Starting
Point
Beauty shines in darkness
By MARY VINEYARD
I was in the subway in Boston,
anxiously clutching a crumpled white slip of paper on which I had written my
instructions: “Take the Red Line from South Station to Park Street. Go
downstairs to the Green Line and take the D train to Riverside.” I recited
these sentences like a mantra, shuffling along in my bulky coat and winter
boots. I had left my snow-buried cabin in Maine that morning, and now I was
nearing the end of my journey, if I could only solve the riddle of the Boston
mass transit system.
On my way to the D Train stop I passed a performer, but not the
usual musician with a begging cup at his feet. This one was draped from head to
toe in shiny gold fabric and towered over the onlookers, probably from a perch
on stilts of some kind. The face was not quite visible within the enshrouding
cape, and there were no clues as to the gender of the performer. Haunting music
floated out from a CD player. The tall figure held a golden violin in the left
hand, and a bow in the right. On the tip of the bow was a live blue parakeet.
As I passed by, the bow was being brought slowly toward the strings, and the
bird was riding, calm and still.
Ordinarily I would have stopped in my tracks, transfixed by this
scene of surreal beauty. But anxious to be in the right place at the right
time, I hurried on and then stood obediently on the platform.
At the Riverside station I was met by a kind Jesuit, and taken to
Campion Renewal Center for a five-day retreat.
There are religious sensibilities of all kinds in this world, but
for someone like me, there’s nothing better than being locked alone in a
box with God. Well, Campion is a big box, and I wasn’t exactly alone. The
building includes a nursing home and residence for retired Jesuits, so in the
box there were also a lot of elderly men and their caregivers, a few other
retreatants and our directors. Because this is a place of prayer, everyone
honored the true and terrifying work that a retreat entails. Smiles were gentle
and authentic but words were few. I was immensely grateful for the way their
silence enveloped my fundamental and essential loneliness.
Daily Masses were simple and elegant feasts of beauty and the
Word. Each day’s celebrant offered us his open heart, his wisdom, and the
fruit of the years he has spent loving and serving Jesus. A candle burned on
the altar; a crucifix hung on the pale yellow wall; and on the first night the
soft light of a new moon fell blessedly through the window.
We came together, each of us with our own wounds, our own
questions. The pain of the world was never far from our hearts. We prayed and
lifted up our sorrow and fears about a war that seemed to be rolling inexorably
toward us in time, our concern for the many who would be crushed by it.
The days passed and eventually it was time to wend my way outward
from the center of the labyrinth. The same good priest returned me to the
Riverside Station. The love of God went home with me, as it does always,
everywhere.
I have thought about that golden being in the subway, the one who
so enigmatically brought beauty into the damp and grimy darkness. There are so
many things we do not understand, so many things we cannot change. As believers
in God, lovers of Jesus, vessels of the Spirit, we stand within the mystery, we
become the mystery, a sign of contradiction, an image of wonder, an unexpected
island of color against a background of gray.
In the main chapel at Campion is the sentence: “The Spirit of
Truth will lead you to all truth.” And here is that truth: that we -- and
the God within us -- are as frail as a tiny bird, as helpless as a newborn
baby, as breakable as a human heart. This is the miracle that we wake up into
every day, the light in the darkness, the astonishing fact that God dwells with
us, omnipotence enfolded in weakness. That life exists at all is too improbable
for words, and that it is sustained by such humble and hidden beneficence is a
marvel that should make us pause in wonder. Moments of beauty carry us to that
truth and give us grace to offer that truth to the world.
Mary Vineyard is a massage therapist who lives in Lubec,
Maine.
National Catholic Reporter, February 14,
2003
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