I once heard someone breathe a sigh from the depths of his soul. In a tragedy that touched the entire parish, a teenager died in an automobile accident as he and two friends were driving back to college. At the funeral Mass, in the stillness after Communion, once the singing had ceased and everyone was seated quietly for prayer, the young man’s father breathed a long, deep sigh. Seated in the sanctuary only a few feet from him, I heard and felt it intensely. But the sigh was so profound that it affected everyone in church.
No one could mistake that his was a sigh of sadness, filled with the unspeakable sorrow of parents who have lost a child. So spontaneous and heartfelt was the sigh that it captured what everyone was feeling and infused the congregation with a tangible atmosphere of unity and compassion.
But there was also no mistaking that this sigh did something more: it brought healing. It was a kind of catharsis in the presence of God, a spontaneous and heartfelt surrender to God of everything about this heartbreaking tragedy. I’ll never forget that moment with both its sadness and its healing surrender.
I still hear from the young man’s parents several times a year. With courage, determination and the support of church and friends they have moved forward. With loving pride they still speak of a son lost in his prime, of how he had flowered in college, and of how classmates honored him four years after his death at a graduation ceremony he would never attend. They had every reason to be proud, and they still do. They still miss him, and God understands.
I believe the deep sigh we heard in church that day was the first of many steps forward. Breathed in the presence of God — breathed out to God — it was a kind of self-emptying that allowed God’s grace to enter and do his delicate work.
Recounting the events surrounding Jesus’ death, Matthew and Mark tell us that in his agony Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” Pouring out everything for our sakes in life and in death, he prayed the opening lines of Psalm 22 (and perhaps the entire psalm): “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He opened his heart, spilling his deepest emotions to his Father in the sight and hearing of all.
The Evangelists describe the moment of Jesus’ death in differing but comparable ways. Matthew writes, “Jesus cried out again in a loud voice, and gave up his spirit.” Mark writes, “Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last.” Luke writes, “Jesus cried out in a loud voice, ’Father, into your hands I commend my spirit’; and when he had said this he breathed his last.” And John writes, “When Jesus had taken the wine [offered toward his mouth on a sprig of hyssop], he said, ’It is finished.’ And bowing his head, he handed over his spirit.”
In biblical language, the words “spirit” and “breath” have the same origin. At the point of death, Jesus “breathed his last” and “handed over his spirit.” Having prayed in painful agony on the cross (“Why have you abandoned me?”) he sighed — poured out — breathed out — surrendered — everything to his Father. Father Raniero Cantalamessa, the preacher to the papal household, notes that John intended two meanings when he wrote that Jesus “handed over his spirit:” a natural one (he drew his last breath) and a mystical one (he emitted his Holy Spirit). “The last breath of Jesus was the first breath of the Church,” says Cantalamessa.
The mystical meaning which John intimates is confirmed Easter evening, when Jesus appeared to the apostles in the Upper Room. He “breathed on them and said, ’Receive the Holy Spirit.’” He had breathed his last in death, but through the Holy Spirit he breathed new, healed, resurrected life into the Church – and into you and me.
I think Psalm 22 is like a long, deep sigh from the depths of one’s soul, a sigh filled with both sadness and healing. Like most psalms, it should be read in its entirety to appreciate what it expresses and where it leads. From the opening line of aching desolation, the psalmist takes us through remembrance of God’s faithfulness (“You have been my guide since I was first formed, my security at my mother’s breast”), to prayer for his help (“But you, O Lord, be not far from me; O my help, hasten to aid me”), to praise for his reply (“I will proclaim your name to my brethren … For he has not spurned nor disdained the wretched man in his misery … And to him my soul shall live”).
A sigh of sadness that brings healing because it surrenders everything to God and allows God to show his loving care as he has always done. We need not be facing a tragedy to receive God’s healing as we figuratively — or literally — surrender everything to him in a sigh from the depths of our souls. His Spirit, his life-giving breath, will rush in with peace and give us courage to take the next step forward with him.
Do you have an intention for Bishop Sartain’s prayer? If so, send it to him at Bishop Sartain’s Prayer List, Diocese of Little Rock, 2500 North Tyler St., P.O. Box 7239, Little Rock, AR 72217.