Light in the Darkness
One of my devotions during the season of Advent is to read about the lives of our saints. Those women and men who have guarded the faith, worked for the glorious Reign, and left us a legacy of aspiration and inspiration.
Who are our spiritual mothers, our fathers? Who are these ghosts which haunt the road behind and the road ahead; these sufferers of beautiful pain, these intimates of the Godhead, these impatient docents of the holy life who snap their fingers or stomp their heels or whisper urgently for our attention?
Our holy ones come world-bruised and misunderstood, lively vessels that arrive love-filled and thinly stretched, whose visions and utterances in the streets and hillsides leave us confounded and stammering. They are the ones who came too soon and left the same way. Our holy ones come wandering and muttering and howling like the wind, or else come silent and still in their little rooms, pouring out tears like wash-water for the world.
O you poets, you radicals, you revolutionaries. O you mystics, you gateways, you simple lovers; we search for a nameless love, even as we abandon ourselves to hollow fascinations. We clamor among the relics of the dead looking for a living truth. We have forgotten the way.
As we seek among the waves, the hills, the setting sun for some small sign that our own small hopes and pains, our sorrows and joys, somehow matter; help us in these days of waiting to listen for the echoes of your truth to sweep away our selfish preoccupations. While we have let our dignity grow small and unutterable, help us to do otherwise.
Help us to remember the song, the dance, the playful grounds where we used to leap. For you are more than bones and burial grounds. You are more than the dust of the earth from which springs the swaying grass.
You are the memory of light in the darkness.
You are an unloosed tongue, proclaiming.
You are holy madness upon our lips.
Pray for us.