CLAY
“Amen, amen, I say to you, whoever keeps my word will never see death.” - Jn 8:51-59
My friends’ parents, husband’s colleague, and a dear friend passed away in early 2022. Their valiant efforts to “live with” instead of “die with” cancer continue to be a valuable and bittersweet teacher for me. Edging toward the threshold of death, they reveal to me just how precious life is and how we do not have to wait for a life-threatening illness to drop the mask and live an authentic life. The sacred art of dying and living can be two sides of the same coin. I found myself reflecting and standing before the mystery of death and birth in my grieving journey. In such a twilight place, Jesus invited me to see how death has the capacity to heal because it can put life into perspective and bring forth questions about life that is meaningful and essential to me.
In today’s gospel, Jesus alludes to the death in the spirit and encourages us to examine our hearts. Jesus asks us to slow down this Lenten season and allow ourselves the gift of patient listening with our whole hearts and trust that sometimes what is not said can also be vital. It reminds me of a spiritual riddle, Celtic end-of-life wisdom, from a monk named Fintan, “May you have the commitment to heal what has hurt you, to allow it to come close to you and in the end, to become one with you.” It was written as a tribute to a culture that understood the interrelationship of physical and spiritual suffering. Is there a place in my mind and heart that is currently closed to Jesus? Where am I hearing a whisper that is too painful to stay? Will I trust that God’s compassion and tenderness can slowly form an earthen lap large enough to hold me?
Lord, soften my vessels to be broken open to living. I am clay ready to be shaped.
Tam Lontok