The invincible summer within

A reflection for my little church in rural Virginia on the Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany

At last, Rafa has the neighborhood streets to himself.

I am missing my little church in rural Virginia (average attendance of 6-8, but lately we’ve had 12-14 in attendance, which has us feeling pretty excited). But the snow and ice here are just too dangerous now, especially in the unplowed rural areas, so we’ve cancelled church two Sundays in a row. I made a short recording on my phone, this Sunday and last, which we emailed to everyone. Here (audio above) is the one for tomorrow.

“In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”

~ Albert Camus, “Return to Tipasa,” in, L’Été (1954)

What a wonderful thought, especially now in treacherously icy Virginia!

But Camus was speaking metaphorically, of course. In the depths of emotional struggle – depression, worry, hopelessness, or sadness – Camus finally learned that within himself there was place of joy, hope, peace, life, … what Jesus called “abundant life” or, in Sunday’s Gospel reading, “blessedness.” And both Camus and Jesus suggest that this inner summer, this inner joy, peace, and blessedness, … this is true of everyone.

I hope that now and then in your life you have experienced at least a hint of this truth about yourself. And I hope you realize that, possibly without knowing it, you have been a source of such light and hope for other people when they have in dark place. I hope you know that about yourself.

As some of you know, in my first years as a young Episcopal priest, I was an assistant at the cathedral in Knoxville, TN. And I had two primary assignments there. First, I visited and took Communion to parishioners who were not able to come to church, often elderly people or in folks in the hospital, many of whom were close to dying. And second, I was to minister to the homeless population in the urban area around the cathedral, people who were living on the streets or under a highway overpass or wherever I could find them.

These two populations, homebound parishioners and homeless people, had a lot had in common, and I’m sure I learned more about faith from them than I did from the reading bible and theology books.

Often, as a person lay dying at home or sat abandoned on the street, I would ask them how they were doing: “Mrs. Smith (lying in an ICU bed), how are things today?” Or, “Jack (lying under a bridge), how are you doing today?” And very often they would answer in the same way. They would say, “Oh, Father, I am blessed.” I am blessed.

In the words of today’s epistle reading, surely these people would sound perfectly foolish to those who considered themselves wise. And I imagine that as Jesus went around telling the hungry, “you are blessed,” or those who were mourning, “you are blessed,” or those who were reviled and mistreated, “you are blessed,” … surely the people who were considered wise in Jesus’ day must have thought, “This rabbi has lost his mind.”

But Jesus’ words had a strange ring of truth for others, and the Beatitudes have been meticulously preserved through the ages for a reason. In fact, this list of those who are “blessed” are some of the most cherished words in the entire bible. Because enough people have sensed the truth that beneath the appearances about our life and about our world, there is deeper place of blessing and goodness, a place where hope, peace, and joy at continually at work – at work in us and in the larger world all the time.

In this mortal life, St. Paul says, we see this deeper spiritual reality “as in a mirror dimly,” or “as in a glass darkly.” Now, he says, we know ourselves, one another, and the world – we know all of this only “in part.” We’re just not capable of fully knowing the depths, the deeper truth about ourselves, each other, and the world.

But we have had glimmers, as in a glass darkly. Some people have shrugged off the glimmers. But others have held onto them, for dear life. And there will come a time, Paul writes (1 Cor 13) when we will all know this deeper truth about ourselves and the world, we’ll all come to know this deeper blessedness fully, just as we have been fully known.

Although we might only perceive this deeper reality dimly, this blessedness that Jesus talks about in the Beatitudes is the very essence of your life, even if you don’t feel particularly blessed right now. Saints and sages through the centuries have done their best to point us to this essence, so that we might remember the truth about our lives, especially at those times in our lives when we do not feel blessed at all.

The Irish priest and poet, John O’Donohue, put it this way in an interview with Krista Tippet, shortly before he died in 2008. O’Donohue said this:

“The 14^th century mystic, Meister Eckhart, said, ‘There is a place in the soul that neither time, nor space, nor no created thing can touch.’ What this means is that your identity is not equivalent to your biography. There is a place in you where you have never been wounded, where there is still a sureness in you, where there’s a seamlessness in you, and where there is a confidence and tranquility in you. And I think the intention of prayer and spirituality and love is, now and again, to visit that inner kind of sanctuary.”

Wow. Such a beautiful way of expressing it – our essential identity is not equivalent to our biography. Whatever has happened in your life, this essential blessedness, what Jesus is talking about in the Beatitudes, this blessedness remains untouched. It is always there, this enduring sureness; even death does not touch it; and throughout our lives, “the point of prayer and spirituality and love,” as O’Donohue says, “is now and again to visit this blessedness” and thus remember that your true life is hidden with Christ in God.

Jesus also says in the Beatitudes, “Blessed are the peacemakers,” and “Blessed are the merciful.” And these might be some of the most important lines in his sermon on the mount. These lines are not about our biography or anything that has happened to us. Instead, they are about how we choose to live.

What I think that means is this: when you find yourself in a dark place or an icy winter of grief or hopelessness, … what you can do is reach out to a neighbor, a friend, or a family member, just to check on them, to care for them, to let them know you are thinking of them, you love them, and you hope they are well. Loving others is a way to “visit this inner sanctuary of blessedness” that is always there for you. When Jesus told us to “love each other,” he was not just telling us how to care for others but how to care for ourselves, also. How to remember who we truly are.

In the depths of this winter, and every winter experience of your life, I hope you will find yourself returning to this truth, however dimly you perceive it, as in a glass darkly: there is in you an invisible summer, and no matter what may happen to you, the point of prayer and love and spirituality is to visit that place now and then, so that you will remember: You are blessed.

And what’s more, you are blessed to be a blessing to others.

Today, instead of concluding with a creed, I want to leave you with a short poem. It’s a well-known poem that you can easily find online, if you’d like to read it again. It’s called, “The Way It Is”:

The Way It Is 
by William Stafford

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

Bless you, dear friends. Hold onto the thread. In difficult times, remember to return to the invincible summer within you, the essential blessing that is your true life. Amen.