One winter, I went with my mother to a charismatic healing Mass, because it couldn’t hurt. The service was emotional—tacky, to be honest— and the fervor of the scattered congregation seemed a little sheepish and forced, as they softly hooted and called “Amen!” into the chilly air of the church. We lined up and the priest recited some words of healing—I forget them utterly—over each of us. He gave us each a firm shove on the forehead, to put us off balance in case the Holy Spirit wanted to overcome anyone. A few people crumpled and passed out, snow melting quietly off their boots onto the floor. Most of us just staggered a bit under the pressure and then went back to our seats.
Well, another dead encounter with dead people in a dead world. I went to sit down. Nothing had changed because nothing could change. I was dead, and everyone else was allowed to be alive. Why? Who knows? Someone had been sent for help, but help would not come. Help was not for me.
And then I heard these words in my head, “You made Me wait. Now you can wait for a while.” They were not my words. The tone was warm, a little sad, with a small vein of humor: I think I was being teased, chided for taking so long to send for help. You like games, talitha? All right, I will play. Now, wait.
If you have ever lived inside a black hole, if you have moved about the world enclosed in a dome of sound proof glass, with no voices but your own voice, which you hate above all other sounds in the world; if you have felt so bad for so long that you don’t even want life to get better, you just want it to be over—then you will understand that it was very, very good to hear this voice.
I was not merely sitting, it told me. I was sitting and waiting. Someone was with me; or at least, someone was on the way. I was happy to wait. I was happy! This was new.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Simcha Fisher on healing
Read the whole thing.
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