Collect
Unfolding, Part 2
Dear Friend,
Next week is scan week. Monday is the scan. Thursday is the consult with my neuro-oncologist. The only certainty is uncertainty.
When I was studying math in the early nineties, I wrote a pretty awful thesis about reconstructing images from brain CAT-scans. At that point there were infinitely many different brain densities that could produce the same CAT-scan result. What does that mean? It means the biggest challenge in interpreting a CAT-scan was choosing the most likely brain density map, and there were a lot of maps to choose from.
Infinitely many = A lot.
And the choice had consequences. The choice informed radiation treatment plans. The choice informed surgical options. The choice informed chemo treatments. The choice informed everything. And at the bottom of it all was ambiguity. Always ambiguity. It could mean this, or it could mean that, or it could mean this and that.
As I have grown older, I have become more comfortable with ambiguity. Learned to embrace it. Befriend it. Grown to love the idea that there might be, and usually are many, many different interpretations of a thing. That there are truths behind truths that are only hinted at. Rohr said it this way:
Not all truths are created equal, or of equal importance. Something might be true merely on a psychological level or historical level or a mythological level….Some think the historical level is the “truest” one. “Did it really happen just that way?” This is actually one of the least fruitful levels of meaning. Even if it did happen just that way, our capacity to understand even that truth is still filtered through our own cultural and personal biases, which are largely unconscious. There is no such thing as a value-free interpretation of anything. It does not exist on this earth, but only in the perfect mind of God.
Maybe I am simply coming to reject the idea that certainty and ambiguity exist at opposite poles on the spectrum of truth. Just trying this on, but what if each true thing is never the final true thing? What if a given truth is simply an icon pointing to a deeper truth, and so on? What if every miracle is simply a hand pointing to another, more meaningful miracle? Would this invalidate the first truth, or render the original miracle any less miraculous? Of course not. And yet, how often do I insist on only my truth and look no further? What if ambiguity simply recognizes there is always a deeper truth than that which is evident to us? Evident to me? I wonder how it could be otherwise. I wonder why I would want it to be otherwise. Why would I want to believe I could hold perfect and complete truth in my own imperfect, finite mind. That is not a world in which I would want to live.
Traceless One. You were with your beloved children in the wilderness. Fire. Cloud. Consume me. Engulf me. Let there be no space between us. Let there be only you. Because only in you completely am I complete. Amen.
After last week’s post (Unfolding) was posted, Kathryn reminded me of something I had read about a year ago. In Daily Prayer with the Corrymeela Community, my friend Padraig O Tuama discusses the “five folds” of a collect, a particular form of poem/prayer. He writes:
The collect has a beautiful form, like a haiku of intention. It has five folds. The person speaks to God; the person names part of the story of God; the person names their desire - only one desire; and then the person praying gives a reason why this is the one desire they name. This fourth fold echoes the first two: the name and the story of God. And then the person finishes their prayer - with an Amen, or with a small bird of praise.
This week will certainly be an inflection point of unknowing, and yet I find myself embracing not un-certainty, but certainty, ambiguous though it may be. This week I found taking the time to name God, to name a true part (and only a part) of the story of God, to ask for something specific of God to be settling. Affirming. And the amen, or the “small bird of praise” was less a period at the end of a sentence and more an invitation to look beneath the certainty of the first four folds to what they pointed toward. An invitation to unfold again. And again.
Steady One. You separated light from darkness. Water from water. Direct my gaze to the line between. Be the light that draws my eye, That orients me. Because without you I am adrift and there is only gray, and alone. Because I need you. Amen.
People often ask me about me. These are genuine and gracious asks. Most of the time my answer depends on who is asking, and what I surmise they are really asking. “How are you?” could mean so many different things. Sometimes the question is physical. Sometimes emotional. Sometimes spiritual. Something something else entirely. I try to guess what they are asking, and then do my best to answer their particular question.
There is simply no such thing as a value-free question. Think about this. Ask me one if you can find one, but I doubt you will. Every question says: Look at me. I am important. Pay attention to me! In my work with clients, the easiest way to lose my way was to forget that my questions always, always, always implied an ought. As in, You ought to be thinking about this, and maybe even thinking about it in this particular way. I have tried to find the value-free question. Tried and failed.
When people ask how I am, I might say: I am well. I am not well. I am confused. I see clearly. I am content. I am unsettled. I believe. I doubt. I am unhappy. I am elated. All are true. Usually at the same time. My favorite answer is: I am here. But that answer is often not true. I am often somewhere else, looking at the gray and the alone, and searching for a horizon to orient me. Sometimes the horizon comes into focus. Not because I am looking well or carefully, but because I loosen my death-grip on trying to see clearly. Do you remember the Magic Eye books? It’s like that.
Gentle One. When their sores were too fresh You healed with words. Not even touching. Teach me your tenderness. Fill me with your healing breath, Because many flinch when I extend my hand And they, too, deserve the dignity of your rest. Amen.
When someone you love has cancer, you think a lot about healing. Of course you do. Whether you think about it in terms of the medical arts of in terms of miraculous divine intervention, you think about it. You long for it. Is there anything you would hold onto if giving it away would spare your loved one her pain? Is there any price too dear? Is there any ask I would have refused if it might have removed the cancer from my daughter’s body? Perhaps it is a sin to say so, but there is no such ask. I have many clients who have described the deals they offered to God to heal their beloved ones. There was simply no price beyond their willingness to pay. Our culture, and every culture has stories of those willing to go into hell itself for their loved one. I wonder if the truest stories are the ones that have found their way into every corner of the world.
This week I thought about healing differently. I thought about healing as release from the constant striving to become better. I thought of healing as rest from the relentless voices that say, “You are beyond the reach of love.” I thought about healing as release from fear. I thought about healing as the rest that we find when we give out heart to someone or something, and it is treated with dignity. Cherished. When we realize our hearts are so precious that someone would go into hell to recover them.
You are Grace. You went into Hell and gathered them up. Offered cool water when they thirsted, a warm blanket when they were cold, Then you accepted their hearts. Cherished them. Loved them. Take mine. Take it back. Hold it gently. Because what is my heart apart from you? Amen.
It is a time of wandering. Of letting certainty and uncertainty dance on a string I hold loosely between my hands. A time of recognizing that healing and rest and feeling cherished often walk the same path together and spend their time talking about the truths beneath the truths. A time of following closely, but not too closely.
Oremus,
Chris
Wishing you the best for your scan, Chris! Prayers and hugs to you and Team Rhoden.
"I wonder if the truest stories are the ones that have found their way into every corner of the world." I'll be thinking about this for the next forever or so.