced by George MacDonald, who is the greatest influence in your life?" And then his listed off about ten very good philosophers. I thought about asking him about Bonhoeffer or Reinhold Neibuhr, ( I prefer him to Richard)but I doubted the Catholic audience would have appreciated it.

When I left, I decided that he is probably not a very happy man. All the books he has written, but I didn't hear love coming forth from his mouth. I heard a very well educated, actually polite and somewhat considerate man discuss his work. He simply didn't sound happy. I may be completely wrong about that, but it was what I was feeling inside me as he spoke. Kind of like a Tin Man, looking for a heart.

I thought: he needs to play.

I received the prayer chalice on Sunday night. My amazingly creative artist friend found me after Mass and hugged me. She said, "You have a special relationship with Fr. Henry, don't you?" I said, it's a work in progress. We get along some days. Other days, it is more of a struggle." Today is definitely a good day. And I was feeling playful. She asked if she could touch the chalice. Se had never touched a priest's chalice before. I said sure and not only that, "I'll take a picture of you with it." So we are out in the yard near the church. Sitting on the picnic table. And I am laughing a lot, telling her about the good and bad of the week. And about how I think just maybe God is tempting me with a man, who has enough qualities to turn my head and make me think about choosing a different path. I'm laughing, but I am really scared. I wonder if she can sense that. She is good at perception. She is also a gift from God to me. If she knows, she says nothing.

I look at the moon, which is full. I was in the columbarium earlier praying. I was glad to have that special time alone before Mass. And to be talking with God in that way...so the connection was already there. I took a photo of my friend with the chalice and told her she really needed to become an EM. Then I saw it. Here, do this I shouted excitedly. She held up the chalice, I adjusted myself for the proper alignment and there was a miracle before me. There was another perfect moment in my life. One almost as perfect as another moment last summer, in that area, when all the parts of my life seemed to fit together properly. All the confusion made sense for just a few minutes. That the purpose of my life was crystal clear. I understood my work and my work understood me...and there were no words to describe it, only feelings.

That was how it felt when I looked at the photo. Kind of a "creation story" in a photo. Man-made, woman-made all because God made. Woman on earth hold up the cup of suffering and life and offers it back to the God, the only God, who gave us both the Light and the Dark, created man and gave him a mind to create small things and a heart to love them. But no words can describe what I felt. A woman who had never held a chalice raised it up to God. And I was the scribe, using a camera, to help us remember. But of course, it was play. Godly play. In this world, only in Godly play can a woman make such an offering to God. And of course, she didn't see it. I did. And that's okay. Because I know my place. I know is not really about the beautiful chalice.

My chalice that I lift up is a paper cup in a hospital room as I drink in whatever needs to be said and done. Whatever makes healing possible. My chalice is my baggage swirling in the liquid with the one I am with...this cup is unique and will never be repeated again. But it must be given up, transformed and then consumed.

For me, it is godly play. To try to truly receive in the moment the complete understanding of the sacrifice of the Mass would be overwhelming and perhaps could really kill. The heart can receive only so much love at a time.

The mystics know this. But the mystics are sometimes so foolishly brave. The love is so rich and thick, it is hard to not want it all right now. But I kind of think maybe death will be like that. We are finally ready to receive all the love He wants to give us. Then there will be nothing left of us. Only love. His love.

We won't be playing anymore. We won't be Tin Men. We'll be real.

Love, Cindy