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by Judy Cannato
Where can I go from your spirit?
Or where can I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there;
if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
If I take the wings of the morning
and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me fast.
- Psalm 139:7-10 (NRSV)
WHEN MY FATHER WAS DYING, I felt as though I were on automatic pilot, putting one foot in front of the other -- not attempting to see what lay ahead, simply holding on to the notion that what was required was to move on, one step at a time. Never had the words of Psalm 139 been so true for me. There were days that my bed was in Sheol, the place of the dead, where everything was gray and moved in slow motion, if there was any movement at all. There were other moments, like the time Dad said he felt so free that he could fly, that my spirit, too, rode on the wings of the morning. But most of my experience was somewhere in between these two extremes of depth and height.
It was during this time, when words in prayer often seemed meaningless -- if I even attempted to wrap my experience in words -- that I began to appreciate the prayer of the labyrinth. The set path that I knew would eventually wind its way to the center was a tangible expression of the trust in God's presence that kept me going. It was freeing to surrender myself to the path that enabled me to pray, one tentative step after the other. ...
The sacred circle of the labyrinth provides a unique vantage point from which to pray Psalm 139. The image that emerges in the opening lines of the psalm depicts a God who searches us. The word search comes from the Latin circare, "to go around." God encircles us, then goes around our innermost being, searching and knowing us through and through. The image suggests that God is intimately and integrally involved in our lives.
In this recognition a paradox emerges: We frequently concentrate on the search for God, but there is no need to search. God is already present. Also, God does not search for us, but searches us, examining our very being while encircling us in love. Just a glimpse of this notion calls me to cry out with the psalmist: "Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high that I cannot attain it" (v. 6).
The God who encircles us does not confine us, however. The psalmist experiences a God who remains present in the depths and heights of human experience: "If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. If I take the wings of the morning, ... your hand shall lead me" (vv. 9-10). Even in darkness we do not escape this encircling presence (vv. 11-12). The psalm reveals a God who neither prohibits our freedom nor intervenes in our fleeing, but who watches over us in close, loving attentiveness.
Navigating all the twists and turns of the labyrinth invites us to reflect on our own wanderings. There are times that the labyrinth's course takes us near the center, and we think that we are very close to its heart, only to find ourselves being swept out to its farthest perimeters. As we walk, we may be reminded of our own experiences of Sheol, or of times we have taken fearful or joyful flight, or been engulfed in darkness. In recalling our journey we may see with a deeper clarity that God has always been present. The recognition of the divine presence in all the unexpected twists and hairpin turns of our life moves us to acknowledge that it is holy ground, because God has walked there.
The Labyrinth: Praying Psalm 139 by Judy Cannato appears on pages 37-44 of Weavings Journal, May/June 2002. Copyright © 2002 by The Upper Room. Used with permission. Do not reproduce without written permission of the publisher.
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