Exposition

"Sin is inevitable, but all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well." -Julian of Norwich

Sin, and its wonderful counterpart, pain, are inevitable. And, as Julian states, all will be well. Wounds will heal, grief will fade, pain will ease, transgressions will be forgiven, and hope will return. However, Julian sagaciously declines to specify how or when all will be well. As I listened to a patient in horrific pain cry out, begging for death, I wished that I understood the how and when. As I hugged a grieving friend, I wished I that it were possible to know the how and when. And when I struggled with my own pain, I wished for the speeding of time and a divine revelation of how to heal more quickly. But no answer came. And I was reminded that faith, love, and life are marred by brokenness. But it is only in this brokenness that we can appreciate the promise that all shall be well, however and whenever that is.

The sunset tonight is beautiful. The sun is brilliant tangerine against the silhouette of the skyline. Rose and even lavender tinge the edges of the horizon. I've been trying to comprehend the tragic beauty of sunsets. Some people think they're romantic, but watching the sun drop and disappear has always made me a little sad. Watching the source of daylight vanish, leaving first colorful traces of light, then darkness, behind is a little disheartening. However, I enjoy the mystery and calm of the night. I love the freedom and coziness the darkness lends, and the reminder of God in the stars. Better yet, while I'm not often awake to see it, I love the sunrise and the progression of the sun from a small sliver at the edge of forever to an orb that illuminates the whole sky.

"That's the heart of religious questing, isn't it? Once you get a handle on the infinite cycle of the restless existence of all things, do you despair or do you willingly take your place in the circle? Does enlightenment lead to sorrowful disengagement or willing participation?" -Robert Fulghum, "Uh-oh"

This, to me, is the real challenge of seminary. Sure, it's tough to keep up with the readings and write all the papers and get through all the hours of contextual study, but the real challenge is balancing enlightenment with faith and life. Once you discover that Moses probably parted the "reedy sea" instead of the Red Sea, that the books that made it into the Bible were selected by a group of priests at a conference in Northern Africa, that congregations can be centers of catty, political infighting as much as communities of faith, that people suffer pain and loneliness in hospitals and workplaces and homes without relief, and that ordination means submitting your whole life to an imperfect, human institution, how do you keep on? How do you stake your faith and your life's work on an ancient book in a changing world of hurt where you will struggle each day and may never know whether you're having an impact? I don't have a perfect answer. I have only a few strategies that I have begun to embrace. I have to remember that the texts may be ambiguous, but that contemplation and interpretation can help us to gain a much better understanding than we'd be able to gain if it were simple and straightforward, plus we learn much more in the pursuit. I have to believe that, despite their faults, congregations and churches are our ways of building Christian community and, in spite of their failings, they are our attempt to show love in the world. I have to believe that there will someday be relief for the pain and brokenness, and in the meantime, there are love and joy and beauty in the world, too.

There are days when I disengage. There are days when I come home from the hospital or from campus and collapse in a chair and watch movies to numb myself to the enlightenment that's burning my retinas. But after the sun sets and rises again, I get up and go out to face it again. Because, though I don't know when or how, all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.