“Religion must use law to empower itself and control the people needed in order to survive. I give you an ability to respond and your response is to be free to love and serve in every situation, and therefore each moment is different and unique and wonderful. Because I am your ability to respond, I have to be present in you. If I simply gave you a responsibility, I would not have to be with you at all. It would now be a task to perform, an obligation to be met, something to fail.”
“Oh, boy, oh, boy,” Mack said again, without much enthusiasm.
“Let’s use the example of friendship and how removing the element of life from a noun can drastically alter a relationship. Mack, if you and I are friends, there is an expectancy that exists within our relationship. When we see each other or are apart, there is an expectancy of being together, of laughing and talking. That expectancy has no concrete definition; it is alive and dynamic and everything that emerges from our being together is a unique gift shared by no one else. But what happens if I change that expectancy to an expectation—spoken or unspoken? Suddenly, law has entered into our relationship. You are now expected to perform in a way that meets my expectations. Our living friendship rapidly deteriorates into a dead thing with rules and requirements. It is no longer about you and me, but about what friends are supposed to do, or the responsibilities of a good friend.”
“Or,” noted Mack, “the responsibilities of a husband, or a father, or an employee, or whatever. I get the picture. I would much rather live in expectancy.”
“As I do,” mused Sarayu.
“But,” argued Mack, “if you didn’t have expectations and responsibilities, wouldn’t everything just fall apart?”
“Only if you are of the world, apart from me, and under the law. Responsibilities and expectations are the basis of guilt and shame and judgment, and they provide the essential framework that promotes performance as the basis for identity and value. You know well what it is like not to live up to someone’s expectations.”
“Boy, do I!” Mack mumbled. “It’s not my idea of a good time.” He paused briefly, a new thought flashing through his mind. “Are you saying you have no expectations of me?”
Papa now spoke up. “Honey, I’ve never placed an expectation on you or anyone else. The idea behind expectations requires that someone does not know the future or outcome and is trying to control behavior to get the desired result. Humans try to control behavior largely through expectations. I know you and everything about you. Why would I have an expectation other than what I already know? That would be foolish. And beyond that, because I have no expectations, you never disappoint me.”
“What? You’ve never been disappointed in me?” Mack was trying hard to digest this.
“Never!” Papa stated emphatically. “What I do have is a constant and living expectancy in our relationship, and I give you an ability to respond to any situation and circumstance in which you find yourself. To the degree that you resort to expectations and responsibilities, to that degree you neither know me nor trust me.”
“And,” added Jesus, “to that degree you will live in fear.”
Mack wasn’t convinced. “But don’t you want us to set priorities? You know: God first, then whatever, followed by whatever?”
“The trouble with living by priorities,” Sarayu said, “is that everything is seen as a hierarchy, a pyramid, and you and I have already had that discussion. If you put God at the top, what does that really mean, and how much is enough? How much time do you give me before you can go on about the rest of your day, the part that interests you so much more?”
Papa again interrupted. “You see, Mackenzie, I don’t just want a piece of you and a piece of your life. Even if you were able, which you are not, to give me the biggest piece, that is not what I want. I want all of you and all of every part of you and your day.”
Jesus now spoke again. “Mack, I don’t want to be first among a list of values; I want to be at the center of everything. When I live in you, then together we can live through everything that happens to you. Rather than the top of a pyramid, I want to be the center of a mobile, where everything in your life—your friends, family, occupation, thoughts, activities—is connected to me but moves with the wind, in and out and back and forth, in an incredible dance of being.”
“And I,” concluded Sarayu, “am the wind.” She smiled and bowed.
There was silence while Mack collected himself. He had been gripping the edge of the table with both hands as if to hold on to something tangible in the face of such an onslaught of ideas and images.
“Well, enough of all this,” stated Papa, getting up from her chair. “Time for some fun! You all go ahead while I put away the stuff that’ll spoil. I’ll take care of the dishes later.”
“What about devotion?” asked Mack.
“Nothing is a ritual, Mack,” said Papa, picking up a few platters of food. “So tonight, we are doing something different. You are going to enjoy this!”
As Mack stood up and turned to follow Jesus to the back door, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around. Sarayu was standing close, looking at him intently.
“Mackenzie, if you would allow me, I would like to give you a gift for this evening. May I touch your eyes and heal them, just for tonight?”
Mack was surprised. “I see well enough, don’t I?”
“Actually,” Sarayu said apologetically, “you see very little, even though for a human you see fairly well. But just for tonight, I would love you to see a bit of what we see.”
“Then by all means,” Mack agreed. “Please touch my eyes and more if you choose.”
As she reached her hands toward him, Mack closed his eyes and leaned forward. Her touch was like ice, unexpected and exhilarating. A delicious shiver went through him and he reached up to hold her hands to his face. There was nothing there, so he slowly began to open his eyes.
15
A FESTIVAL OF FRIENDS
You can kiss your family and friends good-bye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach, because you do not just live in a world but a world lives in you.
