First and third readings

The scriptures today speak about finding the Lord. The gospel speaks about finding the Lord in the roaring winds that blow across our human lives and threaten to sink our boat (Mt 14:22-23). The nation finds the Lord in the roaring wind of 9/11 aimed at sinking Western Civilization’s ship of state. The Church finds the Lord in the painful sex abuse scandal which threatens to sink the Bark of Peter. We all find the Lord in some roaring wind that blows across our own personal lives and threatens to shipwreck us.

The first reading, however, has a delightfully different twist to it. We find the Lord not only in the roaring winds that blow across our human lives and terrify us, but also in life’s tiny whispering sounds that energize us and make life worthy living. In I Kings the Lord commands Elijah to go outside and stand on the mountain, and there he will experience the Lord passing by. A thundering earthquake shatters the silence, but the Lord is not in the earthquake. Then a roaring fire sweeps through the place, but the Lord is not in the fire. A howling wind comes up, but the Lord is not in the wind. Finally a tiny whispering sound could be heard, and the Lord was in it. Overwhelmed with the thought of having found the Lord, Elijah hid his face (1 Kings 19: 9, 11-13). We find the Lord not only in the roaring storms that blow across our human lives and terrify us but also in life’s tiny whispering sounds that energize us and make life worth living.

The whisper: a man waylaid

What are those tiny whispering sounds in which we find the Lord? A one-line definition never does justice to a profound idea. It usually takes a whole story to tell you what it is. Once upon a time a man was going from Jerusalem to Jericho and was waylaid by robbers and left half dead. Along came a Jewish priest who saw him, crossed the street and passed him by. Along came a Levite, the priest’s helper, who also saw the poor man, crossed the street and passed him by. Then along came a despised Samaritan. He stopped and poured the oil of compassion into the man’s wounds, then hoisted him onto his beast of burden and hurried him off to the nearest inn (Lk 10: 25-37). No thundering earthquake, no roaring fire, no howling wind on the road to Jericho --- just the tiny whispering sound of a man dying by the roadside. But the man from Samaria found the Lord in it, and he went down in history as the Good Samaritan.

The whisper: a widow

What are those tiny whispering sounds in which we find the Lord? A one-line definition never does justice to a profound idea. It usually takes a whole story to tell you what it is. One day Jesus and the apostles were in the temple near the treasury. The apostles were watching the rich and famous tossing in their huge donations. But the eye of Jesus caught a poor little widow dropping in her two pennies. Jesus called over to the others saying, "Come here and feast your eyes on this. I tell you this little lady gave more than all the others put together" (Mk 12:38-44). No thundering earthquake, no roaring fire, no howling wind in the temple that day --- just the tiny whispering sound of a little lady and her two pennies dropping into the temple treasury. But the Lord was in it, and her two pennies went down in history as the Widow’s Mighty Mite.

The whisper: a leper

What are those tiny whispering sounds in which we find the Lord? Again, it takes a whole story to tell you what it is. No good biographer of St. Francis of Assisi would ever neglect to tell the story about how this handsome young man born of wealthy parents rides out of Assisi one day on his stallion. He’s on the road to Perugia, and he comes upon a leper. He’s seized with panic. Just as he’s about to whip his horse into fast flight, he’s flooded by a powerful light of revelation and is thrown off his high horse, just like Paul of Tarsus. Suddenly he finds himself bending down and kissing the lowly leper. That, Francis writes in his last will and testament, marked the moment of his conversion. No thundering earthquake, no roaring fire, no howling wind on the road to Perugia --- just the tiny whispering sound of a leper. But Francis found the Lord in it, and the man from Assisi went down in history as the father of the great Franciscan family with sons and daughters as numerous as the sands of the sea.

The whisper: a robin

What are those tiny whispering sounds in which we find the Lord? One spring, a robin nested on the elbow of a downspout outside my kitchen window. I watched her go through all her appointed rounds. In conformity with an unalterable blueprint, she built her nest. In blind obedience to a mandate within, she brought her sacred eggs to term. With unwavering fidelity, she kept uninterrupted vigil over her chicks, sheltering them against a late winter snow. With marvelous know-how, she fed her chicks out of the scarcity of spring.

I stood in awe of her built-in appointed rounds, her standards of excellence and her easy miracle unfolding before me. Then one day, led by an eternal ordinance that governs all growth and love, she let go of her chicks. They flew away. The nest was empty, and I felt lonely but also very grateful. No thundering earthquake, no roaring fire, no howling wind --- just the tiny whispering sound of a robin on her quietly appointed rounds. But the Lord, creator of animals big and small, was in it all.

