We're back from vacation in Tuscany. What a trip! Tuscany is beautiful, in the rain and definitely on cloudless days (we had both!).
Perhaps my favorite stop wasn't even in Tuscany but in the Umbrian city of Assisi. Like most of the ancient and medieval cities and towns in Italy, Assisi is situated on top of a hill. We enjoyed a beautiful day. The leaves were just beginning to show signs of budding. As we walked along one of the main streets toward the church where St. Francis is buried, we passed medieval houses, narrow side "streets" wending uphill and down. And, there was the church.
Now, I am not Italian nor am I a Roman Catholic. If I were either of these, the entire trip and especially this part of it would have been an overwhelmingly inspiring pilgrimage. Even as a dyed-in-the-wool Protestant, I was overwhelmed.
Yes, I'd heard the stories of St. Francis talking to the animals, and the way he initiated the modern way of celebrating Christmas with the use of the creche (or depiction of the Nativity scene). I knew that his Order of Friars was one dedicated to the values of poverty, chastity and obedience, at a time when so much of the Church seemed to only value obedience to the power of the papacy. I knew that he was and is considered the "second after Christ" in holiness. But on this one day I was experiencing the city in which he lived, the sights he saw, and the absolute veneration shown him.
He was a holy one and a saint in any definition of the word. He was also a prophet preaching and working for peace between the warring city-states of what is now Italy. (Assisi and neighboring Perugia were constantly at war with each other.) The poverty that he espoused undercut the lavish pursuit of power of the papacy of Innocent III. Even his talking with the animals and his poetry that lifted up the beauty of the natural world spoke prophetically to a society that was known for its cruelty to animals.
All of these things came home to me, but what spoke to me the clearest was the chapel in the basement of the church where his tomb was placed. For generations the tomb was hidden there, all covered over with stone for fear that Perugians would come and destroy or otherwise desecrate it. Now the stone encasement has been removed, except for four pillars in each corner. Between the pillars are steel wire screens in order to protect the coffin from the millions of pilgrims that file by each year.
As this pilgrim filed around the tomb, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. It seemed as though there were bits of crumpled paper thrown inside the fencing. A closer look brought the realization that this was not litter, but hundreds of photographs of children, families, and adults were placed there. Prayers of the faithful to the great saint in hopes for the healing of the untold maladies of loved ones.
Now, the Protestant in me knew that we didn't need long dead saints or anyone else to intercede for us in our prayers to God. We know that God as the loving One receives us directly as we approach the Throne of Grace with humility, hope and faith. Yet, these prayers to God through the Saint touched me greatly. They bespeak the understanding that there are some things that we cannot control, or achieve or gain just because we want them. There are some things that we must leave to God. As the psalmist knew, "Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise [the Holy One], my help and my God." (Ps. 42:11)
Today, we say prayers from some others lost to us, whose pictures are displayed on side tables and hearths, or in wallets or photo albums, but who will not be coming home. None of us probably knew any of the 13 people murdered or those that were wounded, or those that huddled in the basement of the American Civic Center in Binghamton yesterday, or the one that did the killing. But the thought of them waking up with a class to attend, or appointments to keep, and homes to which to return haunts us. (At least it haunts me.)
Of course, we pray for them and their families. We pray for the people of Binghamton for whom such tragedies are unprecedented. Please say some prayers tomorrow afternoon as the religious leaders offer a service of remembrance and healing for the entire Binghamton community at the city junior high school.
Of course, we may consider counting each morning given to us as a blessing. We may pay attention to giving loved ones an extra hug, or making certain to say our prayers, or offering thanks to God for the life we have and the days that have already been laid out for us.
Of course, some will want to consider how we can protect ourselves, how we can heighten our security. Some may even want to express their fear and sense of insecurity by punishing some innocent member of the attacker's ethnic group. Hopefully, the latter will not happen. And, hopefully, we won't worry too much about how to protect ourselves. No matter how we try, protection from the hazards of living and from the vicissitudes of being human is not possible. The writer of Ecclesiastes was right, "For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven." (Eccl. 3:1)
With much the same understanding Russian composer Modest Mussorgsky penned the marvelously, rich and powerful symphonic masterpiece, "Pictures at an Exhibition." Every movement of the piece musically describes the grandeur of the Gates of Kiev, the awe and fear of the Catacombs (subtitled, "With the Dead in a Dead Language"), the busy beauty of the Market in Limoges, France, and even the serene Promenade that exudes the confidence with which one can walk from painting to painting hanging in an art gallery. The entire piece carries with it the freedom that comes from pure enjoyment of these masterworks that depict all of the realities and ideals of life in safety.
What comfort do we have, what can sustain us but our hope in God, the One that is always faithful and who provides what we need.
"Why do you say, O Jacob, and speak, O Israel,‘My way is hidden from the Lord, and my right is disregarded by my God’? Have you not known? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless. Even youths will faint and be weary, and the young will fall exhausted; but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint." (Is.40:27-31)Blessings,
Rick Cowles
