Revelation in the brokenness...

I went on retreat in May to one of my most favorite places on the planet. It is a tiny retreat center located in the back fields of Georgia—hidden from city hubbub and cell phone signals. One of the reason I like this place is because of the discoveries I have made there. That is the place where I met my love for monasticism, regular prayer, and silence. It's not just the conceptual discoveries that I have enjoyed. Every time I go back I make physical discoveries as well: bees, fields, small books of prayer, origami peace cranes… This time around I was spending time in the chapel when I came upon a small framed statement— Frango ut patefaciam—I break in order to reveal. I loved this quip. I wrote it in my journal, and took that thought home with me to paint. This, to me, was such a great statement about the eucharist.

I think when one of my colleagues asked me about my views of God this past Tuesday (which was the mid-unit evaluation in which I described God as both "love" and "m-f'er") I forgot to talk about the Christ I meet at the table. My call was formed out of a drive to give little hunks of bread to kids at a summer camp, and from there eucharist has taken so many meanings for me. The biggest of which is where I find healing in its truest form—the broken Christ + my brokenness + everybody else's brokenness = some kind of hope for a resurrected wholeness. To add patefaciam into the mix brings on a whole new part of this equation. It isn't just hope for a resurrected wholeness, it's revelation of a wholeness. It's this broken, resurrected Christ living within all of us, and therefore able to be revealed in all of us (whether we are communion takers or not).

This statement went in a different direction for me this week. In the course of an hour on the Tuesday of mid-unit evaluations the group found some of my breakable surfaces, and together we broke. I never felt violated—I let the breaking happen—but I sure did feel vulnerable. Actually it felt a little bit like everyone had x-ray vision, and nobody would let-up with the staring. But I found out that the breaking was not a breaking of the whole me, rather it was a breaking of some layers that I had used to keep myself guarded. It was frightening to be that out there with no cover. Frightening, but it was a safe place for brokenness.

Frango ut patefaciam: I break in order to reveal. I'm being revealed because parts of me are being broken. This was something that I did not think myself nor others were ready for, but through the rest of the week, I have found inner moments of empowerment and strength. This week I called myself a chaplain for the first time—not intern, just chaplain—and really felt okay with it. I also had an incredible job interview, and not because I went in there knowing the interviewers. It was incredible because I got to mention some of the things that I'm learning in CPE, and I realized I'm learning a lot—not just in pastoral care, but a lot about myself.

This has been a hard week. Hard to be broken. Hard to be with the broken. It's tiring to be in the act of breaking, and then to look around at the pieces. But I'm noticing small differences—the way I listen with friends, the way friends listen with me, a small growth of faith among us. I think I'm finding hope a more optimistic word.

द्रौपदी

The past two weeks have been FULL.
There have been a couple of times when I thought that maybe I can't do this chaplain thing after all. But there have been such life-giving moments intertwined with those.

So I sit here today deciding not to give you a whole reflection paper. Just a story.

There was a woman named Draupadi who was the daughter of king Draupada. She was known for suffering well and being of good virtue. It is said that she was born of fire because of her determination and thunder because of her strength. In jealousy of her virtues, many people despised her. At one point she was brought in before the Kurava court, where they decided to humiliate her by slowly tearing off her sari. She called out to the emperor, to priests, to the prime minister, and to her five husbands. None came to her aid. So she cried out to Krsna. Many people say that she clung to her sari, crying out in fear, “Krsna, help me!” Nothing happened. Then extending her hand, she cried out in need, “Come to my aid, Lord!” Still, nothing happened. Finally Draupadi let go of the now loosely hanging sari to which she was clinging, threw up both of her arms, and cried out unconditionally, “help!” Because she let go—of her fear, of her needs, of control in general—Krsna came quickly to her rescue. As the sari was dropped, Krsna wrapped an unending sari around her. The master of the court tore and tore and tore at Draupadi’s sari, but her body was never uncovered, and she was never humiliated.


Draupadi has been with me this week as I have listened to patients, staff, and interns including myself cry out. We’ve all had different reasons, but they have all felt much like a sari being ripped from our bodies. But as I have gone through these weeks--weeks of ripping, tearing, pulling, forcing--I find many of us becoming Krsna for each other, and safety taking on a whole new meaning.