Today is the first day of the week. And it is most clearly the day on which I am reminded that I am not practicing the call that whistled through my heart all those years ago; that call like spring grass, tender and possible. I am not among the people I yearn to share a word with, not in front or beside or walking with great reverence through the midst of them. I am not this first day of the week practicing pastoral ministry; I am on this first day of the week not that kind of ‘fool’. I am, at least for some time, another.
So I was glad to read Christine Valters Paintner’s post this morning on the being of fools. You can find it at the link below, along with her delightful poem about Francis of Assisi. I loved the joy and the upside down feel of it.
I was glad to hear it speak to the questions that rise when you’ve stood in a call, tender, and possible, stood for a day or a month or a year and one day the ground of your heart murmurs and you get down on your knees to listen to that dark earth.
You know in that time, when listening is the only answer, that you are a fool called for an hour or a day or a lifetime to an often frighteningly permeable way.
I wonder what call, green and possible, as new grass is whistling through your heart; what dark earth is murmuring? What makes the ears of the holy fool in you burn? What makes your knees bend?
I know it’s not easy, but listen . . . Don’t be afraid. We were made for this.