The prophet Habakkuk begins with the old, familiar cry, “How long, O Lord?” We’ve all said this at one point or another. How long will this horrid thing last? How long until we feel better? All in essence asking: How long do we have to wait? We don’t want to wait. We’re rather impatient and don’t want to have to outlast pain or drudgery or whatever it is. How long, O Lord?
Then, in Chapter 2, God answers Habakkuk’s question, although not with a set amount of time. God says, “Write down the vision and make it plain, so that a runner can read it.” Write down the plan. Eugene Peterson, author of “The Message,” interprets “make it plain” as “write it in big, block letters so that it is easy to read from a distance or at a glance.” That’s what it means “so that a runner can read it.” Write down the plan, and make it super easy to read, so that everyone can read it.
“Make it plain” is also often advice given to homiletics students; that is, seminarians in preaching class. The task of the sermon, we are told, is to make the Lord’s Word plain. What does God have to say to God’s people on this day? And what’s the clearest way to articulate and convey that message?
There are some messages that are harder to articulate and convey than others. Some are simply more complex or have more moving parts. Others may involve more abstract ideas that can be more difficult to pin down. Still, others are hard because the content is more painful.
In the search for a new podcast to listen to on my commute, I looked up Megan Devine, author of “It’s OK That You’re Not OK,” and found her podcast by the same name. The episode title that stood out to me was called, “Living with Chronic Illness: A Conversation for Everyone with a Body, with Sarah Ramey.” Sarah Ramey published her memoir in 2020, “The Lady’s Handbook for Her Mysterious Illness.” In the episode, Megan describes the book as “making visible something that is invisible,” in this case, invisible diseases.
There are many of us who live with chronic, invisible diseases. We do not “look” sick. At the same time, we will never meet the criteria of health that is “freedom from disease or ailment.” We get to look healthy, and act healthy, but those outward, observable traits are only some combination of medication, sleep, caffeine, exercise, the weather, and luck. There is no cure. We have good days and we have bad days. And our diseases largely fly under the radar because they are invisible.
Interestingly enough, the post I wrote over the year of weekly Substack newsletters that was shared the most was this one in which I included a picture of me receiving my infusion of the medicine that largely manages my mostly invisible disease. I made visible what is often invisible. Rheumatology offices are plenty busy, and it’s rare to be alone in the infusion room. However, those infusions tend to be a part of the experience to which few non-rheumatology patients can relate.
Making visible what is invisible is also what we call a sacrament in the church. A sacrament is the visible sign of God’s invisible grace. It’s where we recognize something visible and tangible as holy and a mark of God’s love for us. While the Catholic Church has seven sacraments, most Protestant churches have two: baptism and communion. The waters of baptism and the Eucharistic bread and cup are items around which we can engage all five senses to know and feel God’s love. In addition, in United Methodist theology, they are also infused with prevenient grace, God’s love and care that always precedes our own actions. That’s why United Methodists baptize babies and why we practice an open communion table, where all are welcome, regardless of membership, standing, faith, etc.
Similarly, I believe the work of a Chaplain is often to make visible what is invisible. Chaplains serve as a reminder of the Divine even in the hospital, the oncology ward, or the emergency department. We are reminders that you are not alone. We’re present to walk with you, to help you process thoughts and feelings, to name strategies or identify what comes next. We serve as a companion, which in old French, literally means “one who breaks bread with another.” We help make plain what feels invisible and untouchable and unsayable in the worst moments.
In the Harry Potter series, Harry Potter is one of the few characters who is willing to speak Voldemort’s name. Not being afraid to name Voldemort lessens Voldemort’s power over Harry and lessens the distance between them. By refusing to say, “he-who-must-not-be-named,” Harry makes it plain just who Voldemort is. Perhaps beyond the scope of J.K. Rowling’s intention but naming Voldemort for who he is also contributes to Harry’s own healing.
So many traumatic events fall in the range of unspeakable. Keeping them unspeakable gives them power over you. Telling the story, saying the unspeakable, lessens the story’s hold over you. This is trauma work. As one colleague says, “If you can name it, you can tame it.” But you can’t tame it until you’ve named it. The feeling of trauma will start to subside once you start making it visible, or audible, or whatever sensory mechanism you choose to convey it. As another colleague once told me, “The story that can be told has less power over us than the story that cannot be told.” What story do you need to tell so that it no longer has power over you? What feels unsayable that actually needs saying? What is invisible that you can make visible?