Our world is pregnant with possibility, despite being suffused with suffering.
One of the hardest things for me to do is to wait. And waiting in the midst of hardship can be so painfully cruel. All the time, it seems that we find ourselves waiting. Waiting for an answer. Waiting for a better opportunity to emerge on the horizon. Waiting for new life. Waiting for new love. Waiting for a cure.
One of the worst – and easiest – things to do when we are waiting is to grow weary and impatient. We can grow so weary and impatient that we begin to take matters into our own hands when some things are just simply out of our control. As someone who loves to take control and make everything right, resigning to the fact that I cannot make everything good and better and perfect is very frustrating. And so, I sit and wait in frustration.
And frustration begins to put in a wedge in all of my relationships, including my relationship with God. It is so easy in the midst of our impatience to forget the promise of God’s providence. God cares for us and loves us in such an incredibly intimate way. We hear this all the time, but do we lavishly bask in the reassurance that God is with us?
Advent is a season of return as much as it is a season of waiting. The journey to Bethlehem is a metaphor for our return to God, our acknowledgement that we need God and the gift of salvation that God freely gives us and that we cannot be in control of everything. Advent also invites us to contemplate God as a screaming, crying, vulnerable infant – desperately in need of the love, care, and support of human beings, God’s own flesh and blood. God is not above and beyond us – but with us every single step of the way.
God waits with us. When we return to God, we find freedom in the waiting. The waiting period becomes a gestating period. And, together, we can give birth to new possibilities that we would have never before imagined.
Our world is pregnant with possibility, despite being suffused with suffering.
Because God is with us, the beginning is near!
When I first arrived at Loyola University Chicago in August 2007, I had not anticipated that I was about to become a member of an academic community that was so profoundly committed to environmental justice. Just a few months after I began my undergraduate course of study, the Richard J. Klarchek Information Commons opened its doors to the university community as the first digital library on the Lake Shore Campus. Towering just a few feet from Lake Michigan, it offers an unobstructed view of one of the most expansive and beautiful lakes in the country. And even though it’s the ideal place to catch a breathtaking sunrise after pulling an all-nighter during finals week, the Information Commons offers something more. Every inch of the building was constructed with the environment in mind, leading to its silver-level certification from the Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design (LEED) Green Building Rating System, the nationally accepted benchmark for the design, construction, and operation of high-performance green buildings.
Since the opening of the Information Commons in 2008, many inefficient, aging, dysfunctional buildings have been razed and a series of beautiful, state-of-the-art buildings have been designed and constructed in their place. Cuneo Hall is one such example, among many others. Because it was designed to match its tried and true neighbors, Cudahy Science Hall and Dumbach Hall, the building looks as if it has always been there. But constructing LEED certified buildings is only one part of a pressing solution that demands global participation. While Loyola has remained committed to building green for over a decade, its commitment to the environment goes far deeper than what its campus indicates.
Last Friday, Loyola opened the doors of the Institute for Environmental Sustainability. Once again, the university’s commitment to environmental stewardship soared to a new and unprecedented height; a height that goes unmatched in the city of Chicago and throughout the entire Midwest. The IES will surely draw talent and passion from around the world as dedicated and concerned people come together to collaborate and inspire real solutions to some of the earth’s most pressing problems. As an alum dedicated to pursuing and enacting social justice – which I learned precisely from my four years at Loyola, no doubt – I am inspired by Loyola’s commitment to serve as one of the environment’s most vocal allies, at least among colleges and universities, in the United States of America and throughout the world.
At its core, a university functions for the service of humanity, for the expansion of knowledge, and for the pursuit of justice. Loyola has committed itself to this and more by expanding its mission to preserve, protect, and promote the earth and its precious resources. No matter what major one elects to pursue, no matter what career path one chooses, no matter where one studies on campus, every Loyola student will be steeped in the fundamental, deep-seated, critical awareness that the earth’s peril matters a great deal and that every voice, every talent, every contribution – no matter how small – matters.
If I could apply to colleges all over again, I would be even more eager to attend Loyola. Yes, it’s a beautiful campus that sits right on the shore of Lake Michigan. Sure, it’s located in a booming metropolis that has much to offer a young student exploring the world on their own for the very first time. It goes without saying that I would want to study at a place where I am not just a number, but actually count as a person. But more than all of that, Loyola is a place of palpable energy, excitement, and growth that is unabashedly invested in the future. And not just its own future, but our shared future – which is to say, the inseparability of the world’s future and the earth’s future. I would choose Loyola again in a heartbeat, without thinking twice. Not because of its name or stature, but because of a distinct ethic that pervades and impacts every commitment of the university, the very same ethic that pervaded my own studies and transformed me into becoming the person I am today.
