LITURGY AND LIFE

By Anne Strachan

2nd Sunday of Easter
April 11, 2010

Acts 5:12-16
Psalm 118
Rev. 1:9-11, 12-13, 17-19
John 20:19-31

In a dramatic vision on the island of Patmos, while he is “in the spirit on the Lord’s day,” John witnesses an apparition: “A loud voice . . . one like the Son of Man.” He is terrified. He describes it thus: “When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead. But he placed his right hand on me, saying, ‘Do not be afraid . . . I was dead, but see, I am alive forever . . . Now write what you have seen, what is, and what is to take place after this.’ ”

As I attempt to write this column on a dreary, rain-soaked March afternoon, I’m restless and uncertain. Miracles unfolding within biblical stories seem far removed from everyday life. I could use a vision.

The Acts of the Apostles teaches: “Many signs and wonders were done among the people through the Apostles. And the believers were all together in Solomon’s Portico.” I think of my parish community gathered in our church on any given Sunday. Perhaps we’re no different from these early disciples.

However, when we gather — “in the spirit on the Lord’s day” — signs and wonders aren’t always as obvious as those related by John, when great numbers of men and women, ardent believers, carried the sick into the streets in hopes that “Peter’s shadow might fall on some of them as he came by.” And yet, among other reasons, it’s the hope of being healed from our wounds that compels us to gather for the liturgy.

I imagine what it might be like if Jesus suddenly entered this room where I sit at my computer. John’s words resonate through the ages: “Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you . . . As the Father has sent me, so I send you . . . Receive the Holy Spirit.’ ” Do we receive this Spirit with open, listening hearts?

We’re fickle beings. At different times we can be passionate, sad, bored or content. Often we’re beleaguered; without warning we can find ourselves rendered empty. At times like this — sitting at a computer trying to write inspirational words on an uninspiring day — we long for the rejuvenating presence of Jesus to enter our locked hearts. And yet, would we even recognize him?

Jesus, that mysterious person — human yet divine — who walked rocky paths touching lepers, affirming the dignity of Samaritans, the mentally ill, tax collectors and “unclean” women, exemplified a depth of mercy hard to emulate and even more difficult to sustain day after ordinary day.

And so, we go to be nourished by the liturgy; we pray in community. Collectively, we represent the whole gamut of experience. Joy, goodness and faith exist alongside competition, uncertainty and fear. Supporting each other in our human frailty, indeed we are no different from that first group of frightened disciples who gathered after the crucifixion. On our good days, but especially on difficult, bleak days, we long to discover Jesus present among us; to hear Jesus speak to us with serenity and compassion: Peace be with you.

Too often, fear and ego blind us to the existence of subtle signs and wonders that are right there in front of and within us. We labour to exert control over these uncontrollable, disturbing stirrings of the Spirit, in ourselves and in others. We spout rhetoric and platitudes. We profess authority and imply superior knowledge. Refusing to be questioned, instead we bolt the door and shut the windows tight.

It’s a good thing Jesus isn’t deterred by a deadbolt, whether it locks the door of an upper room, or the opening to a human heart. In the face of our fear and blatant attempts to control our environment and abolish any unpredictable movement of the Spirit, Jesus proceeds to do a rather shocking thing. He offers us his wounds.

Can we look, let alone touch? Can we ponder these gashes and scars; see them in the context of our own deep imperfection, both physical and psychological? Can we feel his ravaged palms or put our hands into the hole in his side? Can we face the challenge presented by this marginal, compassionate and fearless risk-taker, this person who was ultimately rejected, tortured and killed by the authorities of his time and place? Can we find healing in Jesus’ wounds? Can we rediscover Jesus in one another’s wounds?

It seems to be a day of questioning for this writer on a rainy afternoon in early March. Apparently, there is no dramatic vision forthcoming. And yet, it is a comfort as well as a challenge to remember: Jesus is one with us! He shares with us “the persecution and the kingdom and the patient endurance.”

We wait in hope for his right hand upon us, his message of love to ultimately break through our locked and questioning hearts: “Be not afraid.”

Strachan is married with three children and lives in Nakusp, BC. She is a Benedictine Oblate with St. Peter’s Abbey in Muenster, SK., and a member of the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild.