Absent

 

A word about absent.

When I was a kid growing up, one of the vague memories I have when I was going to school was my teachers calling the role. Miss Jordan in the fourth grade would stand in front of the class the first thing every morning with her gradebook in her hand, and she would say, It’s time for roll call. On the first day of class for the school year, she told us what that meant. She would read our names. We were supposed to answer with either here or present. I do remember one morning when the roll was called that Janet Callpaper, who was very smart and knew some Latin, said odd sum when Miss Jordan read her name. Oddsum, I later learned, is Latin for present or I am here. I never said oddsum, though. I just said here when Miss Jordan read my name. I still remember the time when my buddy Ron Yates was absent for three or four days in a row. And Miss Jordan asked, Does anyone know anything about Ronnie? Is he sick? Of course I always knew what was going on in Ron’s life because we were best friends. And I spoke up and I said, Yeah, he he jumped off a roof and bit his tongue really bad. Had to go to the doctor and get it sewed up. He’ll be back on Monday, I think. Miss Jordan always looked sad when one of her students was absent because of sickness, but you know, she never said, okay, we need to pray for Ronnie or or offer prayer for anyone else who might be absent. I always wondered why that was, that we never prayed for sick kids, but I never asked. Absence and silence were always understood in Miss Jordan’s class. The fact that there was silence after she read the name of a person who was absent was logical. When a person is absent, their voice is silent too. I’m very acquainted with seasons in my life when God was silent. I prayed. The room didn’t shake or quake when I called his name. I listened for some unmistakable answer, some odd soon, or I am here, I am present. I called, but no voice came out of heaven. All I heard was a clock on the wall or the hum of our refrigerator. I make a serious mistake, however, if I assume that silence indicates absence. The Bible is honest about this. David cried, How long, O Lord, will you forget me forever? And Jesus himself prayed from the cross, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Those are not the words of people pretending that faith is easy. Those are the words of people standing in the ache of silence and still turning their faces toward God. And then of course there is that little Latin word that Janet Culpepper knew before the rest of us ever learned what it meant. Oddsum. I am here. In a sense, that’s the whole story of the gospel, isn’t it? Not that we finally learned how to climb high enough to find God, but that God came looking for us. The word became flesh and dwelt among us. Jesus is God’s great oddsum. God saying to a frightened, broken, lonely world, I am here. Emmanuel means God with us. That does not mean we always understand what he’s doing. It does not mean that his silence will end on Friday afternoon, and then he will finally speak up. It does, however, mean that God’s chair is not empty. When the role is called in whatever classroom of sorrow, confusion, waiting, or grief you find yourself sitting today, do not mistake God’s quietness for his absence. God has already answered. Od soom, says Jesus, I am here.