“Look up!” cried out a lady. She was walking her dog and I was running toward her. I was expecting to see something of the likes of Air Force One, or maybe perhaps some sort of military aircraft flying overhead. But, it was, in fact, just a bird. And not just any bird, but a rare bird. Rare in general. Even more rare for the city.
I ran past the lady, but she kept talking to me. Other runners whizzed past her at a great speed, not even giving her the time of day. I felt awkward and so I stopped, if but only for a minute.
“There are three of them,” she observed. Sure enough, three of these birds began gliding through the air, circling each other, flying fast and low, and then soaring up once again at a high altitude. The lady had interrupted my run and I wanted to promptly pick up from where I had left off. But she would not stop talking. And runners continued to race by, casting their “I-told-you-so” glances at me. But I couldn’t just leave her now.
She began to tell me of her love for birds. How much she appreciates the outdoors; how she loves to simply listen, look, and marvel at the life teeming around her; how she fears that runners miss the gift of nature when they run around the reservoir with their earbuds in. And as we parted ways, I recognized a change take place within me. It was as if the scales had fallen from my eyes and my ears were opened.
As I made my second lap around the reservoir, I noticed yellow flowers growing along the side of the path that I hadn’t noticed before; I heard the water lapping rhythmically against the rocks that I hadn’t heard before; I smelled the fresh fragrance of new spring growth that I hadn’t smelled before; I discovered geese snapping plants with their bills that I hadn’t discovered before; I saw the sunlight scintillating off the water that I hadn’t seen before. I could see. I could smell. I could feel. I could hear. I could appreciate.
And in the distance was Boston College: the pride of Alumni Stadium; the majestic tower of Gasson Hall; the gothic beauty of Bapst Art Library. All of this brilliantly set against the sky as a remarkable university on a hill – a place that has challenged me in unforeseen ways and supported my own development and formation as a person of the world, for the world.
As I approached the lady again, I thanked her. For she had reminded me how to pray. She had recalibrated the very core of my being. When we encounter another human being, they most surely make a claim on us. We are invited into relationship with them, as fleeting as that relationship may be, as lasting as its effects may be. And how sad our world will become when we stop seeing, when we stop listening, when we stop paying attention, when we stop learning from each other.
Before I knew it, what was initially supposed to be a 2 mile run became a 7 mile run. I couldn’t stop; no, I didn’t want to stop my run. The brief exchange with the woman – and my subsequent re-awakening – had given me exactly what I needed to carry on.
Admittedly, over these past few days, it has been nearly impossible for me to pray. Yes, me. The graduate student of theology; the baptized follower of Jesus Christ. It’s not because evil events like what happened here in Boston on Monday call into question God’s existence for me. No, far from it. Rather, its because events such as the Boston Marathon bombing have left me speechless in the face of such great evil … and I’m just now beginning to find my voice.
If anything, my faith in God has been deepened by this tragic event. When I learned that the bombs were made in pressure cookers that had nails and other bits of harmful objects in them, I could not help but think of the crucifixion.
We Christians believe in a humble God, a God who took on human flesh in and through the person of Jesus Christ. Our God could not be any closer to humanity, any closer to the human experience of those who were at the finish line on Monday. God knows what it feels like to have nails tear through human flesh. God knows what it is like to bleed from a traumatic injury. And God knows what it is like to die. Because all of this happened to Jesus Christ, our crucified God. The same evil that was present in the world that killed our God is the same evil that planted those bombs at the finish line on Monday. God is no stranger to evil; God is the victim of it.
We Christians also believe in a victorious God, a God who triumphed over death. Evil did not have the last word because nothing can kill God in the end. Jesus Christ’s crucified body was resurrected on the third day. Yes, this is the good news. But, Jesus Christ’s body was forever marked with the wounds of the crucifixion. Victorious over death, our God came back to life, but our God was disabled.
Three people have died and many other people’s lives – and bodies – have been forever changed. Many lost limbs in the blast and many others had extremities removed due to the wounds that were inflicted by the shrapnel. These once non-disabled folks will have to re-integrate into a society where disability is “other” to ability… and they will firsthand be denied equal access to the privilege that so many non-disabled people enjoy. The disabled are stigmatized. And God knows about stigma, too. The glorious, resurrected body is a disabled body that bears the wounds from the cross.
Human beings are the cause of evil, not God. Let us never forget the wisdom of Martin Richards, the eight-year-old boy whose life was tragically cut short on Marathon Monday: “No more hurting people. Peace.”
And let us heed the thoughtful words that our president offered us today in Boston: “We finish the race and we do that because of who we are. And we do that because we know that somewhere around the bend, a stranger has a cup of water. Around the bend, somebody’s there to boost our spirits. On that toughest mile, just when we think that we’ve hit a wall, someone will be there to cheer us on and pick us up if we fall.”
And so, together, let us run with endurance the race that is before us. Grace and peace to you all.