Global Lamentation

Wailing wall
A young girl leaves a prayer at the Wailing Wall

It seems we are collectively standing on a threshold. One that places us in the spiritual arena of liminal space.

A space in which there is much lamentation. Isolation. Confusion. Uncertainty. A growing frenzy of fear and helplessness.

A space, also, of much selfless giving. Willingness to be vulnerable. Suffering for and with others.

And a space of dying alone.

All of this strikes me as we enter Semana Santa. The holiest of weeks commemorated in the Christian tradition. I see how what is currently unfolding in our world, through the coronavirus pandemic, runs parallel to the growing fear and foreboding taking place in the life of Jesus, a life that will soon end in a brutal and humiliating death.

This is the path of descent. The path of kenosis. A self-emptying love that, far from making me feel guilty or fearful, is life-giving. It promises me freedom. Freedom from the fear of death. Freedom to love fully and extravagantly.

Poised on this threshold, I ask myself, am I willing? Am I willing to sit in the tension of what is present in this current reality? Am I willing to wait here in the place of not knowing? Of not yet fully understanding?

Yet willing to do whatever is mine to do?

Although I am not someone who is “on the frontlines,” able to physically serve others in the midst of this pandemic, I have a role to play. I can choose to be relational in my self-isolation. Just like so many of us are doing: choosing to stay home for the greater good.

I can stay connected, through prayer and meditation, holding the suffering world. I can hold the pain and fear of those living so close to the effects of this pandemic. Lamenting with those who will lose loved ones this week and cannot be with them as they die. Lamenting with the doctors and nurses and all healthcare and hospice workers who will experience these deaths, and have to steady themselves enough to go back into it again and again.

Coronavirus Sacramento
Mural for healthcare workers in San Jose, CA

I can do the work of remaining faithful to my daily spiritual practices. By remaining spiritually grounded, I am adding to the loving and healing energy being offered in the world at this moment. That seems particularly important.

I can respond to the injustices being played out behind the scenes. A particularly disturbing example is the continued incarceration of asylum seekers, nonviolent non-criminals, in detention facilities, putting them gravely at risk, while we release nonviolent criminals from our prison systems.

And there is something more asked of me.

Can I also face myself in the “other”? Those whom I find harder to love? Those who would support such injustices? Who choose to live in denial as the suffering from coronavirus rages on? Can I hold with love those living with blindness, refusing to see what is before them?

I am reminded of what Jesus did when he couldn’t change the hearts and minds of those who refused to see, who chose their comfortable blindness. He wept. He wept for what could have been. He wept for those who had closed themselves off from the voice of Love.  Jesus wept

Jesus wept.

Can I go down into the place where Jesus experienced that poverty of spirit?

Can I shed tears for those who are blinded by their own fears and illusions? And this includes myself. It can be painful to “see” my own blindness in this. But it’s here.

The Holy One reminds me that this Love laments with us, through us, and in us. As my teacher Cynthia Bourgeault says, “Where suffering exists and is consciously accepted, there divine love shines forth brightly.”

Divine love is shining forth in this moment. Through all the lamentations. All the pain and all the perceived darkness. Come Maundy Thursday, in the midst of our lamentation, we will again be shown how this extravagant “eucharistic love” desires to manifest in us. I want to surrender to it. Again.

Pay Attention – Lessons Learned in Cochabamba

image Pay attention to where you’re going. It’s one of the lessons I learned in Cochabamba.

Daily I had to be aware of what was in front of me. Figuratively and literally.

Uneven sidewalks, crumbling concrete, hidden holes — all threatened to trip me up as I walked the streets of Cochabamba. Entire slabs of cement jut out like in the aftermath of an earthquake. No sidewalks are flat and even. If I wanted to stay vertical, I had to pay attention.

image
Typical Cochabamba sidewalk

And if walking on the sidewalk wasn’t easy to maneuver and threatened my safety, crossing the street was worse.

Pedestrians never have the right-of-way in Cochabamba.  No matter if you’re in the crosswalk, the traffic light is in your favor, or you’re already half way across the street. Drivers will not stop or slow down.  They constantly beep their horn at you. Even if you’re only near the curb  or simply walking in that direction. Their message is clear: “Don’t even think about it.”

Other lessons I learned:

How to approach strangers and strike up a conversation, asking important questions like “Where can I buy  the best helado (ice cream)?”

How to meet desafíos (challenges) and speak up for what I needed in a language I was only beginning to learn, with people I was not entirely  comfortable with. Not easy for an introverted, introspective person like me. But I did it. Time and again. It gave me a taste — just a taste — of what it’s like for a migrant trying to survive in a foreign country.

How to look the other way when encountering a naked campesino —peasant farmers that have come to the city to work —squatting in the canal to relieve himself or to wash his body in the only water available.

How to hold and feed one baby in my arms while pushing another one in a Fisher Price swing, using my elbow or foot.

I miss holding those babies at the orphanage. When I imagine Teresa and Pablo, Adriana, Jhon, Nichol, and Breiseda, when I remember the tiny knots in their hair from lying in their cribs for so long, and I wonder if anyone is cradling them now, I cry.  Their situation seems hopeless. Yet I know it isn’t.

I also know I can’t go back to care for those orphans. Here’s why. As much as I loved the beauty and culture of the country, my teachers, and friends I made, something was missing. My heart was not in Cochabamba. It remains with the migrants and refugees at the U.S.-Mexico border. Still.

Did I need to go all the way to Bolivia to learn this? Apparently so.

Because besides learning Spanish and gaining clarity about where my heart lies, I received other necessary lessons. Lessons about courage to face the feelings arising in what I was experiencing. Lessons about finding true hope in the midst of feelings of hopelessness.

If all had gone according to my expectations, according to my well-laid plans, it would have been easy to have faith in my self-made God, to “hope” in my ego’s ideas of what the world “should” be. But God asks more of me than this. God asks me to trust even when I feel betrayed, angry, hopeless in this place of my own making. And then to be present to those feelings. Long enough to come out the other side.

As the Pathwork teaches, through the gateway of feeling  my hopelessness lies true and justified hope. That’s something I’ll need if I’m to serve those who would have little reason to hope.

Spiritual writer and teacher Cynthia Bourgeault says in Mystical Hope:

“Hope fills us with the strength to stay present, to abide in the flow of the Mercy no matter what outer storms assail us. It is entered always and only through surrender; that is, through the willingness to let go of everything we are presently clinging to.”Cynthia Bourgeault_MysticalHope_photo1

May I let go and surrender. To the presence that has always been right in front of me.