—Frederick Buechner, Telling the Truth
When Mack opened his eyes he had to immediately shield them from a blinding light that overwhelmed him. Then he heard something.
“You will find it very difficult to look at me directly,” said the voice of Sarayu, “or at Papa. But as your mind becomes accustomed to the changes, it will be easier.”
He was standing right where he had closed his eyes, but the shack was gone, as were the dock and shop. Instead he was outside, perched on the top of a small hill under a brilliant but moonless night sky. He could see that the stars were in motion, not hurriedly but smoothly and with precision, as if there were grand celestial conductors coordinating their movements.
Occasionally, as if on cue, comets and meteor showers would tumble through the starry ranks, adding variation to the flowing dance. Then Mack saw some of the stars grow and change color as if they were turning nova or white dwarf. It was as if time itself had become dynamic and volatile, adding to the seemingly chaotic but precisely managed heavenly display.
He turned back to Sarayu, who still stood next to him. Although she was difficult to look at directly, as usual, he could now make out symmetry and colors embedded within patterns, as if miniature diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and gems of all colors had been sewn into a garment of light, which moved first in waves and then scattered as particulates.
“It is all so incredibly beautiful,” he whispered, surrounded as he was by such a holy and majestic sight.
“Truly,” said the voice of Sarayu from out of the light. “Now, Mackenzie, look around.”
He did and gasped. Even in the darkness of the night everything had clarity and shone with halos of light in various hues and shades of color. The forest was itself afire with light and color, yet each tree was distinctly visible, each branch, each leaf. Birds and bats
created a trail of colored fire as they flew or chased one another. He could even see that in the distance an army of creation was in attendance: deer, bear, mountain sheep, and majestic elk near the edges of the forest, and otter and beaver in the lake, each shining in its own colors and blaze. Myriads of little creatures scampered and darted everywhere, each alive within its own glory.
In a rush of peach and plum and currant flames, an osprey dove toward the surface of the lake but pulled up at the last instant to skim across its surface, sparks from its wings falling like snow into the waters as it passed. Behind it, a large rainbow-clothed lake trout burst through the surface as if to taunt a passing hunter and then dropped back in the midst of a splash of colors.
Mack felt larger than life, as if he were able to be present wherever he looked. Two bear cubs playing near the feet of their mother caught his eye, ochre, mint, and hazel tumbling as they rolled and laughed in their native tongue. From where he stood, Mack felt that he could reach out and touch them, and without thought he stretched out his arm. He drew it back, startled, as he realized that he too was ablaze. He looked at his hands, wonderfully crafted and clearly visible inside the cascading colors of light that seemed to glove them. He examined the rest of his body to find that light and color robed him completely: a clothing of purity that allowed him both freedom and propriety.
Mack realized also that he felt no pain, not even in his usually aching joints. In fact, he had never felt this well, this whole. His head was clear and he breathed deeply the scents and aromas of the night and of the sleeping flowers in the garden, many of which had begun to awaken to this celebration.
Delirious and delicious joy welled up inside him and he jumped, floating slowly up into the air, then returning gently to the ground. So similar, he thought, to dream-flying.
And then Mack saw the lights: single moving points emerging from the forest, converging upon the meadow below where he and Sarayu stood. He could see them now high up on the surrounding mountains, appearing and disappearing as they made their way toward them, down unseen paths and trails.
They broke into the meadow, an army of children. There were no candles—they themselves were lights. And within their own radiance, each was dressed in a distinctive garb that Mack imagined represented every tribe and tongue. He could identify only a few, but it didn’t matter. These were the children of the earth, Papa’s children. They entered with quiet dignity and grace, faces full of contentment and peace, young ones holding the hands of even younger ones.
For a moment Mack wondered if Missy might be there, and although he looked for a minute, he gave up. He settled within himself that if she were, and if she wanted to run to him, she would. The children had now formed a huge circle within the meadow, with a path left open from near where Mack stood into the very center. Little bursts of fire and light, like a stadium of slow-popping flashbulbs, ignited when the children would giggle or whisper. Even though Mack had no idea what was going on, they obviously did, and the anticipation was almost too much for them.
Emerging into the clearing behind them and forming another circle of larger lights were those Mack presumed to be adults like himself, colorfully brilliant and yet subdued.
Suddenly, Mack’s attention was caught by an unusual motion. It appeared that one of the light beings in the outer circle was having some difficulty. Flashes and spears of violet and ivory would arch briefly into the night in their direction. As these retreated they were replaced by orchid, gold, and flaming vermillion, burning and brilliant sprays of radiance that burst out again toward them, flaming against the immediate darkness, only to subside and return to their source.
Sarayu chuckled.
“What’s going on?” Mack whispered.
“There is a man here who is having some difficulty keeping in what he is feeling.”
Whoever was struggling could not contain himself and was agitating some of the others nearby. The ripple effect was clearly visible as the flashing light extended into the surrounding ring of children. Those closest to the instigator seemed to be responding as color and light flowed from them toward him. The combinations that emerged from each were unique and seemed to Mack to contain a distinctive response to the one causing the commotion.
