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He not hereSaturday, April 23, 2011
Psalm 42:1-3 His body and blood are not available. I am alone with myself, we are alone with ourselves. And there is nothing more I want than once again to be with God. What will I set my feet upon today? Where is the solid rock? What shifting sand can I find to replace the rock? Jesus is not here. Maybe a movie to pass the time, maybe buy something new. Or a soothing church service, I could wait for God in the pew. I don't feel so great today; I could go to the doctor and ask for healing. Get a new kind of medicine, some new hope. Walk in the trees, listen to the birds, think one more time that this all had to come from some primal cause. Come out of the woods and smile. Help someone change a flat tire. Keep my eyes open for people. Notice them. Give somebody some cookies. Open our front door. Sit on the porch and say hello. What ... what ... what? Sell everything and give the money to the poor? What will I do after that? Not that any of this is exactly hollow. But it doesn't feel like a foundation. And my soul pants for a foundation. I'm glad this vigil is short. The first vigil-ers didn't know how long or even that they were vigil-ing. They thought the end had come, didn't realize they were waiting for the beginning of all things new. Jesus is not here. And I can taste his absence like sand in my mouth.
What will we do without you, Lord? If I ever knew my way, I have lost it. I don't even know my name. Hope isn't part of my emotional vocabulary. My waiting is not with a time or end in mind. It's just all there is that I can do. Keep my eyes open anyway, and wait. |
Today, vigil. No Eucharist today in Catholic churches, the only day of the year. Jesus is not here.