The whisper: the cabby’s lady

What are those tiny whispering sounds in which we find the Lord? Again, another story about a cabby who was a free spirit but also a very good man down deep. We’ve told the story before, but good stories are for telling and retelling. The cabby receives a call, 2:30 in the morning, to pick up a passenger in a quiet part of town. He arrives at a place where there is a single light glowing from a ground-floor window. Under such circumstances, many cabbies just honk their horn once or twice, wait a minute and then drive away. But sensing no danger, he gets out and knocks. A frail woman answers. She’s wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, and she looks like somebody out of the 1940’s. The apartment is practically empty. She has a small suitcase at her side.

Handing the cabby an address, she asks, “Could you drive through downtown?” “It’s not the shortest way,” he quickly answers. “Oh, I don’t mind,” she replies. “I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice. I don’t have any family left. The doctor says I don’t have very long.”

The cabbie looks into the rear mirror. Her eyes are glistening. He quickly reaches over and shuts off the meter. For the next two hours they drive through the city. She points out the building where she once worked as an elevator operator. They drive through the neighborhood where she and her husband lived when they were newlyweds. She asks the cabby to pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that once was a ballroom where she danced as a girl. Sometimes she would ask the cabby to slow down in front of a particular building or corner, and she would sit staring into the darkness--saying nothing.

As the first rays of the sun are lighting up the eastern sky, she suddenly says, “I’m tired. Let’s go now.” They drive in silence to the address. It is a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passes under a portico. Two orderlies come out to the cab; they obviously are waiting for her. They are solicitous and intent, watching her every move. The cabby opens the trunk and carries the small suitcase to the door. The woman is already seated in a wheelchair.

“How much do I owe you?” she asks. “Nothing,” he says. “Oh, but you have to make a living,” she answers. “There are other passengers,” he replies. Then he bends down and gives her a big hug. She holds on to him tightly, saying, “You gave an old woman a little moment of joy. Thank you.” He squeezes her hand, and then walks into the dim morning light. Behind him a door is closing. It is the sound of a life that is closing. The cabby doesn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. He simply drives aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, he can hardly talk. He keeps wondering, “What if the woman had gotten an angry driver? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked just once and then driven away?”

“As I look back now,” he tells us, “I do not think that I have done anything greater in my whole life. We are conditioned to think that our lives revolve around loud, showy, and noisy events. They don’t.” No thundering earthquake, no roaring fire, no howling wind on his taxi beat that night --- just the tiny whispering sound of a little lady on the last lap of life. But the Lord was in it, and the cabby went home at the break of dawn feeling that he had done nothing greater in his entire life.

Being finely tuned

Whatever makes the task of believing a little less difficult and a little easier is found not in the thundering or roaring or howling of life but in its whispers. Whatever lifts up our drooping spirits in the gloom of human existence, and helps us believe that life does have meaning and is worthwhile living is found not in the thundering or roaring or howling of life but in its whispers. Whatever brings us to the edges of our human existence and points to the beyond and beckoning and makes us suspect that perhaps we do live on, and that perhaps the best is yet to be, is found not in the thundering or roaring or howling of life but in its whispers.

Precisely because they are whispers, they demand fine-tuning of heart and ear. [i]But fine-tuning is an endangered species these days. In a culture that celebrates the violent, the rude and crude, the loud and boisterous it’s difficult to be finely tuned in heart and ear. In a culture that celebrates all man’s hi-tech gadgetry, it’s difficult to be finely tuned to a robin building a nest and pitching in with the miracle of spring. In a culture that celebrates only youth it is difficult to be finely tuned to a little lady on her last lap. In a culture which celebrates the loudly rich and famous, it’s difficult to be finely-tuned to a poor little widow and her two pennies or to a leper marginalized at the side of the road.

We need to turn down the noise in us and reduce the speed of life, so that we don’t rush by the thunderous messages wrapped up in the tiny whispers of life. Like the cabby, we have to reach over and turn off the meter and give ourselves to the whispers before us.

Conclusion

Meaning

At the end of the day, when we have sped by the victim at the roadside, the widow at the treasury, the leper at the city gate, the robin on the downspout, the little lady at journey’s end, the loss is ours, and what we have lost is meaning. We've asked it a thousand times in our lives, and we’ll keep asking it right to the very end: What in the world is it all about? It's called man’s search for meaning." That meaning the Lord does not scream into our ears but whispers it to us, and only those of us who are finely-tuned hear the whispering Lord.