Not too much has been heard about the October 2008 Synod on the Word of God, at least as far as I can see. The Tablet reported that a certain number of propositions were to be voted upon and that a Mass in honour of Pius XII was celebrated to commemorate his encyclical Divina Afflante Spiritu. A few of my friends decried the Vatican selection of scripture scholars, noting the absence of significant academics such as Sandra Schneiders, IHM and Elisabeth Schüssler-Fiorenza. But to date, the only insightful and heartening comments I’ve read about the synod and its urgency in addressing the reading of scripture have come from a French Catholic website, www.croire.com. And these few comments strike at the heart of the matter—that the Word of God is not only living, but also that it liberates, awakens, heals and re-builds. Through the Word we are invited to enter into dialogue with God. We’re invited to listen, understand, respond. We are invited to a true friendship and to a profound and all-encompassing love. In this reflection, I’d like to explore some of these aspects of the Word of God and, in particular, its liberating power.
“You have died,” says Paul, “and your life is hidden with Christ in God” (Col. 3:1-4). Years ago, in college English we read an essay by American humourist, James Thurber called “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.” The man himself was insignificant. He worked in an office, came home from work, prepared his evening meal, read a little, retired to bed, and got up the next day to begin the cycle of work again. A little like Mr. Bean, Walter Mitty had “notions” about himself. In his daydreams, he saw himself decked out in a fine suit, walking a pedigreed dog along the street, tipping his hat to all and sundry. But unfortunately, his “secret life” never came out into the open. It remained a dream.
I suppose there is a little of Walter Mitty in each of us. We look for significance of some sort. We may look for a release from routine, from boredom, from the pressure of work. We can live secret lives of our own. Lots of people have hobbies to keep themselves occupied, maybe to prepare for retirement, or to express their creativity. I remember a family friend who took up the piano at the age of fifty because he’d always wanted to play. Ted wasn’t great, but he enjoyed playing, though I’m not sure his wife enjoyed the music as much as he did. Probably one of the greatest examples of someone with a hobby that became a secret life is the author CS Lewis, whose children’s tales such as the Lion, Witch and Wardrobe express our Christian story in such an engaging and imaginative way. Secret lives can be creative, positive and fulfilling.
Plato wrote: “Let the inner and the outer man [sic] be as one.” This line impressed me when I first read it largely because my own inner and outer lives were not one. Surely this is the reason why people go for therapy, for confession, for counselling. They feel a discontinuity within themselves. Or they may not seek professional help, but rather develop their own way to cope with the lack of integration, with their sense of unimportance, with their stresses and unfulfilled needs. In my experience, it is generally “good” people, people in ministry that create safe havens, and sometimes, secret lives. Unfortunately, the discontinuity, the fragmentation, the impotence, don’t recede. Instead, the urge for some type of addictive activity, such as internet use only increases. As I have seen in some situations, guilt, helplessness, and shame grow exponentially. Like birds caught in the fowlers’ net (Ps. 124), there seems no hope of escape.
And yet, at our lowest point, we can access Jesus’ most liberating word, the command that he issued to the dead Lazarus: “Come out!” And we can recall his order to the assembled on-lookers, “Unbind him, let him go free” (John 11:43). These living words of God, are addressed to us whose secret lives may have deadened our senses or worse, killed our true desires. Like Lazarus, we need to be called out, awakened, brought back to the source of true life so that we can turn our attention gently yet firmly back to God, who is our future and our hope.
One of the regrets expressed by both Anglican and Catholic clerics after the Rwandan genocide of 1994 was that they sacramentalised, but did not evangelise. Though I’m not sure if the criticism applies universally, I do remember visiting a Rwandan mission church in 1997, seeing the register of names for first communion filled in neatly and precisely. I was amazed by it and the seemingly endless number of names. Such was the measure of evangelisation.
Over the years, I have thought of describing evangelisation as allowing, or inviting the light of Christ to penetrate the dark corners of ourselves, of our society, of our cultures. At an individual or societal level, this exercise would put us in touch with our shadow side, as Jungians would say. At a level of society, the dialogue between the gospel and culture is called inculturation. With time, effort and the grace of God, the seed of the gospel penetrates a culture. The Word takes flesh in a culture. And it is this Word, this gospel in dialogue with a culture, its values, traditions and practices that becomes the measure of successful evangelisation.
How has God’s word influenced and shaped our response to suffering, to injustice, to apparent success or failure? What has the presence of the gospel changed within our cultural practices? What has it challenged? What has the Word of God affirmed in our culture and our traditions? By engaging earnestly with the Word, we can discover something of its interactive quality, of its power to bring light to dark corners of our own lives and cultures. This is the gift of Easter hope, a hope that is based on a Living Word and offered to us by a Living Christ. It is Christ who now invites us to find our true life, our most precious inner life in communion with God whose Word liberates, awakens, heals and re-builds us.
Jean Evans rsm
South African Province
