by Albert Holtz
Now think of a crisis in your life which felt like that furious storm. Did you ask for God’s help right away? Was the Lord a “help” to you at the time by “holding you together?” If so, what specific form did those “helps” take: a person? an insight? an event? Were you aware of the divine help at the time?
2. The Letter to the Hebrews tells us that Jesus’ experience of suffering made him able to help others: “Because he himself was tested through what he suffered, he is able to help [bothe] those who are being tested” (Heb 2:18). Reflect on how your sufferings have made you more able to help a brother or sister in need.
Sacred Scripture
The verb bothe, “to help” appears in Isa 41:10; Acts 16:9, 21:28; Heb 2:18; and the noun form “helper” in Heb 13:6.
Rule of Benedict
First of all, every time you begin a good work, you must pray to him most earnestly to bring it to perfection (Prologue, v. 4).
14. Lying Down in Green Pastures
I FELT VAGUELY UNEASY as I sat in the urologist’s waiting room with five other people. For the past few years, ever since my brother’s bout with prostate cancer had put me in the high-risk category, I’d been dutifully visiting this office for regular biopsies. The first two had both come back negative, but I had a suspicion that the results this time might be different. My PSA levels had been looking strange on the last couple of blood tests. I had no real reason to worry, I told myself as I picked up an old Newsweek and started thumbing through it. Then when I reminded myself that both my mom and my brother Bob had died of cancer, I tossed the magazine back on the table right away—my mind was elsewhere.
As people who know me well can tell you, I’m the type of person who tends to worry about things just as a matter of course. So I should have been a bundle of nerves sitting there; but in fact I was fairly relaxed. This was probably because I had been consciously keeping in front of me all day an image from my morning meditation: a sheep lying down confidently in a green pasture under the shepherd’s watchful eye.
“Father Holtz!” The emotionless voice of a white-coated medical assistant startled me back to the present. I tried to read his poker face as he held the door for me. Did I see something unusually solemn in his expression or was I just imagining it? I stepped nervously into the long, brightly lit corridor lined with doors along the right side. He showed me through the first door on the right. “The doctor will be with you in a moment,” he said, as he closed the door, leaving me alone in the formal office.
I sat down in a big brown leather armchair and glanced around the bright, friendly room, its wood paneling set off by a couple of cheerful landscape paintings and some very impressive-looking diplomas. But I deliberately turned my mind back to the comforting image of the green pasture and the trusting sheep lying on the grass; I was still there when the door opened and the doctor walked in.
I stood up and shook his hand, then sank down again in the comfortable leather chair. I peered at him across the wide expanse of the polished desktop trying to read the expression on his kind face. Sensing my anxiety he got right to the point: “Well, Father,” he began in his quiet, gentle voice as he glanced at the open folder in front of him, “we got the biopsy report back. The results were positive; I’m afraid they found some cancer.”
“They found some cancer.” Thousands of cancer patients have told of the terror they felt when they first heard that horrifying diagnosis, and of how their world was shattered into pieces. Knowing that this was the normal reaction, I was immediately surprised at how peaceful I was. Maybe those decades of meditating and of trying to trust God more were bearing some fruit. In any case I heard the doctor’s dire news while seated on the green grass of Psalm 23 and sustained by an overwhelming sense of being taken care of by the Lord. Of course my stomach tightened and I found it hard to focus on all the details of the kind of cancer it was and the doctor’s recitation of the pros and cons of various treatment options. But the most striking recollection I would have of that afternoon would be the image of that green pasture of the “Good Shepherd” psalm. I was lying down on the grass and trusting in the shepherd to keep me safe.
This picture had come to me earlier that morning as I was reflecting on Matthew’s account of the miracle of the loaves and fishes (Matthew 15:32-38). I was struck by verse 35: “Then ordering the crowd to sit down on the ground....”4 I knew that “sit down” was a translation of one of my favorite Greek words, anapipt.5 What had first interested me about the word was that it means literally “to fall backwards, to lean back.” For instance, when Jesus reveals at the last supper that someone is about to betray him, “the disciple whom Jesus loved” leaned back [anapipt] against his chest and asked him, “Master, who is it?” (John 13:25).
