by Rose Mary Dougherty

In a 1925 article, theologian Evelyn Underhill speaks of a man who had come to her with many questions about his seemingly ailing prayer. After dealing specifically with some of his questions, she said to him, "I think what you lack, Sir, is a healthy regard for the stupid."

At first glance, this response can seem condescending. This erudite woman, however, rather than proposing to tell the man what he did not know about his prayer, challenged him to relinquish his need for knowing, to honor his stupidity. She said that in renouncing knowledge the soul draws "from this absolute ignorance a knowledge which the understanding knows not how to attain."

John of the Cross has something similar to say. He tells us that eventually we will be purged of all our habitual ways of knowing, of all "particular knowledge" and be left only with a "vague, dark knowledge." Eventually, he says, the intellect is illumined with divine light that transcends the natural light of our knowing. When the time is ripe, we know just what we need to know, no more or no less, without knowing how we know. My experience tells me that while we are waiting to know, we can be left feeling very stupid. We can even look very stupid in the eyes of those, including (perhaps especially) ourselves, who look to us for knowledge and solutions that once seemed readily available to us.

Perhaps that is why I have gone in and out of a willingness for this stupidity. I don't like the sense of helplessness, of powerlessness that accompanies it. At times my heart has given its assent to the unknowing of stupidity. Yet when it seems that stupidity is going to diminish my effectiveness, when it threatens my self-image as one who knows how to be present with others or what to do for them, my head has resisted the willingness to which my heart has said yes. So I have gone through the charade of acting as though I know what needs to be done or at least thinking I should know.

Recently, however, I've come to be at home in my stupidity, to find a freedom in the powerlessness of not knowing. My sister in her dying helped bring me to this place.

Dorothy was in the hospital, dying of end stage liver disease. At first we were told she probably had six months. Then her doctor narrowed it to a few days. He said, in fact, that she would probably not last the night, but if she did, she would need to be moved back to the nursing home for insurance purposes. Four of us sat with Dorothy through the night. As morning came, her husband, daughter, and my sister went home to rest. Soon after they left, a physicians' assistant, Diane, came in to check on her. When she asked me how Dorothy was, I said I didn't think she was doing well and that I didn't understand, with so little time left, why they needed to move her in three hours. Diane looked me square in the eye and said, "Have you prayed about that?" I was so taken by surprise that I didn't know what to say. She said, "I'm going out to the desk to work. I'll pray out there. You pray in here."

I didn't ask God about Dorothy or her situation. I didn't ask God to care for her. Instead, I began to tell God what God should do. Dorothy had suffered enough, as had her husband and daughter as they watched her. Now, adding to the suffering was the impending move. God could take care of all of this by just taking Dorothy now.

I wasn't content with simply giving my advice to God. I began talking aloud to Dorothy who now appeared to be in a coma-like state. I told her I hoped she knew how much we loved her and that I wanted her to know it was okay with all of us if she let go now. I was telling her that it would probably be better for her if she could let go now just as my words seemed to stick in my mouth. Questions formed in my heart. Who was I to be telling her what she should do in this very sacred process? What did I think I knew? After a few minutes, I said to Dorothy, "I'm acting as though I know what you should be doing. I need to keep still and let you do it your way." She had the hint of a smile as she nodded a firm, "Yes." I made a pact with her that I would be there but that she had to let me know what she needed and when she needed it.

I sat with Dorothy in the quiet of an inner freedom after that. I didn't need to figure out anything. I only needed to be there. I somehow knew that God and Dorothy would do what needed to be done and that I would know what part, if any, I was to play. As the time for moving her approached, the nursing home called to say they did not have a room. I was able to chuckle to myself and later to the physicians' assistant as I acknowledged my limited vision of how God might solve the problem.

Dorothy stayed where she was until she died two days later. Four of us stayed with her through the nights, and I took the morning shift while the others rested. Early in the morning as I sat next to her, I was moved out of my chair to stand beside her and take her hand. Her breathing changed and she died very peacefully. God and she had kept their bargain. Her spirit connected with mine, and I knew what to do and when to do it. I, too, had kept my bargain. I was there, waiting.

The Tao te Ching asks: "Do you have the patience to wait till your mind settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving till the right action arises by itself?" I think perhaps now, because of my experience with Dorothy, I can more easily say yes to the waiting to know. I can even live my life with a healthy regard for the stupid.