Emptiness

 Last week I found a little book I had forgotten, shoved back on my bookshelf behind heavier things. It was The Reed of God, one once dear to my heart. I've been reading it every night and so it is again.

She begins with emptiness, the necessity if we are to be filled with Christ, We must be empty; we must be filled; and then—only then—and can we be the hands, the feet, and the beating heart that carries Christ where He wishes to go.

She speaks of three kinds of emptiness. The reed is the delicate emptiness through which the music of God can flow. The chalice is the solid emptiness in which sacrifice, necessary, and needed, can occur. A next is a soft emptiness in which life can be nurtured. We are, she says, all called to our own specific emptiness in order to be what He wishes.

My first image of God was of as the hub of the wheel that is my life. In that vision, a world of people, things, issues, worries, activity flowed in a chaotic circle held in place and given meaning by that hub.  She suggests a different image, one in which we enter into the emptiness at the center, by freeing our minds and souls of the chatter and the noise. It is harder than it sounds. I'm reminded of a mantra He gave me long ago: Listen; don't talk.

Advent is a good time to let the quiet seep in.