Usually, however, the verb is not used in this literal way but in the sense of “to lean back to dine.” For solemn meals, Jews in New Testament times followed the Roman custom of lying on mats or low couches around the outside edge of a low U-shaped table. The diners would lean on their left elbow and use their right hand for eating. This was the scene, for instance, when Our Lord accepted a Pharisee’s invitation to dinner: “Jesus entered and reclined at table [anapipt] to eat” (Luke 11:37). Since this was a banquet, Jesus and the others would literally have “reclined” as they ate.6 Early on, however, the word expanded from its narrow meaning of “to recline at a banquet” to become the general word for “to sit down to eat.”
This is the word I had come upon at the beginning of the story of the loaves and fishes early in the morning on the day I was going to find out the biopsy results: “. . . he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass.” Ever since discovering the background of this word, I’ve loved the image of thousands of hungry people in that deserted spot not simply sitting down to eat, but obediently “leaning over backwards” in trust at Jesus’ invitation.
That morning I had wondered what I would have done if I’d been in that crowd when Jesus invited them to sit down to eat. Being a doer by nature, and someone who wants to solve his own problems, I had trouble imagining myself leaning back passively and letting him supply me with food. I would have preferred instead to find some way of getting it for myself. But as I continued my morning meditation, I eventually managed to picture myself “reclining” on the grass. And then, remembering the literal meaning of the word, I had closed my eyes and let myself “fall backwards,” knowing that he would catch me, and that he would give me whatever strength I might need to get through this or any ordeal.
“So, give it some thought, Father.” The doctor’s voice pulled me back into the world of biopsy results and treatment options. “It’s not an emergency, but I wouldn’t wait too long, either. It needs to be taken care of.”
I agreed to give him a call in a couple of days with my decision about what I wanted to do about treatment. Then we stood up and shook hands. As I headed for the door I took a quick glance back at the big brown armchair. True, for the past twenty minutes I hadn’t really been sitting on green grass, but that chair had actually done just as well.
Reflection
Think of a particularly difficult time in your life when the Lord was inviting you into a wilderness and asking you to lie down trustingly on the grass. What was the most difficult part of the experience? Did you manage to hand the problem over to God or did you hang on and work it out on your own?
Sacred Scripture
The verb anapipt in the sense of “recline at table” appears in Tob 2:1; Luke 17:7, 22:14.
Rule of Benedict
Now, therefore, after ascending all these steps of humility, the monk will quickly arrive at that perfect love of God which casts out fear (Chapter 7 “Humility,” v. 67).
15. You of Little Faith
I WAS LYING ON A NARROW HOSPITAL GURNEY staring up at the bright fluorescent lights in the ceiling of the pre-op room where I and several other patients were waiting to be wheeled into surgery. I turned my head and sneaked a quick, nervous glance down at the blue plas
tic anesthesia shunt sticking out of my left forearm and wondered if the anesthetist would come and introduce himself as I’d been promised. So far I’d managed to be fairly calm; I hoped I could stay that way until the whole operation was over. I tried not to think about it. . . . I started to mechanically rattle off a few Hail Marys. This had a soothing effect, as it always does at stressful moments, but then I started to get more personal, more specific: “Lord, please help the doctors and nurses during the operation, and help me too. Watch over all the other people in this room and keep them safe. Let each of us have a successful surgery and a good recovery. Help me to trust in your goodness no matter what happens.”
“No matter what happens.” Saying that made my stomach tighten, but it was important for me to add it. I knew from experience that, as long as everything was going smoothly, my faith would be strong, but if things started to go wrong, my faith might not stand up too well.
