I have shared with many of you my "Lean on me" story. But for those of you not familiar with the story: When we were truly in our darkest time, when I wasn't sure how we would get through the next hours, let alone the next days or months, I had to drive to the hospital to visit someone I loved who was dying, was at the very end. I turned on the radio for the first time in many months. The song that immediately began playing was "Lean on me" - a song I've always heard as being an invitation from God to let go, to trust, to live in the love of a supportive, caring "other" that is beyond and above and among us. I was happy to hear the song, but didn't think too much about it until, on coming out of my visiting time and again turning on the radio, the song was playing a second time. At that point, I had a conversation with God that went something like this, "Okay, I hear the message here. At the same time, I tend to think that twice is just a coincidence and that if you are really there trying to communicate with me, there will be a third time." I drove home and was walking into my house when the telephone rang. On answering it, I discovered it was one of my parishioners, a man who was in charge of picking the movies for our faith and film nights at church. He had called to tell me that even though we had scheduled a particular movie for the next evening, he felt this strong sense that he should show a different movie this week. "What movie are you wanting to show instead?" I asked. "Lean on me," he said. Okaaay… That night I had choir practice and as I drove to church the song "Lean on me" played yet one more time on the radio.
Ever since that terrible time, there have been other challenging times in my life. And very often when I am in those times, the song "Lean on me" will show up at exactly the right moment, reminding me to let go, to trust, to feel the presence and love and care of God surrounding me.
All of that is wonderful, and awesome and good. But there is another piece of this with which I'm struggling. Whenever that song comes on the radio now, or the phrase or movie or anything connected with "Lean on me" pops up in my life in some way, I now feel a sense of fear. "Why are You reminding me of this? Am I going to need particular care right now? Is something terrible about to happen that you want me centered and grounded in You, in my faith, at this moment?" And I have found myself left with the very weird realization that sometimes these words of comfort and care feel more like threats than reassurances.
I'm trying to hold on to the memories that usually the song's appearance has come as a needed reassurance during a difficult time, not as a pre-curser to a difficult time. But this is not completely true. Things did get worse for us during the week I spoke about above, and I can't forget that. The person I loved did die that week, for example.
This is one example, but there are other cases in which words of reassurance and signs of care are more a burden than a gift. The phrase, "This, too, shall pass," is a wonderful reassurance when things are going badly. But what about when things are going well? That, too, will pass. The words of comfort are also words that create fear. Nothing lasts: the good and the bad will all pass away.
We walk a life that is full of ups and downs. And much of how we hear and experience what comes our way is dependent on our mind-set, our perspective, our approach to life as a whole. We all know the dualistic idea that one is either an optimist who sees the glass half full or a pessimist of seeing the glass half empty. I don't actually see myself in either of those categories. I love the solution that sees the glass as half available for something better (alcohol for some, chocolate for me). But while I love that solution, it doesn't mean that I can always live in that place. A long-view perspective sees the complexity in the glass: it is both a glass that is half full and half empty, it has room for more, AND when something else is added into a glass already half full of water, that which is added will be necessarily watered down: in other words, it will still be a mixture of the good and bad, of what we would want, and what we are handed, a mixture of our own control and the worlds' influences, a combination of what is good and what is ordinary or even distasteful when mixed with something else. Part of maturing and growing older is being able to see it all: all the nuances, all the angles, all the wisdom of a life that is both beautiful and challenging, dreadful and wondrous, that is full of many colors, not just black and white, nor shades of grey.
I cannot be in a place of seeing life as an either/or. I can no longer hear even words of comfort as 100% positive, life-affirming support. That depth of vision is a gift, but not always a comfortable one.
In terms of our faith, I celebrate that a God of love and grace and wonder is there, always. But the other side of that coin is we are then called into action, to live out our faith with courage and love for others. That, too, is both a blessing and a challenge. There are times I would choose, if I could, to return to a more child-like view of the world and all that is in it as being either good or bad. There are times I would choose a dualism that simplifies everything. But I can't. And so I am working to embrace this reality of gifts that are challenging; comfort that encourages growth, movement and change; and an overabundance of love that calls us into an action of risking everything to love "the least of these". One day at a time.
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