We hear things differently from far away. On the day before Hurricane Katrina hit in 2005, we flew out of New Orleans to California for a camping/winery vacation trip. As we traveled into Sequoia National Park, we lost phone reception and were not able to get the full details of the devastation that had been wrought by the great storm. The first news we heard estimated a very high number of deaths resulting from the storm. We were shocked and quite anxious in that we were so far away from loved ones, who had to endure the immediate consequences of the storm.  We were not able to be with them.

On another occasion, while I was in the seminary in Missouri, I received a phone call that my mom had been admitted to the hospital for what was then called a nervous breakdown. I remember distinctly the overwhelming feeling of isolation and lack of control to be so far away and hearing this news. I was distraught that I couldn’t see her and be with her in this painful time. Aside from any unrealistic overestimation as to what I could have possibly done had I been there, the feeling of loss in the distance was something I will never forget.

And perhaps most relevant in our present world situation, globally we are, in many cases, ordered to be physically apart from each other to avoid  possible further escalation of the coronavirus.  And the most dreadful of all, being unable to physically be with loved ones, who are sick, even as they die, is a horrible reality facing a growing number of us.  What justification of this can there be for the heart?

Inasmuch as being physically close to people is important, as it enables us the possibility to interact and relate in honest and meaningful ways, sometimes the distance is also important. Perhaps this is why the desert is such a symbol of transformation. Being hidden and away for a while can yield fruits into the future for years to come. The prophet Isaiah seems to be saying something about this today (IS 49: 1-6):

“Hear me, O islands, listen, O distant peoples. The LORD called me from birth, from my mother’s womb he gave me my name. He made of me a sharp-edged sword and concealed me in the shadow of his arm. He made me a polished arrow, in his quiver he hid me. You are my servant, he said to me”

At some point, something is going to happen in each of our lives that forces us to face up to the question of meaning in our lives. It could be something quite painful or overwhelmingly joyful – the death of loved one, the marriage to a life-long partner, the welcoming of a child into our lives, and even the experience of isolation we may be experiencing as a result of the coronavirus pandemic. There is hiddenness and a distance in all these events. They confront us with life and death, love and loss, companionship and isolation. As a result, many times we ask questions never asked, and perhaps don’t find fast answers.

It is one of the curious paradoxes of life perhaps that we are galvanized in these experiences just like Isaiah’s ‘polished arrow.’ This precious polishing says something I believe about Love, i.e., about the power of our God! God hides us in his quiver in all the precious love that he has for us. We are safe in God’s care. This doesn’t mean that we will be immune from the circumstances, but it does mean that we will be sustained and cared for as we go through whatever it is.  And interestingly enough, it’s not just a matter of getting through it, but bringing something of value to share ‘on the other side.’  As Isaiah makes very clear, God’s care and sustenance serves among other things, servanthood. “You are my servant, He said to me.”  In the caring return from the distant islands, we are brought back into the arms of those who wait for us  – to be received and to receive us.

The arrow must come out of the quiver, and as Isaiah further says “…make you a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth.”

The luminosity of this mission is humbly framed in the dim light (indeed ‘night’) that we hear in the Gospel (JN 13: 21-33, 36-38):

Jesus was deeply troubled and testified, “Amen, amen, I say to you, one of you will betray me.” The vulnerable light of servanthood, which marked the life of Jesus, now plays out in the clash between those closest to him – his disciples. Those most close will suddenly become those who are most distant.

Judas is the first to go. His distancing involves physically leaving the dinner to literally betray Jesus. However, the distance in the room grows also among those who remain. Jesus sadly confronts the disciples with this:

“Where I am going, you cannot follow me now, though you will follow later.” Peter said to him, “Master, why can I not follow you now? I will lay down my life for you.” Jesus answered, “Will you lay down your life for me? Amen, amen, I say to you, the cock will not crow before you deny me three times.”

Isaiah’s servant here is feeling the full effect of what the Love of a God that preciously hides you can mean. There is isolation and the painful realization that those who are close are also distant. There is misunderstanding about the depth of servanthood and how strong the light must be in order for it to be seen even in the farthest distance. The light of service is humble and resilient, trusting that the One whom hides you will also allow even the most pale rays of light to be enough to shine into the hope and trust that crosses all distance to bring us back, calling us by that name we received in our mother’s womb!

“Though I thought I had toiled in vain, and for nothing, uselessly, spent my strength, Yet my reward is with the LORD, my recompense is with my God”

These are not the words of a selfish servant who hides from the light, but one who instead allows the light to shine through for others to see. The reward is the treasure of compassion that does not mark our betrayals and denials, but carries us through a distance that becomes the closest possible reality imaginable. Just as the disciple John leaned his head on Jesus’ chest as they dined, distance is always bridged in the quivering trust that releases the brilliant light of Love, allowing us to engage in the intimacy of compassionate service to and with each other.

Peace

Thomas

(published April 11, 2017)