This is a guest post by Michelle Francl-Donnay for Week Four of An Ignatian Prayer Adventure.
I’ve been people watching all week—as prayer. Dan Ruff, SJ’s reflection on praying with the Incarnation suggested that we try prayerfully imagining how we might feel looking down with the Trinity “at the mixed, complicated messiness of the unredeemed human condition.” So I’ve been trying to see the crowds of people who move through my life as the Trinity might: the students in the hallway, the women gathered to hear a retreat talk, the drivers of all the cars and trucks jammed onto the Schukyll Expressway on a morning I was late to an appointment. We may be redeemed now, but it’s still a messy, complicated world.
As I waited for Mass to begin this morning, a woman in the front pew caught my eye. A long-time parishioner, she is blind. Today her faithful guide dog lay curled under the pew, eyes half-closed in the dimness and hush of this late winter morning. She was doing what I did when I sat down today, reviewing the readings for the day in her missal. Except while I held my copy at arms’ length, balanced on the palm of my hand, she had the Braille pages held tight against her chest, running her hand across them.
She was embracing the Divine Word, touching God made present in the Scriptures, not with her mind’s eye, but with her hands. I was in awe at this incarnation, at the way God was made flesh right in front of me. This is the grace I’ve been praying for all week. To know Jesus—the Word, God taken shape among us—more intimately. To hold Jesus closely, not just in my mind’s eye, but with my entire being.
In his little book, Praying the Psalms, Walter Brueggemann observes we prefer to come to prayer composed and decorous, serene and detached from the muddle—and at times, chaos—that we live amidst. I suspect all too often I want to hold God’s Word with my fingertips, at arms’ length, pretending I don’t need to get close to grasp the mystery of God made flesh. Yet here is where God joins us. He pitched His tent among us, in the dust and mud and straw of ancient Israel.
This is what Ignatius invites us to do in this Second Week—to walk with Jesus, not as though we are in a museum, with glass exhibit cases and “Don’t touch!” signs. But we are called to enter into the mystery of a God we can grasp, a God whose steps we can see—and follow.