Jan 01., 2016   /   General, Homilies, Soul Food

A Pondering Heart

This homily was given by Fr. Arnel Aquino, SJ, on January 1, 2016, at the Cenacle Retreat House.

Early this week, we went on a full ferry boat on our way to Bantayan Island. Across from us sat a mother, and on her lap, a very restless toddler. The little boy was irrepressible. He would squirm out of his mom’s arms, then go onto the floor. There was very little legroom between benches so the little boy wouldn’t notice he was already under the seat in front. Then he would suddenly straighten up and bang his head under the seat, and start to scream. Then his mother would ease him out from under there, put him on her lap. He’d be fine for a while. Then he’d start being antsy again, and start squirming away, and sliding down onto the floor. Same story. Banged his head again, screamed, rescued. This happened around four times through the hour-and-a-half hour trip. I’d have been flustered on the second time that the same thing happened, were I the mother. I’d have tried to, like, “reason” with the baby in some awkward, if stupid way to solve “a problem”. But this mother, like many mothers—she had her toddler on a very long leash.

It was the look on the mother’s face that I found most haunting. It was an unflinching, contemplative look. Not smiling but not frowning either. Not a weak, helpless look, but not a grave, heavy-handed glare either. She was very “there”, very present to her baby. Yet, she also looked like she was present to a hundred other things a-swirl in her mind. The best metaphor for her gaze we could borrow from Mary: the look of “pondering these things in her heart.” 

Many of us are familiar about pondering things in our hearts. We also call it contemplation, don’t we? To ponder contemplatively. And it makes sense that mothers have the forbearance of a Job when they ponder their children in their hearts, because, as we know, unlike the thinking mind, the contemplative heart has a lot more space. Pondering in the heart has plenty of room where our thoughts and considerations can freely drift and dance, without censorship, without analysis, or do’s and don’t’s, or should’s and shouldn’t’s. In fact, one clear sign that we’re pondering with our hearts is when we do not obsess about dichotomies. A contemplating heart has room for contradictions and paradoxes. When our hearts ponder, we’re not cramped by either/or’s, or all-or-nothing’s. A contemplating heart has room for both/and’s, yeses and no’s, should’s as well as shouldn’t’s—and still be at peace.

“Hay nako, anak,” Mary must’ve pondered as she gazed at Jesus. “How much you’ve already gone through before you were even born. In the eyes of the world, I’m your dalagang–ina, so you’re an anak sa labas. The angel said you’re the son of God, and savior of the world. But look at your woeful, makeshift nursery, anak.” How much more irony was there for the more fastidious among us to analyze and solve? But in Mary’s pondering heart, there was no contradiction pressing to be straightened, no mistake needing correction. Everything belonged; everything fell into place in that wide space that her pondering heart was.

A second clear sign that we’re pondering with our hearts is when love silences fear. When we contemplate with our hearts, love does not erase all fear—for there are things we’re still afraid of when we contemplate about our life. But in a pondering heart, love defangs our fears. It neutralizes its venom.

Mary actually had much to fear—before, during, and even after her son’s birth. For one, her womb was growing even before a Joseph showed up at the door; probably why she had to go on self-exile to Elizabeth’s, for fear of being accused of adultery and sentenced to death by stoning. When Mary went on labor, she was far from the welcome of home. Then, no sooner than the child was born, a mad king decreed the massacre of innocents. Oh, there was a lot to fear alright. But Mary’s pondering heart had more space for love than fear. Her love for God far exceeded her fear of men. If ever she was afraid, and I’m sure she was, she never feared for herself alone, which was probably why her world didn’t come crashing down on her. Fear for nobody but ourselves does that to us, remember? It shrinks our world, cramps our space and makes it hard for us to breathe. Kapag natatakot tayo para sa sarili lamang, lalo na dahil pinakamahal natin ang sarili lamang, lumiliit ang mundo natin.

A third and final sign of pondering with the heart is that latitude we give for God to move and do whatever he wishes in the space we relinquish to him. It’s like welcoming into your home someone you owe a lot to: you give up your bedroom for him, you leave for him the tastiest portions of the meal, you give him the keys to your house and tell him not to worry about the time of his coming’s and going’s, and that he could wake you up any time if he needs anything, anything at all. That’s the kind of space a contemplative heart has for God, a space of total surrender out of deep respect and gratitude. All her life, Mary welcomed God that way, with a life of constant surrender of her space to whatever God or his son chose to be and to do—even to the way her son chose his death. Pati ‘yon, kahit masakit, napagkasya ni Maria sa lawak ng kanyang puso.

I imagine that the way Mary contemplated her child is very, very similar to how God contemplates us, from the day he willed our birth, up to now. The divine pondering has unbelievable space for all our contradictions, our inconsistencies, our infidelities. Every inch of God-space is filled with divine love that casts out all fear. And in the strangest ways, think about it, before we could ever surrender ourselves to God, God has already surrendered himself to us and all we desire—fickle and self-absorbed that we can get. Our woes? They’re the consequence of our insatiable restlessness, of being over-protective of our space even when it means encroaching on each other’s. Our woes are not God’s punishment. But we always tend to think of misfortune as God’s punishment for our sins than admit that they’re the result of our childish squirming out of his arms. Then we’re trapped into that troubled space, and bang our heads and start to cry. Then God, like a mother, comes to the rescue. He breaks no bones by grabbing nor stabs us by dagger-looks. He gazes as he lifts up. He contemplates as he saves. The divine heart is spacious with love. And in that space, everything about us belongs—though we have trouble believing that—that in the space of God’s pondering heart, everything falls into place, everything belongs.

For this new year, let’s really pray that like Mary’s heart, ours become more contemplative, that they may hold plenty of room for paradoxes and contradictions, and a wide space for love that casts out fear, and freedom to relinquish to God our interiority, so he can rest there, and move, and even dance. May we never lose that space we have for God in our pondering. We can be sure God will never give up our space in his. Amen.

(All images from the internet.)