We live in an apocalyptic time. I do not mean by that the popular images of the imminent "end of the world" of millenarian speculation. I mean rather that we live in a time in which the ages are torn apart, and nothing can be the same thereafter. In his "Ethics As Formation," Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote:
Today there are once more villains and saints, and they are not hidden from the public view. Instead of the uniform greyness of the rainy day we now have the black storm cloud and the brilliant lightning-flash. The outlines stand out with exaggerated sharpness. Reality lays itself bare. Shakespeare's characters walk in our midst. But the villain and the saint have little to do with systematic ethical studies. They emerge from the primeval depths and by their appearance they tear open the infernal or divine abyss from which they come and enable us to see for a moment into the mysteries of which we had never dreamed. (Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Ethics, ed. By Eberhard Bethge, trans. N. H. Smith [New York: Macmillan Publishing Company, 1955], p. 64)
We have seen villains and saints this week. Yet lightning, no matter how brilliant, does not illuminate sufficiently to navigate a tortuous path. Momentary glimpses into the abyss bring far less insight and knowledge than we desire. As we learn in beginning seminary studies, there is simultaneous concealment even in revelation, and there is always more of mystery concealed than there is revealed. How do we exist as Christians in an apocalyptic time? What do we as pastors, who are "Ministers of the Gospel" or "Ministers of Word and Sacrament," say in a time that defies all efforts of description and even address?
We may acknowledge that we have been bereft of our illusions of control. As I listened to the various reports and analyses, I was struck by the contrast between the government and military officials who were able to give clear, concise, measured words in the attempt to assure the nation where control lies. They tell us what we want and need to hear in such a time. The government is working, the President is safe, the banks are functioning. Yet those who are charged with putting words to times and places and experiences know the limitations of language. On a National Public Radio broadcast, I heard Terry Gross speak with the national Poet Laureate, Billy Collins. She seemed to be seeking a poetic word. He said only that words fail, that poetry fails. She asked if a particular poem stuck out in his mind. He responded that a person could randomly select any poem and it would speak against what happened-opposition, but no interpretation. She pressed for a specific poem to which people might turn for comfort. "You could do far worse than reading one of the Psalms," he replied.
Certainly, we must avoid the temptation to hide behind easy words. Ministry begins in silence, in waiting. Commentators spoke of the awful silence at the site of the World Trade Center not long after the collapse of the towers. Ignatius of Antioch said that Jesus Christ is the Word of God "proceeding from silence." Human words too often mask the attempt to control. We are called to a vulnerability at this time, as difficult as that may be, as much as we may wish to flee vulnerability. We are called to a vulnerability before the Word of God, one that speaks to us in this time to call us to himself, to share in "God's hour of grieving" (cf. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers from Prison, ed. Eberhard Bethge, trans. R. Fuller, F. Clarke, J. Bowden [New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., 1971], pp. 348-349). In this way, we may be open to the slow wisdom of grief.
The most profound times from my pastoral service were those when I was privileged to walk with terminally ill members of my congregation in their final months and weeks and days. One man stands out. He was a retired farmer, who would be the first to admit that his reputation for impatience and hot temper were well deserved. He was diagnosed with recurrent cancer in his lungs and given two months to live. He lived eighteen months, and embraced the time as a spiritual discipline. We had many good visits during that time. In our last visit before he was no longer able to speak, he spoke with gratitude of the lessons he had learned in the time he had had. I asked him which lesson he most treasured, and which he most wanted to share with others. "I learned surrender," he replied, "true surrender."
We find talk of silence and surrender completely opposed to the national mood. Is it possible that our Christian witness now consists in this-in the knowledge that we surrender to the One who embodies within himself the whole of humanity and the whole of God, and so find ability to be with and for humanity as he is?
Philip E. Thompson
North American Baptist Seminary
Sioux Falls, SD