“I still don’t understand,” Mack whispered again.
“Mackenzie, the pattern of color and light is unique to each person; no two are alike and no pattern is ever the same twice. Here, we are able to see one another truly, and part of seeing means that individual personality and emotion are visible in color and light.”
“This is incredible!” Mack exclaimed. “Then why are the children’s colors mostly white?”
“As you near them you will see that they have many individual colors that have merged into white, which contains all. As they mature and grow to become who they really are, the colors they exhibit will become more distinctive, and unique hues and shades will emerge.”
“Incredible!” was all Mack could think to say, and he looked more intently. He now noticed that behind the circle of adults, others had emerged, spaced equally around the entire perimeter. Taller flames, they seemed to blow with the wind currents and were a similar sapphire and aqua blue, with unique bits of other colors embedded in each one.
“Angels,” answered Sarayu before Mack could ask. “Servants and watchers.”
“Incredible!” Mack said a third time.
“There is more, Mackenzie, and this will help you understand the problem this particular one is having.” She pointed in the direction of the ongoing commotion.
Even to Mack, it was obvious that the man, whoever he was, continued to have difficulty. Sudden and abrupt spears of light and color at times shot out even farther toward them.
“Not only are we able to see the uniqueness of one another in color and light, but we are able to respond through the same medium. But this response is very difficult to control, and it is usually not intended to be restrained as this one is attempting. It is most natural to let its expression just be.”
“I don’t understand.” Mack hesitated. “Are you saying that we can respond to one another in colors?”
“Yes.” Sarayu nodded, or at least Mack thought she did. “Each relationship between two persons is absolutely unique. That is why you cannot love two people the same. It simply is not possible. You love each person differently because of who they are and the uniqueness that they draw out of you. And the more you know another, the richer the colors of that relationship.”
Mack was listening but still watching the display before them.
Sarayu continued, “Perhaps the best way you can understand is for me to give you a quick illustration. Suppose, Mack, that you are hanging out with a friend at your local coffee shop. You are focused on your companion, and if you had eyes to see, the two of you would be enveloped in an array of colors and light, which mark not only your uniqueness as individuals but also the uniqueness of the relationship between you and the emotions you’d be experiencing in that moment.”
“But—” Mack began to ask, only to be cut off.
“But suppose,” Sarayu went on, “that another person you love enters the coffee shop, and although you are wrapped up in the conversation with your first friend, you notice this other’s entry. Again, if you had eyes to see the greater reality, here is what you would witness: as you continued your current conversation, a unique combination of color and light would leave you and wrap itself around the one who had just entered, representing you in another form of loving and greeting that one. And one more thing, Mackenzie: it is not only visual but sensual as well. You can feel, smell, and even taste that uniqueness.”
“I love that!” Mack exclaimed. “But except for that one over there”—he pointed in the direction of the agitated lights among the adults—“how are they all so calm? I would think there would be color everywhere. Don’t they know each other?”
“They know one another very well, most of them, but they are here for a celebration th
at is not about them, nor about their relationships with one another, at least not directly,” Sarayu explained. “They are waiting.”
“For what?” Mack asked.
“You will see very soon,” replied Sarayu, and it was obvious that she was not about to say any more on the matter.
“So then why”—Mack’s attention had returned to the troublemaker—“why is that one having so much difficulty and why does he seem focused on us?”
“Mackenzie,” Sarayu said gently, “he is not focused on us, he is focused on you.”
“What?” Mack was dumbfounded.
“The one having so much trouble containing himself—that one—is your father.”
A wave of emotions, a mixture of anger and longings, washed over Mack, and as if on cue his father’s colors burst from across the meadow and enveloped him. He was lost in a wash of ruby and vermillion, magenta and violet, as the light and color whirled around and embraced him. And somehow, in the middle of the exploding storm, he found himself running across the meadow to find his father, running toward the source of the colors and emotions. He was a little boy wanting his daddy, and for the first time he was not afraid. He was running, not caring for anything but the object of his heart, and he found him. His father was on his knees awash in light, tears sparkling like a waterfall of diamonds and jewels into the hands that covered his face.
“Daddy!” yelled Mack, and he threw himself onto the man who could not even look at his son. In the howl of wind and flame, Mack took his father’s face in his two hands, forcing his dad to look him in the face so he could stammer the words he had always wanted to say: “Daddy, I’m so sorry! Daddy, I love you!” The light of his words seemed to blast darkness out of his father’s colors, turning them bloodred. They exchanged sobbing words of confession and forgiveness, as a love greater than either one healed them.
Finally, they were able to stand together, a father holding his son as he had never been able to before. It was then that Mack noticed the swell of a song that washed over them both as it penetrated the holy place where he stood with his father. With arms around each other they listened, unable to speak through the tears, to the song of reconciliation that lit the night sky. An arching fountain of brilliant color began among the children, especially those who had suffered the greatest, and then rippled as if passed from one to the next by the wind, until the entire field was flooded with light and song.
The Shack Page 21