I suppose for a writer it's not too cool to be redundant. Words can be used too much. Using the same word more than once is a sign, perhaps, that the vocabulary needs to be expanded. But that's not necessarily always so. Some words are unique and carry with them such a singular significance that used more than once, go to the heart of what a writer means. Tabernacle is one of those words.To the heart of it -- a woman named Priscilla O. She is a unique tabernacle in a little town north of where I live. But before I tell you a little bit about Priscilla O., I want you to envision a biblical parallel to not only who she is, but what she is.When I first saw Priscilla O., I could not help but think of Moses' reaction when he saw the exquisite flame, unquenchable upon the unromantic looking chamisa-like bush that was uncomsumable; its fuel apparently, inexhaustible. It would be ironic if the "burning bush" indeed was a Chamisa or Rabbitbrush plant. The New York Times described Chamisa thusly:
Walking into Priscilla O's room was very much like this experience as I envision it. The light I saw emanate from her was a bit more subtle, but no less radiant. No doubt, this room was like a holy of holies, and Priscilla herself was the Tabernacle in which an unquenchable flame emanated. She had called me to talk about end of life issues. Most of her family and friends had more or less considered her a bit extreme in her religious beliefs. But I found none of that. I found a kind of innocence that baptizes a person from their former selves into a new heart and new mind. She would go on to tell me she did not care about the appearance of her body because this was not her choice to be bed ridden, in pain, having lost the sanctuary of her bodily privacy. But even so, she explains that she would have it so that there be no privacy if Christ could shine from the middle of her. She relates that Jesus inside her inner self wants to break out so that everyone can see inside her.
And as no one calls, or comes by except paid caregivers, what does Priscilla O do all day after the rough routine of having to be lifted by a crane from bed to chair. Having to be bathed and changed and clothed. Having to sense what thoughts it might be normal for others to have if only fleetingly concerning the absurdity of the bodily condition relative to the "norm" in society. But Priscilla O cares nothing about that. She is more concerned about the absurdity of the inner human condition when God is no where to be found. Whats more, is she wants to be an instrument of prayer, a victim soul if you will to do her part in reparation for sins she looks back upon as forgiven, but yet as reminders that life is fleeting.
I have rarely ever found such a readable presence of "vocation" as when I visited Priscilla's light. That's it. Her light cannot be held to her bedroom. It is not limited by her seclusion. It is not limited by anything of this world because it is a light from another world that emanates from this great soul. Others would tell her she is a fool for praying so much. Others have told her God does not listen to her. Others would tell her that she is a fool not unlike Job's wife intoning the "curse God and die" mantra of despair. None of that there, in her room, in her bed, in her heart, in her sanctuary.
Being a deacon has allowed me the wonderful experience of walking upon holy ground. I do so when I am in the various sanctuaries of Catholic Church's for liturgical services. I walk upon sanctuaries when I am called upon to preside at burial services. I am upon holy ground in many places, but none quite like when I am in the midst of the burning flame of faith, a faith that burns past sufferings and mishaps and sin and past and resentments and even abandonment by family and friends. Her flame even burns past any resentment because of abandonment by her Church. This is the way humanity is, imperfect in its ability to see perfection as going the opposite way from what the "norm" is, what success defines, what is considered as personal achievement. This is the way of Lady Poverty whom St. Francis of Assisi wedded. Lady Poverty is the very vision of the burning bush. It is the very vision of who laid before me that Spring day when I met Priscilla O. Smiling. Prayerful. She only wanted to ask questions about what was right by the Church should she pass away. She wanted to know that she was in conformity to the long line of traditions handed down since the first apostles emanated the light of the Holy Spirit after the first Pentecost. Yes. Pentecost. That is holy ground within the cenacle where a group of scared men clustered in true obscurity until that flame blew upon them. It was not without pain, cost, suffering that they would go out and share their light to nations.
And so, likewise, Priscilla is such a flame. I think I like walking upon holy ground, not because it makes me holier, but because I can look in awe at what true holiness is. It gives me a kind of courage that allows me to proceed tackling one by one the obstacles to faith and joy even in the midst of sorrow, despair, sickness, sin, tragedy, and loss. Tabernacles with Jesus present within are surely in every catholic church wherein a flame burns. However, tabernacles with Jesus present are also within every suffering, prayerful, disabled, grateful, joyful, and generous soul laid away silently praying for you and me. I can feel more secure knowing Priscilla O. is praying for me.
