The Silence Spoke Volumes

The Silence Spoke Volumes

(“(He) gave thanks to God for it. Then he broke it in pieces and said, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’” 1 Corinthians 11:24)

The moment was intimate, the silence spoke volumes,
yet we felt like strangers, caught beneath the weight of his words.
There was a line that went out from him through all of us,
there were tears unbidden for we knew not why they came.
There were days we were so obtuse we missed the meaning
by miles.
But tonight we felt so helpless, like we should have grasped the meaning,
we should have joined in the metaphor,
we should have pieced the parable together.

We did take the bread, that was the custom. It was his words that
caused our confusion. We remembered the words that
admonished us before for missing the point. What should
we say now?
We were better off silent.

It was subliminal, it was suggested and silent but
when the bread was broken, we could not understand
how the body was his bread, how the bread was his body,
and now, the silent part, we were also broken and given.

Our throats were frozen, our words garbled, our vocabulary
suddenly so limited we could choose no coherent response.
We sat in the moment and could not dream a future without
him breaking bread with us again. Was that what he was hinting?
We could not conjure a memory that would invade our quiet
misunderstandings.

You asked us to remember, a simple act we thought we could do.
We had not planned on you leaving so soon.
But, if you are given for us, break us open like bread to
spread us across the meadows and plains to help others
remember you, here and there, again.

Come Away

Come Away

“And He said to them, ‘Come away by yourselves to a secluded place and rest a little while.’ (For there were many people coming and going, and they did not even have time to eat.)’” Mark 6:31

We were invited to silence after our noisy
debriefing and some latent laughter. We thought
it was time to dive in again, dive in again
following the success that we met on the road.
Wasn’t that man healed when we spoke?
Didn’t that woman rejoice when her baby boy walked again?
Didn’t dozens rejoice when we told them the Christ had come,
the Kingdom was come, the dream of God was come?
Didn’t they rejoice even when we did not grasp our words’
full intent?
I mean
we walked away and they followed us Jesus. The crowd
needed us Jesus. They wanted to hear your words Jesus,
not just the repeaters we broadcast.
We spoke the same language;
they understood our words, but ours were light balloons
and yours are weighty as the world.
Hey! Let’s heal some more people, look at everyone following us!

“Come away”.
Like a child who is over-tired and cannot be lulled asleep
I think we heard those words and wondered why we would
leave the crowds behind. We felt good. People were seeking us
out;
It was like we were finally in proper demand!

“Come away by yourselves.”
I guess he means it. But what is the point? We can
just pick up some bread on the way and keep giving the
crowds what they want. We’re not tired Jesus, we are
eager and energized.

“Come away…to a secluded place.”
See, that is what I’m trying to say. There will be
no people to heal
in the wilderness. We are full of energy. Yes,
we haven’t slept or eaten much, but there is
so much to do. We’re not quitters Rabbi.

“Come away…and rest a little while.”
Now that you mention it, I am a little light-headed.
My eyes are burning, my feet are calloused,
my mouth is dry as the desert. But now is not
the time to retreat Jesus. Let’s keep advancing!

“Come away.”
And we began to understand, our enthusiasm was
the excess stimulation of our nervous systems behaving
like steam locomotives going full gear.

He was telling us to learn when to rest, when to
let the stimulation go like smoke from a campfire.
He was telling us the rhythm, he was writing a song
with the silence and rests contributing as much as the
counterpoint and fugues we liked to dance to.

We drew our breath and followed his way,
even if some of the crowd insisted on staying.
Stillness is a gift, and we should not refrain from opening it.