The Absence of Divine Presence
One of my favorite stories never grows old. I tell it to myself over and over again: Tommy, the three year old, seemed
agitated. He insisted on being alone with the infant brother who had now come into the family. He was so intent on it that the parents began to question his behavior. Was it love or was it jealousy? Would he hurt the baby if he were left alone with him? So they set up a baby monitor by the crib and left the room to watch for signs of distress.
Sure enough, as soon as he was alone with the baby, Tommy went straight to the crib, shook the baby awake and said, “Eddie, I’m your big brother Tommy. I want you to tell me what God looks like. You know because you just came from there but I’m three now and I’m beginning to forget….”
The awareness of Divine Presence is almost a thing of the past.
Nevertheless, we have a language for it that is clear, concise and seldom used as more than a series of clichés rather than with real intent. For instance, we say “God bless you,” when we sneeze. At Christmas time we sing, “Emmanuel, God with us,” at least in church. Sometimes we even say “God love you” instead of “Thank you.” Every once in a while, in our concern for others, it slips out: “God help them,” we say under our breath.
In extremus we plead, “God, be with me”—often more out of pain than as a sign of deep down conscious awareness that all other salvation has already been abolished in our lives.
Hardly ever now, but still a bit, we hear someone—usually someone older than we—venture into this entirely other way of looking at life. Even now. Even in the midst of rampant secularism. Even here, in this country where cursing is common but blessings are rare.
Too often, in fact, we say “God bless you” ourselves and feel a little embarrassed for having allowed it to slip out. I do it, I know, when I thank the young man who carries the large boxes downstairs for me. Or, I hear myself say it as the last word I toss back at the cab driver. Or as my final personal word to the one who’s leaving the office after a deep and private conversation. Or I do it to the child whose blond curls I’ve just tousled.
And, of course, the prioress of the monastery says it over the community after every prayer period of the day.
But most of us have learned not to say those words much anymore. I don’t remember how that happened. As far as I know, no one made it a proscription but, little by little, it has become improper to commend anyone to God outside of formal prayer.
Yet, this string of leftover phrases from another age remains as a kind of silent proof that the consciousness of God is still wired into our hearts, embedded in our souls, struggling for attention in our very rational brains.
And that, I think, is a hopeful sign. Maybe the Divine Presence can arise again to make a highly technological society conscious of the fact that in the end it will not be technology that saves us.
Maybe those very words will remind me of the holiness of spirit in the person whose presence is annoying me right now.
Maybe calling it regularly to mind will release again the spiritual sensitivities that a largely material world has managed to drown out.
Perhaps we will, with Tommy, remember again Who really brought us here and depends on us to go on leavening the world around us with Spirit.
And so, until then…God bless you.
—from Grace-filled Moments with Sister Joan by Joan Chittister (Twenty-Third Publications)