But at least I was in good company, I thought. Even the apostles used to fold under pressure. Once when the boat they were in was being swamped by waves during a sudden squall, they woke Jesus up and shouted, Lord, save us! We’re going to drown! He scolded them, “Why are you terrified, you of little faith?” (Matthew 8:25–26).
I lay there comforted as much by the idea of the apostles’ weakness as by Jesus’ presence. I kept thinking about that scene. “O you of little faith” is actually a single word in Greek, oligopistos.7 It describes someone who has faith but just not enough of it at certain stressful times. Hmmm. Just like me, I guess—and the apostles.
Actually Saint Peter himself struggled with the problem, too. Once when the disciples were out in their boat, they were caught in a fierce storm—it seems like they were always getting caught in fierce storms— and were being tossed about by the wind and the waves. Suddenly Jesus appeared, walking toward them on the water. They figured it must be a ghost until he spoke and invited Peter to walk toward him on the water. So Peter jumped out of the boat and started walking. But when he saw how strong the wind was, Peter got scared and started to sink and shouted, “Lord, save me!” Jesus stretched out his hand and grabbed him, and said, “You of little faith [oligopistos]! Why did you doubt?’” (Matthew 14: 31).
Following Jesus as he wandered around preaching and healing, Peter had been busy taking care of a lot of practical details and trying to absorb all the lessons that Jesus was giving the apostles. Although he kept saying that he believed that Jesus was the Messiah, Peter’s faith in him hadn’t really been tested at all.
A woman in green scrubs and a puffy cloth hat covering her hair came in and asked how I was doing. “I’m good, thanks,” I told her. She checked my ID-wristband and patted my arm. “It’ll be just a few minutes now, okay?” “Yes. Fine,” I replied, “I’ll be here.”
I kept thinking about Peter walking on the waves. He started listening to the raging wind and watching the angry waves and realized that things were getting way beyond his control. Then the poor guy lost his nerve completely. Boy, do I know how that feels!
Interesting, though. Each and every time that the apostles were panicking and were accused of being “of little faith,” Jesus had been right there with them the whole time, either standing nearby or even sitting with them in the boat. All the stories always end the same way: The apostles realize they’re not alone and that they don’t have to depend just on their own puny powers, because Christ, the divine Son of God almighty, is right there. Once they open their eyes to the fact that Jesus is there beside them, their “little faith” suddenly becomes more than enough to carry them through.
Two people came in and wheeled out the old woman on the gurney next to mine. I guessed that I would probably be next. I tried not to think about it.
My own life, I thought, is a mixture of faith and doubt, just like the apostles’. One minute things are going along smoothly and I’m full of calm confidence. Then a sudden squall starts to swamp my boat and I do what Peter did—I panic. I forget that Jesus is right there with me. But then, above the howling wind and the roaring waves, I hear a gentle, familiar voice call with infinite patience and tenderness: “You of little faith!”
Sometimes he comes in a word or a warm smile from a friend. At other times he comes in a sudden insight from something I have heard or read. Or perhaps in a deep feeling of peace while I’m praying. It’s as if in the midst of the storm Jesus has just reached down and taken my hand firmly in his own.
I felt a strong hand grasping mine, and, startled, I opened my eyes to look up at a man in a green scrub suit who was introducing himself as the anesthetist. His calm, confident voice was reassuring; so was his firm grip as he held onto my hand for a moment and asked me, “So, Albert, are you ready?”
I half expected him to add, “O you of little faith!”
Reflection
1. Has Jesus ever revealed himself sitting next to you in the midst of danger or in a time of trouble? If so, how did he show his presence? Was it through some particular “coincidence” or event? Through a word of encouragement from a friend? Or perhaps in some unexpected help from a stranger?
2. Read the story of the apostles caught in the storm on the Sea of Galilee in Matt 8:23–26. Take your time; try to put yourself in the apostles’ place in the boat. Share their feelings, especially the change from terror to relief. Ask the Lord to increase and strengthen your faith.
