Beyond all telling - Chris Gleeson SJ

It is the heart of the Advent season as I write this, seemingly so far away from the March-April edition. We have yet to enjoy Christmas and New Year, so there is always something of a time warp confronting us in these editorials.

I have just finished accompanying my last retreatant for the year—a young Jesuit priest exotically named Sacha Bermudez-Goldman, Director of our Jesuit Refugee Service in Sydney. It has been a delight listening to his story threading its way through the care for so many people looking for a new home in Australia. Their story is our story, and the story of Jesus, of course. Sacha and his team are certainly the face of Jesus the Consoler and Comforter in the fourth week of the Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius. Through their ministry they bring the hope of new life to so many people: ‘I was a stranger and you made me welcome’.

Often during these special times of retreat I am struck afresh by words that I have read, prayed or spoken on countless occasions previously. During one of the celebrations of the Eucharist with Sacha, I remember being touched by the words of the second Advent Preface: ‘The virgin mother bore him in her womb with love beyond all telling’. Beyond all telling.

It was one of those tender moments, a moment of grace, if you like, in which Ronald Rolheiser omi in his Forgotten Among the Liliesinvites us to pray by ‘letting its grace soften us’. Tender moments are ‘moments which somehow soften the heart, moments which put us in touch with our vulnerability, our tenderness, our sense of compassion and hospitality, and our connectedness with each other and our common struggle’.

For those of us committed to rewinding our day through the Ignatian Examen, those tender moments are the clearest sign of God’s speaking to us, his coming to us disguised as our lives. No wonder St Ignatius pointed to the softness of the good spirit’s workings in us ‘like a drop of water which enters into a sponge’! Ronald Rolheiser is absolutely right when he says that ‘to have a tender moment is to pray’.

When we come to expressing the love of our life, words often fail us. It is a love beyond all telling. I remember reading some beautiful descriptions of love coming out of the mouths of young children. Robby, aged 7, said: ‘Love is what’s in the room with you at Christmas when you stop opening your presents and listen’. What wisdom there! Rebecca, aged 8, added: ‘When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn’t bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That’s love’.

Twentieth century mystic, Thomas Merton, reminded us that ‘because we love, God is present’. Those of us who enjoy musical theatre will always be enchanted by those haunting words sung by the hero Jean Valjean towards the end of Les Misérables: ‘To love another person is to see the face of God’. Love is a fire no waters can quench, and passion is God’s fire in us.

Words can sometimes fail us, and there many times when they can simply get in the way. English priest Daniel O’Leary recalls beautifully in his book, Already Within:

‘A few years ago I was called, during the night, to the children’s ward at Leeds General Infirmary. A baby had just died. When I walked into the ward the young parents stared at me, and angrily asked, “Where is this loving God of yours now?”

‘I remember mumbling something about the fact that God was probably crying like they were. But what has stayed with me so clearly is that, ignoring me then, the father took his wife in his arms and said, “You know I love you”. I have always felt it such a privilege to be present at that sudden, shy, and emotionally charged moment, when a husband, at the point of tragedy, tenderly whispered those words of life. It is unforgettable because it is so real, so true and therefore so sacred.’

From my own experience, God’s love is often abundantly present in hospitals for those with open eyes and unplugged ears. Around Easter last year I was asked to celebrate the sacrament of healing at the Wesley Hospital in Auchenflower. Accordingly, I rang the wife of the man I was to anoint and arranged to meet her at the hospital at 3.30. The warmth and affection of her voice on the phone suggested that she was someone special.

When I walked into the hospital room and spoke to Bill, he replied instantly: ‘Father, I feel much loved. You see that girl at the end of the bed—well, we have known one another for 64 years and we have been married for 62 years!’ Feeling much loved is surely one of the clearest signs of God’s presence in our lives.

Love and silence seem to be perfectly compatible companions. It is love beyond telling. I remember that wise Catholic educator and committed Madonna reader from Rockhampton, Joe McCorley, saying to me during one of our rural expeditions in his diocese: ‘If you want to see love, go to an airport’. Speaking about conversations with God, Basil Hume, former Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster, once said, ‘Perhaps one of the high points of prayer is where two silences meet: God’s silence and our silence. No need for thoughts and words get in the way’.

During this wonderful season of Easter, there will be times when we experience love beyond all telling. It might be during the moments of mystery and reverence in the Holy Week ceremonies. It could be watching candles being lit and listening to the honour rolls read on ANZAC Day. Whatever the occasion, let this tender moment soften you, and make you more mellow and grateful for the presence of the Risen Jesus accompanying you on the way.