Saturday of the Second Week in Ordinary Time

Lectionary: 316

I grieve for you, Jonathan my brother!
most dear have you been to me;
more precious have I held love for you than love for women.



In the Veterans Hospital I have heard of these intense friendships of men who drove themselves into the Vietnamese jungle in search of the enemy. Deep in hostile territory, far from their base camps, sometimes within speaking distance of the unseen enemy but silenced by profound caution they could only trust their brothers. One unwary step, one untoward sound, even the breath of body odor might unleash a firestorm. 

Afterward, in the safety of a camp, or the comfort of their American living rooms, battle buddies do not speak of these things. They cannot revisit feelings that have no words; they can only be with their companions of those unspeakable adventures. 

Their women understand these things. They know there are stories that will never be told, secrets that cannot see the light of day. They do not try to come between the Veterans who share a bond unlike any other. If they are wise these women encourage their reunions for their husbands and lovers who need these gatherings to maintain their sanity. 

This story of David's grief also offers a teaching for Veterans and the rest of us. We can express and celebrate our grief. Traumatized by the Total Wars of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, uncertain of who we are and what we believe after aeons of religious strife and technological upheaval, we have forgotten how to feel our feelings. Veterans are not the only ones who suffer; their children and grandchildren reexperience the war zone in the emotional climate of their homes. 

I watch Catholics attend the Mass who can neither sing nor dance; some cannot even mutter "Amen" or "And with your spirit." They consider themselves free by their entitlement as American citizens, and yet their limbs are locked and their mouths tightly shut when it's time to give God full-throated praise.

Slowly, eventually, like turtles and snails emerging from their shells, we might begin to re-explore the outer world of fellowship and community. Sometimes even a nod or a 'g-mornin' takes enormous courage. To sing in public with one's children seems an impossible hurdle. To allow tears requires the darkness of the cinema or the isolation of one's living room. And yet we find our way. 

The liturgy leads us back to life as we hear and then sing familiar hymns. We open first our hands, then our mouths and finally our hearts to receive the Living God whom David worshipped so lustily. 

The Son of David walks with us, himself a victim of unspeakable trauma and yet raised up to a freedom beyond imagining. As he walks he whispers to us, 

...most dear have you been to me;
more precious have I held love for you than love for women.