Henri Nouwen
1932 — September 21, 1996
One afternoon this fall, I was driving home, listening to National Public Radio's All things Considered and catching up with the events of the day. That's how I heard about the death of Henri Nouwen. When I arrived home, I turned on the national television news for the announcement; not a word, not a breath, not a hint. Henri had slipped away without notice by the networks, like Jesus skirting away from the cliff and through the crowd on the day of his debut. Downward mobility! Henri died the way he lived.
I know he struggled with the pressures of popularity, even though he avoided acquiring that smooth and comfortable stage presence that many long for. And I don't think it was an act. Henri looked awkward in front of people and seemed always surprised when so many of us showed up, wanting to listen to him, sing with him, be with him. He jumped onto the stage and then ran for cover into the shelter of the waiting arms of L'Arche Community, a community of developmentally-challenged people in Toronto, There he could breath osier — downward mobility was a way of life and faith in that little part of the world.
In the Covenant, we got to hear him in 1983 at a midwinter conference. There were few gatherings of the ministerium before this that were as rich as this one, and perhaps none after it. This one man, sitting on a chair in that crummy hotel in Chicago, brought a presence that gathered us into a real conventicle.
Glen Wiberg began the introduction:
For most of us, the introduction of our guest has already taken place through his writings. And hearing him this afternoon will be like hearing an old friend. Unlike many popular authors who burn out or fizzle out after the brilliant fireworks of a first or second book, each additional oKering of Henri Nouwen has been a new step forward, a further development, a fresh ascent to Mount Tabor for yet another epiphany.
This was not true for me. I had read nothing. Henri had slipped past my own eyes. Yet, if Wiberg thought this was going to be worthwhile, I had better sit up front.
Henri began, expressed appreciation for being asked to speak in such a gathering, and then.... "What I'd like to do is to speak about the spiritual life.... And I want to start with a very simple observation... which is that... [distracted-eyes darting] ... that... I'm trying to be more concentrated.... I gotta wait until people are seated or at least become quiet... so I'll sit here for a second" Henri stopped. Waited. Watched.
There would be no competition for attention tonight. No chance to drift off or hang out in the back. This was not entertainment, this was different, new and fresh, This was the spiritual life. Right here, in those moments of waiting. "Set yourself aside," he seemed to ask of us. "Let yourself be empty."
It is a moment as vivid for me today as it was back then. Henri, like Elijah proclaiming the presence of God through silence, patiently waited for the noise to subside. All those seductive voices, all that clanging, all the noise began to settle as a lake working itself toward stillness. We experienced the movement of downward mobility into a community of text and spirit where emptiness is the prerequisite for the life of abundance.
Since then I have read often in his writing. Nothing has changed from that first encounter. The deep themes remain in him, not as superficial repetition from the "burned out" but as one who continued to be centered in the place that matters most. It is to this place that Henri returned in his latest published writing. It feels like a fitting benediction.
Am I afraid to die? I am every time I let myself be seduced by the noisy voices of my world telling me that my "little life" is all I have and advising me to cling to it with all my might. But when I let these voices move to the background of my life and listen to that small soft voice calling me the Beloved, I know that there is nothing to fear and that dying is the greatest act of love, the act that leads me into the eternal embrace of my God whose love is everlasting. (Life of the Beloved, pp. 110, 111 ).
Good night, Henri. Sleep well. Thanks for your good work among us. Adoramus Te, Domine!