Share His Power - Know His Love - Feel His Pain

In John O’Donohue’s book ‘Anam Cara’ he tells the story of a journalist he knew who travelled to South America to meet an old Native American chief whom he wanted to interview. After some persuasion the old man agreed on condition that they could have some time together beforehand. The journalist presumed that normal protocol would apply; they would engage in light conversation for a while, but the old chief took him to a quiet place and looked directly into his eyes for a long time without saying a word. ‘This scared my friend,’ said O’Donohue. ‘He felt the innards of his life were being totally exposed by the gaze and silence of the stranger.’

But after a while the journalist began to deepen his own gaze, and according to O’Donohue the two men stood in silence, gazing deep into each other’s eyes for more than two hours. And then it seemed that they’d known each other all their lives – and the journalist didn’t need to interview the old man.

Maybe that story sounds a bit far fetched, I’m not sure, but it does make the point about that we in the Fast West by our rushing around, miss the very life we’re trying to preserve.

One of my sons was telling me he met someone he knows quite well other day, ‘He’s always making jokes dad!’ he said. ‘Everything’s a joke! Why does he do that?’ I suppose people do that sometimes to keep others at arms length, to avoid meaningful conversation in which they might have to expose something of themselves. Actually, that’s the control freak’s well-developed skill. They’re the ones who’re always asking the questions. If you say, ‘How’s the family?’ you’ll get a single mono-syllable reply followed by a barrage of enquiries about you, your work, your wife, and before you know it you’ve talked far too much.

I’ve been married for almost four years now and it seems that my wife and I talk all the time, I sometimes think we’ve been talking non-stop for the nine years we’ve known each other. But there are times when we sit in each other’s company for an hour or more wit hardly a word being spoken, and there’s no strain. I’ve been thinking about this and about John O'’Donohue’s story of the journalist and the Native American in the context of prayer and our relationship with God. Why do we feel we have to do all the talking? I mean, if we can spend time in the company of the Almighty, wouldn’t we be better nurturing the habit of simply being quiet, gazing into his eyes, getting to know him in a way that we never will if we talk all the time?

And then I thought of one or two people I don’t get on very well with. If I’m quiet in God’s company, maybe I’ll feel for them as God does, and things will change. And if someone I love is lost on one of life’s bleak mountains, or trapped in a self-inflicted thorn-bush, would it not break my heart to feel the Good Shepherd’s pain for them? And it dawned on me, maybe that’s why we prefer to talk, for then God bears all the pain.

But we miss the wonder of prayer; we can share in his power, we can know his love, but only if we’re prepared to feel his pain.