Mtr Mary Trainor

How tedious and tasteless the hours, when Jesus no longer I see…

Dear friend,

I sleep with a light on. I know others do, too, and I suppose there’s a story for each of us who has this practice. Mine is pretty simple: It’s a holdover from childhood, I guess, when in a darkened room, simple bed covers look like snakes, or a shirt hanging on a bed post seems like the bogeyman about to attack. Bad things happen in the dark. We all know this.

Today’s Gospel reading from Mark seems out of place for a carefree September morning. It’s not the right time to be hearing about the gruesome death of our Lord and Savior. But when is the right time for a story like that?

…sweet prospects, sweet birds, and sweet flowers, have all lost their sweetness for me.

This time I am particularly struck by the literal darkness when the sun does not shine between twelve and three. I am especially aware that the darkness ends at three in afternoon with Jesus’ piercing cry: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Those standing by were also in darkness. Chiding, “Listen, he is calling for Elijah.” Cruelly offering a vinegar-filled sponge. Mockingly saying, “Wait, let us see if Elijah comes to take him down.” Clever and bright, without notice--in their blindness--of their own hollowness, no recognition that they were living in the dark.

The midsummer sun shines but dim, the flowers strive in vain to look gay…

I’ve lived a lifetime of faith, but in that lifetime of faith there have been seasons of light and dark, occasions of confidence and doubt, times of waxing and waning in relationship with God. In the dark and the doubt and the waning, life feels forever stuck between twelve and three.

As a young woman, I recall speaking to my mother about the ups and downs of my journey in Christ. Everyone else’s seemed so solid, so smooth, never a doubt to darken the horizon. Mother looked with eyes that drove past my worried countenance deep into my soul itself. Then she shared that her own experience was one of feeling close to God, then feeling far away—on and off, over and over, in a never-ending cycle. “You just ride it out, Patty. You just ride it out.” She was a very wise woman.

It was my mother, in fact, from whom I learned the song How Tedious and Tasteless, from which I borrowed words for this reflection.

But when I am happy in Him, December’s as pleasant as May.

Mtr Mary