Free Walking on Water by Madeleine L'Engle Page B

that his disciples, whom he had called to be with him all the way, would not stand with him at the end? Without exception they fled the garden, even John and James and Peter, who had been with him the most. And of the men, only John was at the foot of the cross. The women were there, perhaps because throughout the ages women have been allowed to remain more in touch with the intuitive self than have men, who traditionally have been trained to limit themselves to the rational self. Men are to be strong; able and ready to fight, never to cry; to solve all problems with the rational intellect. While women, involved as they are in the nurture and upbringing of children far more than men, have thereby been helped to retain the child and the dreamer in themselves.
    And yet, despite the fear and unfaithfulness of his followers, Jesus’ love never faltered, for it was not dependent on the merit and virtue and the qualifications of those he loved.
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    Wounds. By his wounds we are healed. But they are our wounds, too, and until we have been healed we do not know what wholeness is. The discipline of creation, be it to paint, compose, write, is an effort toward wholeness.
    The great male artists have somehow or other retained this wholeness, this being in touch with both intellect and intuition, a wholeness which always has to be bought at a price in this world. How many artists, in the eyes of the world, have been less than whole? Toulouse-Lautrec had the body of a man and the legs of a child. Byron had a clubfoot. Demosthenes was a terrible stutterer. Traditionally, Homer was blind. The great artists have gained their wholeness through their wounds, their epilepsies, tuberculoses, periods of madness.
    My son-in-law, Alan Jones, told me a story of a Hasidic rabbi renowned for his piety. He was unexpectedly confronted one day by one of his devoted youthful disciples. In a burst of feeling, the young disciple exclaimed, “My master, I love you!” The ancient teacher looked up from his books and asked his fervent disciple, “Do you know what hurts me, my son?”
    The young man was puzzled. Composing himself, he stuttered, “I don’t understand your question, Rabbi. I am trying to tell you how much you mean to me, and you confuse me with irrelevant questions.”
    “My question is neither confusing nor irrelevant,” rejoined the rabbi. “For if you do not know what hurts me, how can you truly love me?”
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    No matter how much we are hurt, God knows about it, cares about it, and so, through his love, we are sometimes enabled to let go our hurts.
    But it is not only our hurts which we are required to give over but our wholenesses, too. It must all be his.
    To trust, to be truly whole, is also to let go whatever we may consider our qualifications. There’s a paradox here, and a trap for the lazy. I do not need to be “qualified” to play a Bach fugue on the piano (and playing a Bach fugue is for me an exercise in wholeness). But I cannot play that Bach fugue at all if I do not play the piano daily, if I do not practice my finger exercises. There are equivalents of finger exercises in the writing of books, the painting of portraits, the composing of a song. We do not need to be qualified; the gift is free; and yet we have to pay for it.
    Isaiah knew himself to be mortal and flawed, but he had the child’s courage to say to the Lord, “Here I am. Send me.” And he understood the freedom which the Spirit can give us from ordinary restrictions when he wrote, “When you pass through deep waters I am with you; when you pass through rivers, they will not sweep you away; walk through fire and you will not be scorched, through flames and they will not burn you.” He may not have had this understanding before he wrote those words, for such understanding is a gift which comes when we let go and listen. I think I looked up this passage because I dreamed that a friend reached into the fireplace and drew out a living coal and held it in