Lourdes

05Apr
Now there is in Jerusalem near the Sheep Gate a pool, which in Aramaic is called Bethesda and which is surrounded by five covered colonnades. Here a great number of disabled people used to lie—the blind, the lame, the paralyzed. One who was there had been an invalid for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, “Do you want to get well?” 

“Sir,” the invalid replied, “I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred. While I am trying to get in, someone else goes down ahead of me.” Then Jesus said to him, “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk.” At once the man was cured; he picked up his mat and walked.
-John 5:2-9


This is a story about a self-satisfied college kid, wandering into a crowded wilderness of suffering souls. It is about the first discovery of Hope. You and I have two weeks of Lent left and regardless how well we have “done Lent”, there is a blush of Easter hope on the horizon. We are allowed to stare into it. 


I am the middle of three sons. Our father knew he would never have to pay for a wedding or a New Orleans debut, so he wisely and generously gave each of us a summer sojourn in Europe, alone, and a car for the journey. 


It was mid June, 1967. All I knew was I had to be at the university in Santander, Spain by July first. As I left Carcassonne I was looking forward to driving country roads along the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains. The choice of routes was like driving to Sewanee, Tennessee on country roads south of I-20 so I could drive through Toomsuba, Whynot, and Chunky, Mississippi. Only better. 


Outside of Saint Gaudiens, I pulled over to offer a ride to two college girls. Looking at my Dutch license plate they tried to ask in Dutch-Frenchy English where I was headed. I let them struggle a bit, then said “I have to be in Spain in July. Where are you headed?” Confused, they said, “Lourdes.” I was clueless.“Lourdes, what is that?” “Don’t you know about the miracles of Saint Bernadette?”, they asked. “Saint Bernadette? No, I’m Episcopalian. If it’s on the way to Spain, I’ll take you there. Hop in.”


During the drive to Lourdes, I received the catechism on St. Bernadette. Still, I was mostly thinking the two girls were quite attractive and wondered where we would all sleep that night. By the time we reached Lourdes there was a steady misting drizzle. We purchased little translucent plastic bottles in the shape of the Virgin Mary. The baby-blue screw caps were in the shape of tiny crowns. Over the rooftops the spire of the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes commanded the view. 


As we approached the huge plaza in front of the Cathedral and Grotto, my last smug observation passed behind me. The towering Cathedral was reflected in the wet paving of the plaza with the foothills of the Pyrenees beyond. The reflection was interrupted only by an orderly line of suffering pilgrims, roughly four abreast, a sick or crippled pilgrim and volunteer helpers. The afflicted were on crutches, in WWII vintage wooden wheel chairs, on hospital gurneys with racks of IV bottles. Volunteers held umbrellas over the ill and maimed who were wrapped in war surplus blankets. There was just the sound of shuffling feet, the squeaking of the wheel chairs, and the smell of wet wool. The line was a mile long, it seemed. Knots of nuns led groups of pilgrims in plainsong chants. The line made its way toward the grotto in the hill beneath the cathedral. 


I had never seen or felt, such a collective exhale of last-resort Faith. It was breathtakingly beautiful. This self-satisfied young Episcopal swell, had been invited into a crowded wilderness of suffering humanity, Christian burden-sharing, faith, and hope. Every pilgrim, by virtue of his journey to the grotto had clearly answered Jesus’ question, “Do you want to be healed?” They had cried for healing and embraced the advocacy of “The Lady in White.”


We stayed for the candlelight vigil; I filled my little bottle with grotto water. It travelled with me into the navy. My heart’s memory of the solemn storm of collective faith in Lourdes is a complete and foundational memory in my Christian acceptance. Jesus did not speak to me in words; instead He let me see for the first time. So often, this is how it happens; not in contemplation, but in moments of selfishness. I do not remember where I slept that night.

Musical Reflection - Hildegard of Bingen: De Spiritu Sancto (Holy Spirit, The Quickener Of Life)


Savior of all, When we are broken, lost in the wilderness, and waiting at the pool of healing; open our ears so we can hear when you say, “Hop in; I’ll take you there!” Amen

FaithGospelLent

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