I wonder if Jesus, the disciples, Francis, and the prophets and saints shied away from the crowds. We know they had to get away from the crowds from time to time. Did they ever shy away, or shrink just a little, in their midst?
Today I needed a quiet day, and I took it. Saturday is the day I am most likely to withdraw for a while.
But withdrawal does not mean complete and solitary confinement. Introverts know how to hide in plain sight as well as hide from everyone's sight. For me, to have a quiet day is to go about my business with a minimum of disturbances. Now I mean here to speak positively of disturbances; by them I mean making waves and being carried on waves. Earlier this week I wrote about interruptions, by which we come to life; one could just as easily call them disturbances.
But there are times when I desire nothing more than to come to rest, when life in its disturbances does not fill me with enthusiasm. Then, I need to retreat until I recover my zeal to interrupt and be interrupted.
So what did I do? Some reading, some walking, and a lot of praying. Except for an errand to the post office, I spent most of the daytime at home. All in the effort to do no more than be quiet.
Then late in the afternoon I did something wholly counterintuitive. In fact, I went to the one place where you would least expect a person not to be disturbed to be stubbornly quiet -- Zuccotti Park, the campsite of the Wall Street occupation. For nearly two hours this evening I meditated and prayed while sitting cross-legged under a thin young tree. I prayed the evening prayer from the Liturgy of the Hours; tried a centering prayer around the phrase "Lord, be with your people"; and silently recited the rosary. I stayed put until the crowds gathered too close for comfort.
In that time I remained mostly unseen and totally anonymous. One woman offered me a lollipop. Another person, he offered me a yellow and black button that said "We Shall Overcome." Another zealous fellow wanted to flyer me and tell me how to stop the bailouts. Two people asked me if I was all right and appeared deputized to help me if I was not all right. I said two words, one word, or no word to them and just nodded or gestured or made no acknowledgment at all. All I wanted to do was pray for them and not to be noticed by them. One tourist made his presence felt simply by staring at me through his camera. I looked up and saw him and hid my face from his predatory lens.
When first I arrived and puttered around looking for a meditation spot, a brawny, scruffy giant in overalls blocked my path and would not let me pass until I gave him a hug. I thought to myself, "Time to embrace the leper," and did as he wished, but I did not feel any sweeter for doing so. Still, love is an act of will, not a feeling.
Why did I go to the most unquiet place in the world to protest in dogged silence? Because I have faith that God can consecrate all the elements that the people have offered there in their daily assembly. Because the people themselves are the elements to be consecrated. Because their cry of revolution is at heart really a cry for evolution, and evolution is simply a continuous act of transubstantiation. I have faith that something like an evolution of human consciousness is happening in the occupation movement. Therefore, I came to witness with prayer, in the hope the body of Christ truly appears out of the people; and I came to adore, in the hope the body of Christ will really present itself. I wanted to offer a holy hour before a living tabernacle.
So I had to be there. At my shyest, I still want to be religious before a watching world. Still, because of my poor longing for a quiet day; because on this day my groanings for God are more chaste when I shut up; and because on this day I speak most obediently when I am silent, I had to be there in a hidden way.
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