Would that the Lord would give me (along with Isaiah) a well-trained tongue, that I might know how to answer the weary a word that will waken them!
First, I would like to be awakened myself. Lent is over and has left me weary. Even Easter has not fully roused me. And as with other events in my life, I try to figure out why.
Maybe that’s the problem right there: trying to figure out what’s going on in my head and spirit. When I once complained about this to a wise friend, she answered with a question: “Can you simply rest in the mystery?” She may as well have been speaking Greek to me. Mysteries, to me, are puzzles meant to be solved. So, like Jacob, I spend my soul’s night wrestling with enigma, wearying myself with unending questions.
- Since Christ has come, why is the world still in such bad shape?
- Why do the innocent suffer?
- Why am I so often empty and dry?
- What does it mean to “rest in the mystery”?
- And why on earth am I sending this useless message into cyberspace?
OK, time to close the text book, Rosalie. The answers aren’t there. This is one of the many exams I can’t and won’t ace.
No, the very nature of mystery is that one can’t solve it with whys and hows.
Because of the restlessness produced by not having answers, I was reminded of Augustine (our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee) and then, in turn, to comments about Augustine by Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury. Williams refers to Augustine’s being “deeply, even disturbingly, affected by music” so that where words fail, music steps in to supply the soul’s need for expression. The music of the heart surpasses the music of instruments.
Commenting on the Psalms, Augustine writes of “jubilant” singing:
This kind of singing is a sound which means that the heart is giving birth to something it cannot speak of . . . the ineffable God – ineffable because you cannot talk about him. And if you cannot talk about him, and it is improper just to keep silence, why, what is there left for you to do but “jubilate” – with your heart rejoicing without words, and the immense breadth of your joy not rationed out in syllables?
It seems that such “jubilance” comes from the heart having discovered the beauty and love of God, unable to express it in any way resembling words.
But of course, though this teacher (moi) is no longer in the classroom, the classroom has not left her. What’s the lesson here? What does this all mean to me? I timidly raise my hand:
Could it be what Augustine discovered? That our hearts – my heart – is restless until it seeks its rest in a simple, quiet and even brainless leap into the heart of Christ?
Rowan Williams* and Augustine say it better:
The violent love of God breaks through deafness and blindness; the violent desire of human souls for God breaks through dumbness. The heart has no words, but it cannot contain itself in silence.
*The Wound of Knowledge, Rowan Williams. Cowley Publications, Cambridge, Mass. Pp. 98-99
And Augustine, in Expositions of the Psalms, writes that the only way to calm our restlessness is to love and desire always:
There is a kind of prayer that never ceases, an interior prayer that is desire… Your continuous desire is your continuous voice. You will only fall silent if you stop loving. Love grown cold is the heart’s silence; love on fire is the heart’s clamor. If your love abides all the time, you are crying out all the time; if you are crying out all the time, you are desiring all the time; and if you are desiring, you are returning to rest.