Some thoughts for Lent on insufficiency and the body's theology of need (plus a poem)

The body's theology, is a theology of need, of insufficiency. This is my meditation for Lent; the fact that built into each and every one of us is a need for someone or something else. As a society, we tend to mistake need for a negative thing. But, the fact is that whatever it is I need, whether it is a kind word or a cup of coffee, help changing a flat tire or just help getting out of a chair, that need is an opportunity for someone else to set aside their own plans, their own needs or desires, to lay down their own life for the sake of another. When we see someone in need, we are given an opportunity not just to serve another, but to become more fully ourselves. We are being given an opportunity to share our gifts and become more fully who we were meant to be.  But, even more than that—we are being given an opportunity to enter into the presence of God.  “Whatever you do for the least of these (the hungry, the thirsty, the naked, the sick, the prisoner, the needy), you do for Me.” Matthew 25:31-46. My need, my insufficiency is part of my humanity—it is built into my very flesh--- and somehow in the mystery of God’s grace, that is a blessing we can never escape. And so, I have written this poem as a reminder for myself that brokenness and need are at the heart of  the body’s theology. 

A theology of need

 

Sufficient in

our insufficiency;

this is the body’s theology;

 

an emptiness

within our every effort

where another may find

 

space enough

to be

 

enough;

 

each of us

an empty cup

waiting for

a broken pitcher.

 

To fill a void with our own

is to finally find our home,

 

a place where we belong.

 

This

is the body’s theology.

 

The saints are never

wrong.

A theology of need

This is a poem that I can't stop working on. It was published last year (Iris Literary Journal), but I keep going back to it. This summer, I workshopped it at UST with the poet James Matthew Wilson (and several wonderful writerly friends).  I think they helped me see it with fresh eyes. 
The idea for the poem and the main image of brokenness as a blessing came to me while I was volunteering as a chaplain's aid at the hospital.  What I began to sense as I visited patients and sat with families, was that they --in their struggle, in their fear, in their need-- were being transformed into sources of grace.  Often there was nothing I could do but sit by someone's side and hold their hand and listen to their tears, their memories, their laughter--or just the quiet discomfort of their breathing.  And yet, when it was time to go, I always felt that I was the one who had been blessed by the visit. As if  their sorrow, their trial, their need had opened a space for grace to enter into my own life, my own heart, my own soul.  

I find this to be an idea that haunts me.. It may be strange to say about your own writing, but it is true.   

A theology of need

  

Insufficiency

is the body’s theology;

 

an emptiness within

our every effort

where another may find

 

space

 

enough

to be enough:

 

an empty cup waiting

for a broken pitcher.

 

To fill a void with our own

is to finally find a home,

a space where we belong.

 

This is the body’s

theology.

The saints are never

 

wrong.