Reflection for the Vigil of the Fifth Sunday of Lent 2009
1 John 3:11-24; John 12:20-33
28 March 2009

by Cecilia Olson, OSB

Walking into St. Peter’s Basilica last January, I immediately went over to Michelangelo’s magnificent and powerful sculpture, “The Pieta”. Mary’s expression seems to be one of resignation, yet she must have been filled with pain and questions. I thought about my two beautiful nieces, Susi and Pam, who each lost a son suddenly and tragically and how they are now joined with Mary in a unique bond as they share with her the anguish and agony of giving their son back to God. I prayed for them and for all mothers who know that sorrow beyond words. These women entered a darkness that must have felt as endless as the universe, and yet, in the deepest part of their hearts, they did not cease to believe that God was with them.

“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life, lose it.”

Each one of us has surrendered to the darkness. Sometimes it has been the intense darkness of the death of a love one. Our sisters from Red Plains experienced the darkness of surrender to their future as they took a leap of faith and became a part of our community. More often, however, are those seemingly less significant times of letting go - the diminishment of our health, the leaving a ministry we loved, the change in a relationship, struggling with a community decision. In the paradox of our faith – death leads to life – we strive to hand ourselves over to the mysterious movements of grace and a trust that there is more to all this than we can see or understand in the here and now. But living in this stance of surrender does not come easily.

Imagine with me for a moment that the day for planting the wheat has arrived and the eager farmer walks into the barn. Approaching the seeds of grain, he stares with disbelief for the seeds are all shivering and huddling in a corner. One of the braver seeds speaks up: “You can’t really think we’re going into that dark, damp soil? Find something else to bury. We’re staying right here.”

In nature there is a fascinating phenomenon called the “diapause.” It is defined as “ a suspension of development”. It is seen in some caterpillars who, when that moment arrives for them to spin the chrysalis, they actually cling to their larval life and put off entering the cocoon until the following spring. This is called the “diapause.”

We have something in common with those frightened seeds and those reluctant caterpillars when God asks us to embrace the unknown or to let go and we refuse with a “No thanks, I’m staying right here; I’m not quite ready for that yet.” We cling and clutch to the way things are and in so doing we postpone our own transformation.

Thomas Merton wrote:
“This is where so many holy people break down. As soon as they reach the point where they can no longer see the way and guide themselves by their own light, they refuse to go any further, but it is in this darkness that we find true liberty. It is in this abandonment that we are made strong. This is the night that empties us.”

Jesus was not just speaking about nature when He talked about those grains of wheat; he was speaking of Himself and of you and me. Jesus wasn’t eager to meet His death and yet He willingly surrendered to the darkness. “And what should I say – “Father, save me from this hour? No, it is for this reason that I have come to this hour. Father, glorify your name.” And Mary, His mother – she surrendered herself countless times. Over and over she must have uttered those words: “Be it done to me according to Your word.” Why should it be different for us? Easter cannot happen in us if we refuse to enter the darkness. We either open ourselves in trust or we live in a perpetual spiritual diapause. If we are serious about plunging into the Paschal Mystery, then surrendering to those little deaths day after day is a given. In our monastic life, it’s not very dramatic; more often than not it is found in those ordinary little deaths to our ego and self-will. We let go when we reach out, not knowing if there will be a response; forgiving when we don’t know whether we’ll be received with acceptance or rejection; being the first to say the kind word; forgetting ourselves and our agenda to listen to the other; patiently accepting a decision that we find difficult; never losing hope when our head keeps telling us to give up. It’s living daily what we pray in Psalm 18: It is you who light my lamp; the Lord, my God, lights up my darkness.”

On our day of profession, we opened our arms wide and sang: “Receive me, O Lord, as you have promised that I may live; disappoint me not in my hope.” With those words we let go of everything but God. We had no idea what was ahead and that really didn’t matter for we were confident that God’s love and that love made visible through this community would be more than sufficient to be faithful to the journey. Only genuine love makes such surrender possible as we are reminded in tonight’s first reading from St. John: “We know that we have passed from death to life because we love one another.” Therein lies the secret to walking into the darkness – loving the other and forgetting oneself. “Those who love their lives will lose it.”

How sad if we allow fear to postpone our spiritual transformation, if we close our hearts to that holy abandonment of Jesus and Mary and the many others we have known and loved. May we cling not to controlling life, but to Jesus’ promise that if the grain of wheat dies, it will bear much fruit. May we be willing to embrace the night that empties us, confident that it is in this very darkness that we find true liberty.

In her book Thirst, the poet Mary Oliver describes so well and so simply this stance of surrender to life:
"Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift."

© 2009 Benedictine Sisters of Mount St. Scholastica
Atchison, Kansas