Every morning, I set a timer and sit in my prayer chair for 30 minutes. It is a half-hour of doing nothing; nothing except attending to the sensation of my breath moving in and out; nothing except noticing that my mind has been wandering down some rabbit-hole of thought or feeling, and then, as gently as I can, returning my attention to the sensation of my breathing. This happens over and over again until the timer bell rings. This is an activity–or non-activity–that I have practiced daily for many years now. It has no purpose other than being present to the sensations of my breathing and to whatever arises in my body and mind; neither clinging to nor rejecting whatever arises–just accepting it.
This may seem like a strange way to begin a homily on a day as serious, a day as grave, as Good Friday–the day when we enter into the silence and darkness of the crucifixion and death of Jesus of Nazareth–the Jesus who is our brother–the Jesus who is our Christ–the person who is, for us here in this chapel today, the awakened and anointed One. This day is the absolute bottom of the liturgical year–the ground zero of emptiness, aloneness, silence, and darkness–the place from which there is no escape, no path, no consolation. This is the place that the Carmelite sister, Constance Fitzgerald, calls impasse. We don’t know how we have gotten here. We don’t see a way out. All our tried-and-true ways of understanding and controlling and consoling have reached a dead end, an impasse. In our worship today, we bear witness to this reality of impasse in the life of Jesus–as he knelt in the Garden of Gethsemani–as he suffered his way to Golgotha and the cross–as he gave up his spirit. And, I hope, each of us can find the faith and courage to bear witness to this reality in our own lives. The story of Jesus’s passion and crucifixion is, for us, the icon of all the passions and crucifixions that arise in the course of our lives–through the years, through the days, in each moment.
This is why I began these reflections with a description of my little practice of wordless prayer. At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, over the years, the hours of purposeless sitting have been my little self-imposed Gethsemani and Golgotha. They are when I am in my own impasse, not knowing where I am or what comes next. Sitting…just sitting…through all the minor hurts and resentments of everyday life…through all the spiritual crises…through the helplessness and terror of the years when we thought we would lose our daughter to anorexia…through the recent days, as I experience the pain and sadness of knowing that we will be leaving this beloved community for another life in the high desert of New Mexico. Through all that sitting, all that unmoving, I am learning, slowly and haltingly, that these moments have to be, these moments can be accepted and lived completely as they are. I must neither cling to them nor reject them. I must not try to escape from the darkness and death of this day of crucifixion with consoling thoughts of the light and life of resurrection. Slowly and haltingly, I am learning that I have to be, that I can be, here in what is, fully and completely. I am learning just to grieve, to grieve fully, all the unavoidable losses. Slowly and haltingly, I am learning that it is not my will be done, but the will of a Divine Mystery whose love and wisdom I do not understand. Slowly and haltingly, I am learning to walk in the darkness and nakedness of faith…faith alone…AMEN