I hesitate to describe my penchant for noting anniversary dates of my life as compulsive, but perhaps ingrained is fair. It is part of my liturgical sense, I think. Repeating annual observances gives space for reflecting on what has changed and how I've grown over the years. The one constant in my life is change. That is certain.
Thirty-two years ago today was my first day in Japan. The first of 924 days when Japan was my address (although I did spend about a month each in the Philippines and Stateside during that stretch). It is also the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, and yes I did choose this date to be my arrival date, just like I chose the Annunciation to be the day I left.
This year has given me a fresh perspective on today's feast day. And that is the lamest possible way I could make that statement. Let me try to get a running start into unpacking this.
This morning at Mass, with all this date and feast day business humming quietly in the background, I had a strong related memory surface, one that I have turned over and over in my mind over the last three decades. It took me a moment to realize how it is this year's connecting piece. And here it is: when I lived in Japan, I was connected to an order of Sisters as a volunteer. The Sisters lived in two small convents in the immediate area. One of these was connected directly to the school where I taught, and occasionally I stopped by to visit their kitchen, especially in the early days. The one Sister who spoke English fluently lived there. One day when I was there, I noticed she had written on their pen board four words, which I felt were a direct message to me (because they were in English): God lives in Reality.
If you've ever moved thousands of miles away from home to a place where you know no one, cannot communicate with anyone, and feel completely vulnerable and helpless, you might appreciate how words in your native language can pierce your heart and stay with you forever, like those did that day. And if you haven't, trust me on this. They did.
When human beings experience discomfort, conflict, pain, confusion, demoralization, scandal, injustice, etc, we tend to cope through some type of escape or retaliation. Or both. Escape says this reality is painful, and I want out. Retaliation says this reality needs to be fixed, and I'm going to create my own battleground to fix it. These are understandable human reactions. I think you could say that escape is often its own form of retaliation. These are not indicative of human flourishing, though: this is about survival.
Human flourishing comes in Christ. Christ comes through His cross. His cross is our only hope (Ave cruz, spes unica!). And here we have the truth: God lives in Reality.
The reality of our lives is full of discomfort, conflict, pain, confusion, etc. The Christian revelation is that God is not sitting in a cloud somewhere, demanding our obesiance, handing down rules, or generally accepting everything that happens and tut-tutting it away, and throwing us candy to make us feel better. The Christian revelation is that God enters our pain. He does not remove it; he comes close to us in it. He conquers it, but appearances show that it conquers Him. His embracing of the ultimate in discomfort, conflict, pain, confusion, demoralization, scandal, injustice, etc, is what swallows death, conquers death, and reveals life and immortality. He calls people to faith in this. He calls people to receive this power and live in it. He calls people to live in reality -- all of it -- by the power of grace, which is His life in us.
Sin is avoidance. Sin is turning a blind eye to suffering -- that of others, or our own. Sin is refusing God. Sin is turning away from Him and choosing not-God. Unreality.
Here's the thing: this is the lot we are born into. We have an inclination to this sin. The grace of baptism frees us from being chained into it, but we have to be formed in such a way that we learn to choose good. We need to learn that we are loved by a self-giving God to such an extent that we love Him in return, follow Him, and learn from Him to lay down our lives (that is, enter discomfort et al.) for our brothers.
Here's another thing: there's a point at which every person is formed by pain and not by love, and we carry our desire to escape reality forward with us. Sometimes we carry it forward in highly complex and sophisticated ways that shape our relationships, our work, and our very sense of self so that, even as Christians, we make a fine art out of avoiding reality.
I feel like the entire focus of my life comes down to this point of learning for myself, and to help others, to look upon the Pierced One, the Man on the cross, and to embrace -- in the drops that are bearable, as God measures out -- the reality of His love meeting our pain. I'd like to say that in that moment in looking upon the Crucified, our pain is undone. I do believe God lifts certain things from us, granting immediate relief. But often that meeting entails being met in great grief the pain we have tried to silence and stuff down. It is not neat, easy, or quick, but it does heal. The resurrection power of God is real. But God does not do magic. He redeems and restores, and it is a process. It takes our cooperation, our trust, our perseverence, and we need community support through it, so we don't cut and run.
God lives in reality. If we find reality too much to face, it means we need Mercy. Mercy is God's love meeting us in our pain. It is infinite. The ocean of mercy opened up for the whole world through the crucifixion of Christ, and if we call out for mercy, God will draw us to this whole process of healing. When we cry out for mercy, we must come with open hands, clutching nothing, or at least willing to let go of the things we clutch, trusting that God brings life and not death. Or at least willing to trust. Willing to receive life. Willing to believe that there is more to life than death. God will meet you wherever you are at and will gently guide you forward. His great desire is to give us Himself.
He can make sense out of everything.
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