Thursday of the Thirteenth Week in Ordinary Time
This story from Genesis is so very hard. I want to think that I am a person of faith. But that kind of faith? Taking my son or daughter to an altar by God’s command. Putting a knife to one of their necks. Nope. Can’t do it. I don’t have that kind of faith.
The story ends well. And that’s great. But Abraham doesn’t know it at the time. Just like us. We don’t know how it’s gonna turn out. We don’t know anything.
And isn’t that, in fact, what this story is about. We don’t know.
There was this 14th century mystic. A woman. A theologian. Her words were the first written by a woman in English and published. Wise beyond her years. Julian of Norwich.
She would say that she wasn’t wise. God was. He gave her the visions. She didn’t come up with this stuff herself. Or did she? Don’t know.
Here’s what she had to say about my (our) sorry state.
This is the highest friendship of our beautiful, kind Protector, that we are kept safe so tenderly even while we are in the midst of sin. Christ touches us individually, in the private depths of our minds, and shows us our sin by the sweet light of mercy and grace. But when we see the pus and decay of our souls, we believe God is angry with us because of our sin. Then the Holy Spirit stirs our minds to life, our bruised souls turn to prayer, and we long with all our strength to put right our lives. We feel God is angry with us, and our feelings of guilt continue until our souls begin to find rest and our consciences grow easier. At that point, we hope God has forgiven our sins. And God has!
Our considerate and kind Protector reveals the Divine Presence to our souls; this Presence comes to us with laughter and a glad face, with a friendly welcome as if we had just come home after a painful prison sentence, saying “My darling, I’m so glad you have finally come home to Me! In all your sadness, I was always with you, but now at last you see My love and we are united in joy.”
My faith doesn’t hold a candle to Abraham’s. I am far too weak. But what I learn from Julian of Norwich is that I don’t know what God has in store for me. Grace? Mercy? Love? All three?
I don’t need to know. Arguably, I’m better off not knowing.
Knowing. It can get the better of me. Thinking I know.
The Greeks called that hubris. The Amish call it hochmut. High mindedness. May I just be humble (the Amish call it demut) and receive God’s grace, mercy, and love. None of which I (or anyone) deserves.
-Sue Trollinger