“What is my purpose? Why am I still here?”
Norma, a 94 year old resident of one of our local retirement homes, may have been asking me, but she wasn’t really looking for my perspective.
“I’ve been a Christian almost my entire life,” she continued. “I try to share God’s love with everyone I meet. Not everyone here knows about that, you know. Maybe that’s what I am supposed to do.”
She repeated her answer again with cheerfulness, but not certainty. Something still needed to be named, something that connects with our quest for the sacred.
I had been asked to bring church in, a request that’s fairly common in these places. They even had a chapel for this purpose with rows of chairs facing a picture of a serene beach–meant to be sacred, I guess. Retirement homes never seem all that sacred to me. At least at a certain income level they all look alike, decorated in a stylish institutional way, much like a hotel lobby. The staff is cheery, and posters are all around inviting one and all to the latest community activity. But living here isn’t a vacation, and the glossy brochures and peaceful decor can’t hide the one experience that brings everyone here. Downsized apartments, community transportation, dining room set for large tables of strangers, all point to one common experience: loss. Norma listed the losses of her 94 years–husband and nine siblings, driver’s license and car, independent living. Her story wasn’t any different from those of her new neighbors. Hovering over it all was the spectrum of more loss, a reality Norma described for me in how the ambulances would come to the home, far more often than to any other place she’d lived. Ambulances take people away, and sometimes the people come back, sometimes they returned after a long absence, and sometimes they are not seen again. There was never a lot of conversation about these missing neighbors, and certainly no official communications. Information would destroy the illusion of security and remind everyone of the inevitable.
What Norma was knew was that in this situation an optimistic attitude wasn’t enough. Not everyone responds in a positive way to the life circumstances that brought them to this place, Norma knew that, even though she had, and you can’t talk them out of their distress. “Look on the bright side,” or “count your blessings” is shallow advice to those who have lost so much, as if they should be content with leftover crumbs of blessings. What can we say in this situation?
Of course we know that God is present in times of loss. That’s why people come to church funerals, but that’s not someplace any of us want to be. So our tendency is to move on, putting those difficult moments behind us. Even church community is about enjoying our time together. People who can’t “move on” tend to move out, leaving the church when they can’t find a place for their grief in the community. Like the management of the retirement home, most of us stay on the surface, avoiding the deeper conversations and confrontations. Norma needs a message that dares to acknowledge loss and God’s goodness at the same time.
Give thanks in all things, St. Paul advised the Philippians. By this he doesn’t mean look on the bright side. Nor does he mean “count your blessings” if that means to simply keep an eye on what has not yet been lost. Partly this is a reality check, a way to remember that this story isn’t all about our comfortable lives. A time for joy and a time for sorrow–earlier centuries probably knew this better than we do. It’s harder to pretend that the Christian message is all beauty and light when you’re surrounded by poverty and plague. But more than that, Paul’s words invited the church then and us now to a spiritual practice of seeking the sacred. His hope is that in thanksgiving we would see that goodbye does not diminish the blessing.
Jesus put it another way: Blessed are those who mourn. I always approach this passage from the other side, imagining what it would be like to suffer loss and not notice. We find the sacred in the our shared humanity and in the continuity of love that death itself cannot destroy. When seen in the bigger context of God’s Kingdom, goodbye does not diminish blessing because the temporary is connected to the eternal. None of this is a surprise. The question is whether or not we are brave enough to acknowledge our losses and at the same time seek the sacred in these places. Finding God in these places where we would rather not be opens the door to deeper trust and the real security of knowing where we belong. If we can see that, then loss will not overcome joy.
If Norma is going to bring a Christian light to this place, then she needs that brave faith. To recognize loss but not be overwhelmed, to know that God is present in more than the successes of life–this takes a brave faith. The sacred message that Norma must bring to the retirement home can’t avoid loss, it must embrace it. Her natural cheerfulness will help, but without faith cheerfulness seems pollyannish, or at least a sign of denial.
We’re looking for the sacred, and we’re finding God’s presence in all sorts of pictures of nature, worship and other peaceful places. But to see the sacred in Norma’s life and circumstances requires us to look to the whole story of the Gospel. Certainly we can do it. After all, we walk the Way of the Cross, and whatever that means, it isn’t the easy route. it’s a route past illusions of security and stability, a route of trusting our belonging to a bigger reality. That’s why it is the way that leads to life. In the midst of death and grief lasting connections point the way to victory.
So let’s expand our search for the sacred. What pictures of sacredness can you find that tell this whole story of God’s presence and hope? Share them with us: #sacred, #choosetrinity
One Response
Beautifully written – ‘a brave faith’ – especially ‘in places you don’t want to be’. It’s a very special moment when we loosen up enough to realize that God is talking to us through another. Thank you.