Master of Shadow, Healer of Souls
In John 12:20-36, Jesus says, “Unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains but a single grain. But if it dies, it bears much fruit.” We have learned to come to church and look to God for comfort, and to feel good. But God asks us to be transformed. What habits, ways of seeing and thinking and being have we been called to let die so that we can be transformed to bear fruit?
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Transcript
There is a certain focus to Holy Week, of course, that calls to our souls.
There is a certain desire in our souls that yearns for a space to brush up against a truth that is robust enough to connect with our deepest struggles, an honest space deeper than the shallowness that so often demands our attention.
The rhythm of the year, marked by the moon herself, invites us into an intentional time of prayer and gives us permission to open, if only briefly, to an encounter that might just shift the way we live in the world.
One could only hope.
I say ‘might just shift,’ of course, because the gravity of our patterns of life–the mostly unconscious patterns and habits that carry us through the moments of our days–this gravity is strong. We get caught in routines. We begin to think that the pace and structure of our life is somehow beyond our control, that we cannot resist the busyness. Mindlessness is a strong force to reckon with.
Even as we name once more that the ultimate goal or hope of what we do is to nurture a transformation of consciousness so that we live more faithful lives, we must also name that unconsciousness is a distinct force that resists change.
This is who we are. That is who they are. We’ve always done it that way. I don’t have time. We recognize the patterns.
And yet as we take our first steps into this Holy Week, today’s Gospel hits us between the eyes:
Unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains but a single grain. But if it dies, it bears much fruit.
If it dies. If we’re willing for it to die. If we’re willing for the tired, old patterns to die. If we dare to open our hearts to spiritual imagination.
The deep teachings of Holy Week cut to the root. They get to the source of these entrenched patterns that constrict our souls. Patterns of imperial agendas, of grasping for power. Patterns of denial. Patterns of violence. Patterns of ignoring dreams. Patterns of hubris.
These teachings show us our own struggles, and through the arc of the week, they show us that hope is possible, absolutely. Hope is real and is promised by the Spirit. That being said, we are not going to experience such deep and lasting hope and healing unless we go through the process of death and rebirth.
As we have been reminded, our lives are our practice. Our faith is practiced within the embodiment of our lives, and we are called to use spiritual muscles that may have been long-neglected.
But practice we will, because we have had enough of spiritual bypassing that takes the shape of so many church programs these days. Now is the time for deep and authentic soul work.
Unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains but a single grain. But if it dies, it bears much fruit.
Somewhere along the way, we began to think that “church” was just a space that could make us “feel better.” Worse than that, some may think that “church” is oriented around entertainment, or being part of a club that provides services, or merely giving a hollow blessing to the vain pursuit of the culture.
But the Spirit calls us to something more profound. What we do actually focuses on deep soul work, nurturing that transformation of consciousness, so that we can experience true healing. We are not going to “feel better” until we do this deep work, and we are not going to do this deep work until we are willing to face our shadow, those unacknowledged patterns in our lives that pull us like gravity back into the mindlessness, back into the reactive grasping.
Yes, Holy Week lays bare our own tendency to yield to the pursuit of a shallow semblance of power and greed, and we cannot afford to be distracted in these anxious days. We cannot waste time spiraling or spinning, and we cannot give in to despair. We look again to the cross, and we see God’s willingness to enter into our struggle, into death itself.
As much as some leaders may try to co-opt the message of Jesus to twist into the brittle frame of their own egoic agendas and desire for power, the message of the cross will continue to stand as a witness of the true power of Jesus Christ–and the cross casts a long shadow on all human vainglory. The corruption of kings and rulers, tyrants and the caesars of the day are all laid bare by the self-emptying of Jesus Christ.
The true power of Christ is this: that only through emptying ourselves, only through releasing our grasp on power, only through a posture of radical de-centering, of recognizing our incessant need to fixate on ourselves and resisting the pride and hubris that marks so much of our lives, only in this honest space can our souls truly be healed.
Unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains but a single grain. But if it dies, it bears much fruit.
It is nothing new that political leaders want to manage and manipulate the message or image of Christ. That is a pattern that has existed since the earliest days of Christian practice when emperors sought ways to sway the crowds and maintain their own hold on the throne. We are quick to put an image on a banner or adopt a catchy slogan or clever message. Those are shallow actions rooted in our own ego, and they will eventually crumble. They are houses built on sand.
Warped and self-centered power always claims to have a spiritual mandate. Those who want to grasp onto power will find their choice bible verses to put out there to try to shape their message, but the lie will out in the end, as we turn our eyes once again to the figure of Jesus, entering to hosannas only to be placed in a tomb.
In Matthew’s Gospel account, Jesus is confronted by those who have a very myopic view of power. He asks them to show him some money, to give him a coin. “Whose image is this and whose name is on this money?” he asks them. “Caesar,” they say. And Jesus gives him the coin back and tells them, “give to Caesar that which is Caesar’s and give to God that which is God’s.” Get a perspective.
In other words, never confuse humanity’s agenda to grasp onto power with God’s dream for the fullness of creation.
While we may be slow to actually do the authentic spiritual work that the Gospel calls us to do, the invitation is always there, such as we experience again this week. And, to be sure, these are stories and lessons that make us uncomfortable. Like I said, Holy Week cuts to the root.
Looking at where we are on this Palm Sunday, there is a pattern to skip over the difficult parts at this point and come back on Easter Sunday dressed in our finest having missed the opportunity for healing entirely. We avoid the vulnerability of Maundy Thursday, the solemnity and sadness of Good Friday, and the strangeness of the Great Vigil of Easter.
But here we face a vital element of our practice: these difficult parts, or uncomfortable moments, are actually stirring up in us the work that we need to do. These holy stories and liturgies are mirrors that let us face painful truths about ourselves. This is the point of all that we do in a liturgy. If we come just to enjoy the music or the pomp and circumstance, frankly we’re missing the point entirely.
This is a week of deep soul work that will stretch our spiritual muscles. It is a workout for the soul.
This is a week to enter into the shadows of our lives and pay close attention to how the Spirit of Christ is always inviting us into a deep experience of healing. Christ enters into the fullness of our lives, even unto death, so that we ourselves can step forward on our path of transformation with open eyes and hearts.
Here is a poem that has been working on me as I look toward the deep teachings of this week.
Master of Shadows, Healer of Souls
The first brush of ash
against your foot, the wound still wet,
sent a tremor through the shades,
as dull eyes brightened and turned to you,
in hushed anticipation.
You dare to look death
firm in the eye, and yet more,
taste it on your tongue,
take it into yourself,
a seed planted in your own heart,
to bear fruit in our lives,
a germination of hope.
That which we fear most
you embrace, holding mercifully
and healing it with your presence,
transmuting it into a doorway
through which we can walk
with open eyes.
You tease out the longing
that darkness fears to know,
and in this sacredness,
this alchemy of soul,
fear melts and puts down the rock,
gathering into a pool which quenches
the thirst of eternity.
You may well be
the Light of the world,
but it is your hidden name,
O Green One, Master of Shadows,
that holds the true secret
to our healing.