Draw Back, Physician

There is a play by Thornton Wilder called The Angel that Troubled the Waters. It’s based on the story of the pool of Bethesda in ancient Jerusalem. Legend held that an angel would come down from heaven every once in a while and stir the waters; and the first sick or crippled person to make it into the water would be healed. A lot of people came and stayed, hoping and waiting for healing.

What’s unique about Wilder’s play is that he imagines the scene through the eyes of a doctor – a seemingly healthy man. This doctor spends his days working in the city; he is known by many; but every now and then he comes to the pool, and no one knows why. On this day, he comes again. He stands waiting.

One of the others sees him, and knowing who he is, scolds him: “You have no right to be here. You are able to walk about. You pass your days in the city. … Go back to your work and leave these miracles to us who need them.”

The physician does not answer him, but remains still, waiting.

Unnoticed, an angel has appeared. Seen only by the physician, he walks slowly down the stairs to the pool and stands gazing into the water. Without turning his head, he addresses the physician. “Draw back, physician, this moment is not for you.”

The physician appeals: “Angelic visitor, I pray thee, listen to my prayer.”

The angel replies: “Healing is not for you.”

Physician: “Surely, surely, the angels are wise. Surely, O Prince, you are not deceived by my apparent wholeness. Your eyes can see the nets in which my wings are caught; the sin into which all my endeavors sink half-performed cannot be concealed from you.”

Angel: “I know.”

Physician: “It is no shame to boast to an Angel of what I might yet do in Love’s service were I but freed from this bondage.”

The angel does not directly answer him, but simply says that he must make haste.

And the physician continues his appeal: “Must I drag my shame, Prince and singer, all my days more bowed than my neighbor?”

The angel stands a moment in silence then speaks one final time: “Without your wound where would your power be? It is your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble into the hearts of men. The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human being broken on the wheels of living. In Love’s service only the wounded soldiers can serve. Draw back.”

And with that he swiftly kneels and puts his finger to the water, and as the water begins to ripple, one of the sick ones casts himself into it. It is the same man who scolded the physician moments earlier. As he emerges, healed, he sees the physician standing there. He comes up the stairs, dripping and joyful, and addresses him: “May you be the next, my brother. But come with me first, an hour only, to my home. My son is lost in dark thoughts. I—I do not understand him, and only you have ever lifted his mood. Only an hour . . . and my daughter since her child has died, sits in the shadow. She will not listen to us…”

Here the play ends.

And so, I imagine, begins a long walk home for the physician, with his soggy, happy friend. A long walk in more ways than one, as he carries the growing knowledge that he will walk through life unhealed, carrying a wound that is invisible to the rest of the world. These wounds can be harder to live with than the visible ones. I wonder, if the story would be continued, what the rest of the physician’s life would have looked like. Did healing come? Or did freedom come? They are two different things.

Sometimes healing doesn’t come. Maybe it will come eventually, but maybe the waiting is taking years. Maybe this waiting time is an invitation to enter into a work that you could not otherwise have done. A work that needs the knowledge and compassion only you have, because of what you’ve been through. Without a doubt, there are others in this same shadow who need your touch. Your light. Your language. Your story.

A Story of Loneliness

There is a story John O’Donohue told in Anam Cara. He writes, “A friend who was living in Germany told me of his battle with homesickness. He found the temperament, the order, the structures, and the externality of Germany very difficult. He had the flu during the winter, and the loneliness he had repressed came out to haunt him. He got desperately lonely, but instead of avoiding it, he decided to allow the loneliness to have its way. He sat down in the armchair and gave himself permission to feel as lonely as he wanted. As soon as he gave that invitation to his soul, the loneliness just poured through him. He felt like the most abandoned orphan in the cosmos. He cried and cried. In a way, he was crying for all the loneliness in his life that he had kept hidden. Though this was painful, it was a wonderful experience for him. When he let the loneliness flow, let the dam burst within, something shifted in his relation to his own loneliness. He was never again lonely in Germany. He became free once he had met the depth of his own loneliness, engaged and befriended it. It became a natural part of his life. An old friend of mine in Connemara said one evening as we were talking about loneliness – Loneliness is a black burnt hole, but if you close it up, you close out so much that can be so beautiful for you as well. There is no need for us to be afraid of loneliness. If we engage it, it can bring us new freedom.” – John O’Donohue, Anam Cara

May you never again be lonely in Germany.

“Your pain is the breaking of the shell
that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break,
that its heart may stand in the sun,
so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder
at the daily miracles of your life,
your pain would not seem
less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept
the seasons of your heart,
even as you have always accepted
the seasons that pass
over your fields.”

Khalil Gibran