One theme. One poet. One memoirist.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Fear

I've not done a reflection for a while. Today's gospel reading is the one where Jesus assures the disciples that he will send the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, to be with them after he is gone. As I listened to the gospel today, I pondered the creative chaos bred by the Spirit.


Such creative chaos is present in storms as well.


Peace,


LLM


***


The wind blows where it wills, and you can hear the sound it makes, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes; so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.

(John 3:8)


I grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, just east of tornado alley. The storms of the midwest can be threatening, cantankerous, unexpected. I fear these storms, not because I’ve ever experienced the terror of a tornado, but because their unruliness cannot be controlled or reigned in or stopped. They simply go until they wear themselves out. I have no influence over them. They are reminders of my humility. I can only stand in awe at the rush of water beating down on the earth, on cars, on buildings, on plants. Lightning splits the sky, a web both beautiful and terrifying; thunder rolls and shakes and deafens.


To this day such storms have me contemplating the safest place in whatever shelter I’m occupying. I take note of the presence of blankets and sturdy shoes. I avoid windows and check weather stations to see how immanent the threat. In other words, I exert control over the things that can be controlled.


Nevertheless, in recent years I have found myself needing thunderstorms. I desire the reminder that the world can be shaken, that stability is a human construct. Sometimes we are drawn to that which we fear most.


John’s gospel tells us of a holy unruliness: the Spirit blows where it wills. It moves and dances and creates and destroys. And this Spirt makes noise. That is the noise I crave. That is the noise that nudges and inspires. I frequently hope that the voice of the Spirit is loud and obnoxious. I want her voice to be as demanding as a thunderstorm in June.


Instead, she whispers.

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