Lectionary reading: Joel 2:1-2, 12-17
One
of the reasons that I enjoy watching Call the Midwife is that it is one
of those rare programmes that takes seriously sin and the need for confession, absolution
— the reassurance of God’s forgiveness — and the grace of the indwelling Holy
Spirit empowering us to make amends and enter deeper into life.
In
a recent episode, we met two sisters. The younger sister is blind, and
expecting her first baby. She fears that, unless she and her husband can prove
that they can look after the baby without any additional support, Social Services
will take her child away from them. And she is consumed by a fierce pride that cuts
her off from the help she needs. The more she resists, the more she leans into
the false promise, the more likely she makes it that Social services will,
indeed, take her child.
Meanwhile,
her older sister must learn that, with appropriate support, her sister is more
than capable of looking after a baby. Moreover, she must face her own sin. Despite
longing for a child of her own, she has been using the pill to prevent herself
from falling pregnant, for fear that the child might also be blind — this
blindness is hereditary — and that, having raised her blind sister she might
have to go through it all again. To be clear, the use of contraception is not,
in itself, a sin; but capitulation to fear is — as, indeed, is capitulation to
envy.
As
the story unfolds, both sisters acknowledge their sin, are reconciled, and step
into an unknown future without fear. There is deep wisdom at work here, the
mystery of life.
Today
is the start of Lent, the forty-day observance that sees us step into the forty
days and nights Jesus spent in the wilderness. He, in turn, follows in the
footsteps of Moses, who spent forty days and nights on Mount Sinai. Moses
ascended Sinai several times to meet with God, whose presence descended on the
mountain in thick darkness. A darkness that had nothing to do with nightfall,
and everything to do with grace: a simultaneous revelation and concealment of
God, who longs to be known by those who cannot see his face and live.
The
time Moses spent forty days and nights on the mountain, in constant darkness,
was when God was instructing him about how to build and furnish the tabernacle,
the place of God’s presence not at a distance but in the very midst of the
people, of their lives, from the cradle to the grave. These things are learnt
in the dark.
The
book of the prophet Joel we read from today concerns the descent upon the land
of a plague of locusts so beyond number that it blacks out the sun. Gloom and a
thick, perpetually moving, wing-filled, darkness. The worst thing imaginable
for an agrarian society. And yet, even here, says Joel, we might meet God,
simultaneously hidden and made known in such an event. Even here, we might
experience Yahweh as the merciful and compassionate one, faithful in loving kindness;
eventually visiting consequence on sin, but relenting from annihilation. Who
knows but that such a God might even himself provide the means for sacrifice — the
gift of thankfulness — when the land is unable to offer anything up?
And
what of us? What darkness haunts your horizon? For many people I know
these days, it is the relentless march of dementia, eventually devouring all in
its path. And yet, even here, it is possible to encounter God, the god who is
merciful and compassionate, forgiving and sustaining. For others, it is something
else; but for each one of us it is there, if, as yet, half-seen from the corner
of our eye, vanishing when we turn to confront it. And the temptation is always
to hide — whether in pride or envy; whether in youth or experience or status or
celebration; or even in the ritual of the Church. Yet the invitation is to acknowledge
our frailty and fall into the outstretched arms of love.
In
one scene, the midwife is teaching the blind expectant mother how to wash her
baby, using a doll. As she enters the bathroom, the young mum reaches out her
arm in search of a chair; but the midwife has moved it, in order to make
it easier for the woman to get to the bath while carrying her baby. In fact, it
has the opposite effect: the chair is not an obstacle but a familiar landmark
making navigation possible, and must be returned to its place immediately.
Well-meaning help is not enough: listening, understanding, wisdom is required.
There
is no shortage of advice as to how to live your life, and much of it, no doubt,
is well-intended. But the Season of Lent is founded on the deep, lived wisdom
of generations. Lent is like familiar chairs in the dark, that help us to find
our way around, and so, to live our lives as fully as possible, supported by
others. Lent is the practice of pressing into the dark, unafraid, for here we
might even encounter God. We might prefer the seasons that remind us that God cloaks
himself in light; but he also cloaks himself in darkness, for our good.
But
to do this will take all of us, and will involve tears. Tears that water the
dust, bringing forth life out of death. May we keep a holy Lent, and may the
Holy Spirit dwell in us, in our midst, to the glory of God and for our good and
the good of our neighbours.