Sacred Scripture
Oligopistos appears also in Matt 6:30, 16:5–12, and 17:20.
Rule of Benedict
What is not possible to us by nature, let us ask the Lord to supply by the help of his grace (Prologue, v. 41).
16. A New Sense of Time
MY NIECE, NANCY, who happens also to be my goddaughter, was sitting at her kitchen table with a mug of morning coffee and sharing with me some of what she had learned from her battle with breast cancer. My own recent bout of cancer had given the two of us a new closeness, which we were thoroughly enjoying that morning. She was describing the day when she’d found out that she had breast cancer.
“We all know we’re going to die sooner or later but we all assume that it’ll be later,” she said. “When I was diagnosed with cancer I suddenly realized that it might actually be sooner, like now—this year, maybe even next month.”
She went on: “Once during those first weeks when I was still in shock I remember I was planting flowers in our new garden, just enjoying the sunshine, and glancing at Paul [her husband] mowing the lawn. And suddenly I got this intense appreciation of the moment. After the cancer diagnosis I now I had this sharp, fierce appreciation of every aspect of every minute I was alive.”
With a voice that reflected a mixture of gratitude and conviction, she added, “I still have it, and now I’ll stop and notice—really notice— things I wouldn’t have even seen before. Like the clouds, say, or the way a tree branch is moving, or the color of someone’s lipstick.”
Just then the sound of excited chirping started outside and we both turned to look out the window to watch the loud commotion at the bird feeder hanging on a tree in the backyard. When I turned back to look at Nancy, I noticed how healthy and happy she looked now. The awful weakness and nausea from chemotherapy seemed like ages ago, and her hair had long since grown back. She’d been in remission for four years at that point.
I started to think about her new appreciation of time. Time was no longer something she took for granted by letting the minutes slip through her fingers unnoticed.
My niece, I thought to myself, had come to the same conclusion as the New Testament writers: Every moment we’re alive is a special time. They had an easier way to express this idea than we do, however, since they had two different words for time.
First there was chronos,8 which referred to time as something measurable and divisible into quantities; you counted it off in months, minutes, and milliseconds. In the Parable of the Talents, a master goes off on a journey and returns “after a long time [chronos]” (Matthew 25:19). We are all well acquainted wi
th this sort of time. We save time by taking a shortcut to avoid traffic, we waste time doing things that serve no purpose, we even kill time in the airport waiting for our flight.
The second Greek word for time was kairos.9 Unlike chronos (time as measured off in minutes and hours), kairos referred to time as having significance: time as an event, an occasion, or an opportunity. This is the kind of time we mean when we say “It’s high time” or “I had a great time.”
Kairos actually had a variety of meanings in the Bible. It is often translated “season”—that is, a time for some specific purpose, such as harvesting, as in the familiar passage in Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, “A time [kairos] to be born and a time [kairos] to die.10 It also had the sense of “a suitable time, an opportunity”: the faithful servant in charge of the household will “distribute food to them at the due time [at the kairos]” (Matthew 24:45).
Now she was warming up to her topic. I could hear it in her voice: “Another thing I noticed was that, all of a sudden, I started to see that good intentions don’t mean a thing—they don’t count. At your eulogy nobody talks about what you planned to do or say. They only point out what you actually did and said. Because that’s what counts, you know? So I started to realize that anything I want to do I have to do now because I might not have tomorrow. Looking at it this way has made my whole life better and more meaningful; it reminds me not to put off compliments to friends or loving words to my family—or having fun.”
The sacred writers used kairos to express exactly that feeling of urgency, to point out an opportunity not to be missed. “Behold, now is the acceptable time [the acceptable kairos], now is the day of salvation” (2 Corinthians 6:2).
Listening to Nancy was reminding me to treat my own life as a kairos. After all, nothing says that my next blood test won’t show a recurrence of cancer, so I may as well start to enjoy the beauty and goodness of the people and things around me right now, just the way she does.
