Pop 89: That Old Wild Card Grace
by Madonna Hamel
When I've given up on someone or something, most often myself, I just go through the motions of a believer. And even then, I often haven't a clue in what it is I believe. In those frequent moments, I feel tapped out, drained of awe. Then, Wooosh! Grace swoops in like a magnificent raptor, and a supernatural breeze wafts over me, and something taps me on the shoulder. My heart skips a beat. And in an instant, my mood, perspective and prospects change.
And yes, Grace is often bestowed and easily spotted in The Church of Nature. The poet Mary Oliver refers to the God of Dirt. A God of animals who follow no doctrines. But Grace also comes in the actions and solid presence of grounded people who show up when you haven't even asked for help but desperately require some. I have a nun friend who calls these folks: God with Skin. She also reminds me that I can't see this God standing right in front of me because I've slipped back into that old punitive religion that says: God resides in the sky, on a throne, keeping tabs of my vices and stacking them up against my limited virtues so he can smote me, any minute now.
She also says, "When we forget that divinity is as close to us as water is to a fish, we lose sight of its presence in us all." Then she adds: "Even you. Even me!" And she sticks her be-spectacled face two inches in front of my face and laughs. To which I reply, pushing her mug away from me: "Ok. Got it. Thanks. You'll have to remind me again in ten minutes, though."
I don't do well with that word: God. And I never really had a fair shake at Jesus because, being raised Catholic, I was not given direct access to his words. We didn't study the bible; we studied catechism. But the dove-shaped Holy Spirit: that was something I could wrap my head around? Paradoxically the least easy to define, the Spirit slips the surly bonds of limited and subjective human projection into far-reaching metaphor, the language of the transcendent, as 'effable' as the Ineffable is ever gonna get.
The Spirit, also fantastically referred to as the Holy Ghost, is a carrier of Grace. A white bird capable of spreading peace and calm and relief and release and fondness and tenderness, like a positive epidemic wiping out the disease of mean-spirited, tight-fisted, persistent, low-grade temerity.
Being the good little Catholic girl that I was, I memorized the dry and uninspiring language of "catechismic" doctrine like I was memorizing an operating manual for an industrial air conditioner. It had none of the rich and textured and juicy poetry of much of the bible, where Christ's best lessons were parlayed outdoors: on seashores, in orchards, gardens and vineyards. In rural farm settings. On the mountaintop. It's only now I realize he was man who never wavered from his calling, which was: take another approach to solving problems other than annihilating each other.
I learned more about Jesus through Martin Luther King than anyone. He died on my 10th birthday. Every year on the 4th of April, I acknowledge his unwavering call to embrace the Creative Power of Love. To this day, many of us believe his death was an 'inside job' by a destructive power in America who could not bring themselves to believe King really cared that much. They believe King's dedication to economic and racial justice-for-all, came from a communist agenda. Why else did he come out against the war against communists in Vietnam, they insisted? Why else would a Christian preacher insist on spending money on helping the poor rather than waging war?
He said: I would be a hypocrite to tell young black men to protest nonviolently, yet watch as those same young men get shipped off to die in warfare. "I can't segregate my morals," he stated flatly. Why else would a Christian preacher insist on loving his enemies (even as he was "not required to like them.)?" How does a nation claiming to be Christian come to suspect a Christian reverend for doing his job? A nation dis-graced by greed and rendered paranoid. Thankfully, even haters and hoarders, like St. Paul - can fall from horses when crossing the path of an unpredictable Grace.
And whiners can be knocked over by the good graces of others. But remember, as Anne Lamott writes: Grace bats last. So don't give up. My friend, the nun, tells me to act myself into a new way of thinking. And how do I do that? By showing up, she says. By fulfilling my duty to others, even if it's just baking some squares for the library sale or for a neighbour. By acknowledging my kinship with others, by focusing on our similarities instead of our differences, by being part of the solution, not the problem, by feeding the dream, not the nightmare, by answering truth with love, by using my skills and talents for the good of all, by listening, sitting with the pain of others, and by staying in the crazy game of life, leaving room for that old wild card: Grace.