Presence

A Reflection on the Second Reading for October 2nd, 2022:
​Twenty-Seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time

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2 Timothy
1.6-8, 13-14

Beloved: I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you through the laying on of my hands; for God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline. Do not be ashamed, then, of the testimony about our Lord or of me his prisoner, but join with me in suffering for the Gospel, relying on the power of God.

Hold to the standard of sound teaching that you have heard from me, in the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. Guard the good treasure entrusted to you, with the help of the Holy Spirit living in us.

“…join with me in suffering for the Gospel, relying on the power of God.”
 
I don’t know about you, but I don’t like suffering. I hate being helpless, not in control, and having to rely on other people. 
 
Right now, my suffering consists of being slightly consumed with my own loneliness, brokenness, and unlovability. I’m fully aware of how ridiculous and self-absorbed this is, because I have a perfectly good life, but I’m deeply lonely. And I’ve been praying desperately for healing and consolation, but I just can’t feel anything. This isn’t uncommon for me: I’ve been in a spiritual mostly-dry spell for a long time, where I can’t really feel God’s presence. I keep extremely busy and pour myself into work, ministry, and community so that I don’t have to think about – or rather, feel – how lonely and desolate I am. So being encouraged to ask for more suffering is a bitter pill for me to swallow. How do I rely on the power of God when I can’t feel Him there?
 
I was talking to a friend about this and she asked if I could think of any times when I was suffering and Jesus made it really clear that He was in fact there. “Nope,” I said. 
 
“What about when your mom died?” she asked.
 
I had to think about that. My mom died in 2011 from a neurodegenerative disease called Multiple Systems Atrophy (MSA). It was horrible to watch, but I wasn’t the one suffering – she was, and she handled the three-year progression from symptoms to paralysis with grace and deep faith. We knew early on that her illness would be terminal, and so we had a long time to prepare, accept the inevitable, and say goodbye. It was hard, but I accepted her death, or was resigned to it, surprisingly without anger or fear. I kept praying, “Lord, if it is Your will, let her be healed, but if not, help her not to suffer…” and I accepted that it wasn’t His will for her to live. Plus, there was relief in knowing that her death meant she was no longer suffering. I grieved, and still grieve, of course, and I kept going, because I had to.
 
No, I told my friend, I don’t remember any clear signs of Jesus with me, no signs of God’s presence. Just acceptance and resignation. That it was hard, but get-through-able.
 
“What about that?” she said.
 
“What about what?” I asked.
 
“The fact that you were able to accept it and you weren’t distressed and you could keep going. Maybe that was from Jesus.”
 
Huh. I’d never really thought of it that way. That maybe the absence of distress – the absence of feeling anything – was actually the presence of God. God answering my prayers, invisibly, silently. Her words struck a chord in me. I’m still mulling them over. I didn’t think I was relying on the power of God for myself, but, arguably, Jesus was probably carrying me through my mom’s illness just as much as He does in that famous “Footprints in the Sand” story. 
 
I’m not really sure what this all means. But it makes me think that when I’m suffering, maybe I’ll never actually notice God. Maybe I can trust that even when I’m doing my best to be utterly self-sufficient and not rely on anyone, God is still holding me up in ways that I don’t even realize. Maybe… absence can be presence, too. 
 
God, You are in all things … that means Your felt absence must in fact always, irrefutably, be Your full Presence.




Kim Tan

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