Practicing Peace Through a Crucible
The Second Sunday of Advent
Reflection by The Rt. Rev. Audrey Cady Scanlan
[John] went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah,
“The voice of one crying out in the wilderness:
‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.’”
-Luke 3:3-4
When I think of being in a peaceful state, I do not automatically think of broods of vipers, unquenchable fire, or snacking on locusts while stepping into my camel’s hair and leather girdle. I prefer to think, rather, about scented candles and warm sunlight, ocean waves lapping softly on the shore, and whisper-traces of foam in the sand.
When I think of practicing peace, I don’t imagine a wild prophet standing waist deep in the muddy Jordan telling me that what he’s doing with water is only half the game—that the rest will be done through refining fire. I like to think, rather, about quiet, confidential conversations with friends in coffee shops; about offering an apology to someone whom I’ve hurt; or being the first one to break an estranged silence.
Yet the prophet John teaches us that sometimes reconciliation and peace are achieved by a trial or crucible. And the wisdom gleaned from this wild prophet reminds me of a crucible in my own life.
Ordained when I was 45 years old, I was also 45 years old when I made my first confession with a priest. A Franciscan friend had suggested that making a private confession might be a good idea before I was ordained. The idea of it scared me half to death. Sit in a room with another human being and talk about my lifetime of offenses? Now, it’s not like I had criminal acts in my past (except for that lipstick shoplifting episode in 4th grade) but I was intimidated, nonetheless.
I waited until my pre-ordination retreat. The kindly monk who was serving as my spiritual director told me to go to my room and write down every sin that I had ever committed. I thought that he was joking. He was not. It took me all night as I scanned my life, year by year, season by season, relationship by relationship. I tossed and turned all night, getting out of bed more than once to add to the list as my memory illuminated still another trespass. I skipped breakfast in the morning, too anxious to eat. The clock dragged until my 10 a.m. appointment. Sitting in a comfortable chair in the corner of his room, the dear old monk invited my recitation of the list. He sat quietly with his thumbs rubbing the soft leather of his prayer book as he listened with the ear of his heart. Handing me a folded white handkerchief, he let me compose myself before offering God’s absolution. And when he did, it was a sweet gift of grace that brought with it a feeling of cleanness, of holiness, of peace.
It wasn’t fun or easy. In fact, the whole exercise felt like refining fire, but it was, perhaps, the first time that I had ever practiced making peace with myself.
What difficult road toward practicing peace awaits your footfall?