"The odor is opaque, insidious, like ground fog. It infiltrates. It malingers. It loiters. Even with nostrils buried deep in the plant, a question persists: the scientific name is Chrysothamnus nauseosus, which says something about the olfactory impression chamisa makes on botanists. Coming upon a stand of chamisa, trying again to decipher its scent, one wonders, Nauseosus how? To use the perfumer's language, the scent of chamisa is at once woody, green and animalic, with several miscellaneous notes thrown in. Chamisa smells like a kitchen full of fresh herbs where a mouse, undiscovered but strongly suspected, has died behind the stove." But "me thinks" the New York Times has never been around real Chamisa. It eminates only with the freshness of wet earth. And after a rain fall, it smells like God's aftershave.
A Chamisa's flaming yellow tips bespeak fire. Moses, coming upon a burning Chamisa plant aflame, is actually less spectacular than me walking into Priscilla O's room where she lays bedridden almost 24-7. But even though our meeting was not as dramatic as the meeting between Moses and the burning Chamisa, I must say I felt like Moses, walking upon holy ground. Moses was told to take the shoes of his feet because the ground near the burning bush was in fact holy. A light emanated from the fire as one might expect, but you also expect the residual heat to cause Moses to want to stay away anyway. But Moses did not retreat.Walking into Priscilla O's room was very much like this experience as I envision it. The light I saw emanate from her was a bit more subtle, but no less radiant. No doubt, this room was like a holy of holies, and Priscilla herself was the Tabernacle in which an unquenchable flame emanated. She had called me to talk about end of life issues. Most of her family and friends had more or less considered her a bit extreme in her religious beliefs. But I found none of that. I found a kind of innocence that baptizes a person from their former selves into a new heart and new mind. She would go on to tell me she did not care about the appearance of her body because this was not her choice to be bed ridden, in pain, having lost the sanctuary of her bodily privacy. But even so, she explains that she would have it so that there be no privacy if Christ could shine from the middle of her. She relates that Jesus inside her inner self wants to break out so that everyone can see inside her.
And as no one calls, or comes by except paid caregivers, what does Priscilla O do all day after the rough routine of having to be lifted by a crane from bed to chair. Having to be bathed and changed and clothed. Having to sense what thoughts it might be normal for others to have if only fleetingly concerning the absurdity of the bodily condition relative to the "norm" in society. But Priscilla O cares nothing about that. She is more concerned about the absurdity of the inner human condition when God is no where to be found. Whats more, is she wants to be an instrument of prayer, a victim soul if you will to do her part in reparation for sins she looks back upon as forgiven, but yet as reminders that life is fleeting.
I have rarely ever found such a readable presence of "vocation" as when I visited Priscilla's light. That's it. Her light cannot be held to her bedroom. It is not limited by her seclusion. It is not limited by anything of this world because it is a light from another world that emanates from this great soul. Others would tell her she is a fool for praying so much. Others have told her God does not listen to her. Others would tell her that she is a fool not unlike Job's wife intoning the "curse God and die" mantra of despair. None of that there, in her room, in her bed, in her heart, in her sanctuary.
Being a deacon has allowed me the wonderful experience of walking upon holy ground. I do so when I am in the various sanctuaries of Catholic Church's for liturgical services. I walk upon sanctuaries when I am called upon to preside at burial services. I am upon holy ground in many places, but none quite like when I am in the midst of the burning flame of faith, a faith that burns past sufferings and mishaps and sin and past and resentments and even abandonment by family and friends. Her flame even burns past any resentment because of abandonment by her Church. This is the way humanity is, imperfect in its ability to see perfection as going the opposite way from what the "norm" is, what success defines, what is considered as personal achievement. This is the way of Lady Poverty whom St. Francis of Assisi wedded. Lady Poverty is the very vision of the burning bush. It is the very vision of who laid before me that Spring day when I met Priscilla O. Smiling. Prayerful. She only wanted to ask questions about what was right by the Church should she pass away. She wanted to know that she was in conformity to the long line of traditions handed down since the first apostles emanated the light of the Holy Spirit after the first Pentecost. Yes. Pentecost. That is holy ground within the cenacle where a group of scared men clustered in true obscurity until that flame blew upon them. It was not without pain, cost, suffering that they would go out and share their light to nations.
And so, likewise, Priscilla is such a flame. I think I like walking upon holy ground, not because it makes me holier, but because I can look in awe at what true holiness is. It gives me a kind of courage that allows me to proceed tackling one by one the obstacles to faith and joy even in the midst of sorrow, despair, sickness, sin, tragedy, and loss. Tabernacles with Jesus present within are surely in every catholic church wherein a flame burns. However, tabernacles with Jesus present are also within every suffering, prayerful, disabled, grateful, joyful, and generous soul laid away silently praying for you and me. I can feel more secure knowing Priscilla O. is praying for me.
Comments
Post a Comment