By Friday night there were easily 2000 people at prayers. Surprisingly, I noticed a spot near the front and settled in, laying my songbook, scripture sheet, journal and reading glasses in a little patch of rug in front of me. We are nothing if not territorial. Someone nearby— someone very nearby— was ripe with epic B.O. I tried not to let it distract me, to think divine thoughts as the odor of a man— it had to be man— wafted across my prayer path. I couldn’t bring myself to look, thinking instead, compassionate thoughts about the long journey he must have driven to get here, the culture of hygiene being different wherever he was from, the obstacles to showering in Taize; still, did he ever stink. I considered moving but the church had already grown so full that they had opened the first set of industrial doors— an ingenious construct that adapted to intimate gatherings or massive celebrations— to expand the space.
I was reminding myself that the discipline of seeking peace was a perpetual challenge when, suddenly, four bouncy and perfectly-glossed teens hopscotched over several adults and took the spots directly beneath the primary icon of Christ ascending. They didn’t look around to see if, perhaps, they were disturbing anyone’s eyeline or personal space. They didn’t say excuse me. I was staring at the backs of their shiny blonde heads and thinking about sin vs. child development theory (Orangina at the Oyak)— wondering if their self-absorption was age or beauty related— when an extremely, tall, broad-shouldered young man, his height and breadth made even more pronounced by his devotion, placed a kneeler directly in front of me and settled in. His upturned size 12 feet were actually laying on my songbook. It was not that I needed to have a perfect view, but I was now 18″— tops— from his back, his blue-striped sweater becoming my own personal icon. There was only one direction in which to scoot over, closer to the source of the B.O. I picked up my things, repositioned myself a foot to the left, and now, daring to look, discovered that the source of the gaminess was none other than Alistair. He didn’t see me, his eyes shut with beatific intensity.
I felt in that moment as if I were a pinball in God’s great game and my job— if I wanted to keep rising— was to find a way to see each person— the blondes, the broad-backed boy, Alistair— the way God would see them. Manage that, and I would be thrust back into play for another shot at deeper understanding; a richer, more fruitful faith. Fail in that, give in to spite, annoyance, aggravation, anger and I would be the one to lose, falling down through that mysterious dark hole.
I started to laugh, not aloud, but deeply as the music began and together we began to sing Bleib mit deiner Gnade (Stay with us, O Lord Jesus Christ, night will soon fall…) The refrains seemed to go on for ever. There was a subtle movement just to my left and I turned. Another young girl, a blond girl, was suddenly overcome with tears. The girl beside her, a brunette, reached over to comfort her, holding her as a mother holds a child, swaddling her tenderly. The sight of them was so moving that it purged me of all my minor grievances and I could do nothing but stare at those two beautiful young girls, so passionate, so caring. The brunette turned slightly to kiss the blonde girl’s head, revealing her face to me: yes, of course, it had to be, the Keeper of the Valuables Counter (Money Changes Everything, Valuables Redux).
Bing, Bing, Bing….the pinball stumbled and I was forced once again to see a person I had begun to characterize through my own selfish terms through God’s eyes. Bing, bing, bing, stay in the game. Stay with us, O Lord Jesus Christ, night will soon fall.
The tall, broad-shouldered boy in the striped sweater now bowed down on the floor, shifting the space, opening anew a clear view of the image of Christ. I thought once again about something Br. John had said on the very first day. God is always the same, and always changing. Bing, bing, bing. Our job is to try to keep moving with his cues.
Heather Choate Davis 