Parched and Dirty -- and Ready
for a Bath!
A "FIRESTARTER"
Spiritual Essay by Rev. Dr. Benjamin Berinti, C.Pp.S.
O God, you are my God, I seek you,
my soul thirsts for you;
my flesh faints for you,
as in a dry and weary land where
there is no water (Psalm 63).
A recent encounter with some parishioners
returning from a mission immersion trip to our Sister Diocese in the Dominican
Republic triggered a memory for me. The couple rushed into a Saturday evening
Mass, still winded by their race from the airport to the church. I’m sure they
had hoped to lay low, undetected by most people, let alone the pastor. As it
turns out, I did catch sight of them, and was thrilled to see them back home,
safe and sound. For their part, however, they were more than slightly
embarrassed about the fact that they hadn’t had a decent shower or bath since
they had departed for the D.R. the previous Saturday—unless you count spritzing
with some contaminated water “cleaning up”! I wanted to reassure them
that, as far as I knew, no one from a fashion magazine was planning to be here
to take any photographs!
In their retirement, my parents now
live in a beautiful area of northern Pennsylvania known as the “Allegheny
National Forest.” Their home, nestled against the forest tree line, is a
comfortable mountain “cottage” with all the amenities of a modern household—even
Dish TV! However, it wasn’t always this way.
In the early years when we first
claimed the property and moved an old office trailer onto the land, things were
quite a bit more “rustic.” First and foremost, there was no running water.
Aside from the obvious shortcomings this presented for taking care of one’s
“restroom needs,” it also meant that water had to be hauled back to the cabin
from a nearby spring. The preciousness of the water supply limited its use to
making coffee and washing dishes. There was to be no showering or bathing with
it.
“Baths” or “showers” consisted of
climbing into the ice-cold water of a metal rain barrel (a rusty, old oil drum)
we kept outside, or venturing down to a recreational area known as “Beaver
Meadow,” and if the time of year was right, and water was flowing in excess over
the spillway (just beyond the point where the local beavers would build their
dams), we could post a guard at the top of the hill, and proceed to “bathe”
there in the spillway.
It is not an exaggeration to say
that it was nothing short of what Moses and the Israelites must have experienced
crossing into the Promised Land when we finally made it home at the close of the
weekend—and could RUSH to the SHOWER! Water never felt so good nor meant so
much!
As the days are fast approaching in
which we “recall the great events which give us new life in Christ,” our
focus and longing for the waters of Baptism become ever more palatable. Our
souls, having traversed these Lenten days of penitence and sorrow, still marked
with the ashen dust of our human weakness (no, we really didn’t shed the ashes
when we washed our faces Ash Wednesday night), are very much like the “parched,
weary, dry and desolate” landscape that pines for God’s refreshing and
renewing water. Through numerous acts of unfaithfulness, as Psalm 44 reminds
us, “we sink down to the dust; our bodies cling to the ground.” With the
Elect of God, who intensely await their immersion in the saving font of Baptism,
we who already count ourselves among the “chosen” of God, are in
desperate need of that sacred bath to once again wash over us, lift us up from
the dust of our failures and infidelities and short cuts, and restore us to
wholeness.
The labyrinth-twists of our path
these past several weeks, if we have undertaken this Lenten journey with any
degree of seriousness and commitment, must have revealed to us the parched and
arid desert that lies within us. There are places of dryness that choke off our
ability to love and serve and forgive—corners filled with the dust and sand of
bitterness, anxiety, prejudice, disappointment, maliciousness, anger and
violence, despair and crankiness, self-righteousness and abuse of authority.
And now, with Easter a mere two weeks away, the oasis which God brings upon the
horizon of our desert, the sacred font of life-giving water, slowly comes into
view—and now we rush and race to soak in its wonderful, cleansing power.
A friend once said, while being
stirred in the depths of her soul at the baptism of adults during the Easter
Vigil, “I wish I could jump back in that font and have that happen to me
again!” The truth is—WE CAN! The waters of the sacred font at Easter
are not only meant for the newly initiated—they are meant for us all, for our
parched and weary souls must once again be made soft and supple, so that we
might go forth and make disciples, witnessing to the power of the Resurrection
in our lives.
I am thankful for these Lenten
days, painful as they may have been at times, as I have faced my own sinfulness,
the dust that continues to stain my life and my relationships. I am thankful,
because on the horizon is the One who “raises the poor from the dust, and
lifts the needy from the ash heap, to make them sit with princes, with the
princes of his people (Psalm 113).”
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