In Search of Each Other

We are aware of the circle that shuts us in—cutting us off from each other period despite our many-sided exposure to each other. We are alone in our solitariness even in the midst of the congregation. Much of our loneliness is in the nature of things; much of it is due to the uncertainties of our own feelings about ourselves and about others who make up the world of our familiars. At times, our Father, we are conscious of what we do to each other. The careless word, the unseeing look into another's face, the mood out of which all kindness is drained; these often undermine the confidence and the strength of someone who walks beside us in our journey. Preoccupied with the urgencies of our own lives we are insensitive to the ways in which we turn others away from our door empty and afraid. We cannot separate ourselves from our own hearts, our own wounds and injuries—out of the depths of our private agonies we are tempted to feel that no one understands or that those who do understand, do not care.

Thus we are in search of each other as well as of Thee in this act of worship which is our sharing. May Thy Presence invade our being until at last there begins to stir within us that which breaks the circle, spilling over into the lives of each other and we are no longer alone.

Forgive us our trespasses
As we forgive those who trespass against us.
Deliver us from evil, for Thine is the Kingdom and the Glory

(For the Inward Journey: the writings of Howard Thurman.
Selected by Anne Spencer Thurman. page 292
Originally published in The Centering Moment)

First a personal note to Phinu, my precious and regular reader. Lent can be a bit of a slog for me! And especially these last days, with my heart-mind looking for places to be for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, and maybe even for Easter Vigil later today. Somehow, in the midst of it all, I had not prepared this morning’s reading beside choosing it. When I went to type it in early this morning, I realized that I must have left my copy of the Thurman compilation in my study at Shelter Rock. So I needed to delay this until noon today. Sigh. And now it is done.

In Baltimore, I have a precious memory of the vibrant community at St. Vincent de Paul Catholic Parish. This is one of the oldest Catholic parishes in the Baltimore diocese, the first diocese of English-speaking America. It was an old Irish parish where the “lace curtain” Irish sat on the floor and the “shanty Orish” sat in the balcony. (I understand there was an upper gallery for Black folk, and I recall reading a marker there about where Black folk could pray. Details a little fuzzy.)

Father Richard Lawrence was a leader in the struggles against racism and for Catholic education, and a scholar of the Bible and liturgics. Under his leadership, the physical barriers in the sanctuary between clergy and laity were minimized. The altar was moved away from the wall, as it was in most churches after the Vatican II resolutions; but Fr. Lawrence went further in having it transformed into a beautiful, oval shaped table where it was clear there was no hierarchy. People could enter from all sides. Likewise, the pulpit was lowered and rounded; from the center of its face, it bore the first words of Genesis in one direction, and the first world of the Gospel according to John in the other. So in Hebrew and in Greek, it said “In the Beginning.”

Father Lawrence had a baptismal pool placed at the entrance of the worship space, a six sided pool, as I recall, representing the six days of creation, with an eight-sided cover representing the New Creation. (That sounds weird. I’ll have to look again when I’m in Baltimore.) But the most remarkable innovation, to me, way him having the books of the Bible published in 400 volumes, with the original text in Hebrew or Greek on one page and an English translation on its facing page, When a deacon would prepare to offer a reading, they would go to the library of 40 volumes and select the correct volume. It was a step toward Biblical literacy for the congregation, and a work of great beauty.

One of my favorite moments in that congregation, each year, was its celebration of the Easter Vigil. We would go into the parking lot where there was an enormous sculpture of fire. In the midst of the sculpture were materials for burning, including last year’s Christmas tree. A fire was started from which the Paschal candle would be lit, and the promise made that, with the rebirth of Jesus, a light was sparked that would never be overcome.

We’d sing “Dona Nobis Pacem/Grant Us Peace” as we returned to the Sanctuary for more of the liturgy, more prayers, more testimonials, more singing, more community building. I’d be grateful for the leadership of my friends Maureen and Graham, and would feel completely welcomed in holding Graham’s hand (or clutching his arm, as needed) and letting others know about our special intimacy.

I’m about to look at the Easter Vigil livestream from the Vatican. I’m remembering watching some of the Vatican ceremonies with Leonel in the last days of his life. I’m filled with gratitude and longing, and awaiting the return of the light.