[the great disquiet]

Jesus answered her, "If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water."
John 4:10

To the water's edge I come, I run, to climb beneath the bridge, my cradle from the sky, my shadowed place and escape, when the world has lurched too hard and the horizon widened in chasms. I come to be guarded from over-exposure. I can hide beneath the old stone arch and loose my voice beneath the voice of the river. To the water's edge I come, I run, to climb away out of sight, where no one will find me, where the forest stretches green along the river banks outside of my enclosure and I sit with my back against the stone, water up to my ankles, skipping my thoughts across the surface, counting their leaps, watching them sink. I am auditioning ideas across the echoing air, and with the forthcoming clarity I drown illusions one by one .

Welcome to the great disquiet, my fear of uncertainty, the fury of my impatience. Welcome to the revelation of my own hypocrisy, the devaluation of my words, the new conviction that I can talk a lot about faith but that without action it means nothing—so mine means nothing. I've been living like I have to cover for God, like I have to be the source of my own wisdom. I've been living like my night watches contain paths to truth, solutions and answers, like I could wrestle until dawn and win. I 've been forgetting the miracle of direction, the hope of salvation and the peace of the Voice that will speak in due time.

I like to say that I avoid interior life, am concerned with others, push away from over-introspection, from solipsism. I like to say that I live in the exterior world and am rooted in the business of it, lost in the needs of others, lost in the rhythm of my work, satisfied by my place. But I cannot have outward serenity without inward peace. Oh the chorus of many voices, welling up in a new and throbbing dark . Oh the depth of the shades around me and the breadth of the words I cannot complete. Can I cover the lines of this struggle? Can I quiet other voices with my own? Can I light the path that calls me? Can I appear whole even as I divide?
I keep my inner house in order best along the water. This is the place I still my soul, running to the seaside or the lake, the brackish mouth of the bay or the river, stomping along the mossy banks, casting out my demons of doubt, shouting myself empty of lies, whispering the truest things I know. I will lay the air thick with words, like tiles to arrange, like words on a page, subject to edits, and addition, and subtraction. These are my most honest prayers, my truest moments. I've come to a bridge forgotten in the woods because here I forget myself and remember God. Here I see these seasons of rearrangement and stripping as momentary imbalance for the sake of finding my true center. This is the refinement and reappropriation. This is my recitation from memory of the things I really believe. Beneath the turmoil of my changing ideas and new understanding, God remains the same.

There is something about the water that grounds me, that loosens memories, that cleanses me. As the woods grow dark, I hear the voice of the One who calls, who has scars deeper than my wounds and vision greater than my own, water for me to drink and rest for my soul. I cannot live without faith or run without rest, I cannot sleep without peace. I am blind and I cannot lead myself or others. I am sick and I cannot heal myself or others. I am lost and I cannot lead myself home. My Savior will not spare me from the very best trials but he will give me Water to drink and he will lift up my head.

Come, all you who are thirsty,
come to the waters;
and you who have no money,
come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without cost.
Why spend money on what is not bread,
and your labor on what does not satisfy?
Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good,
and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.
Give ear and come to me;
hear me, that your soul may live.

Isaiah 55

Composed by one of sanctuarys resident writers: hannah clarkin

// Go to the media section of the sanctuary website: sanctuaryworship.com for talks, music and other beautiful things. //