Cicadas and Sacred Purpose

Yesterday, a client and I were discussing the coming plague of cicadas. She said she doesn’t understand what the point of their lives is, since they live for such a short time. Our conversation got me thinking about how we often misunderstand the value and purpose of things we do not immediately grasp. I started to explain my theory, beginning with “we assume because their life above ground is short that they serve no purpose.” She cut me off with some scientific mumbo jumbo, so I will share the rest of my thoughts here.

First, in our arrogance, we tend to assume that because we do not understand something or see its purpose, it is not understandable and has no purpose. To illustrate this, I recall that as a child, I frequently got sore throats. At a certain point, my pediatrician recommended removing my tonsils. My mother asked the doctor, “What do the tonsils do?”  The doc answered, “We’re not sure,” to which my mom replied, “Then you are not removing them.” Good for her! And good for my body, which got to keep one of its troublesome pieces.

Similarly, consider the cicada, which lives for 17 years underground, feeding on the sap of the roots of the trees where it hatched. That is hardly a short life for an insect. Its life is underground, in darkness, serving exactly the purpose for which God created it, even if it remains a mystery to us.

In the same way, the religious life is a mystery to many, unfortunately, both inside and outside the Church. When I was considering joining a Benedictine community many years back, many people questioned whether I would really be serving God's people if I were not out in the world, directly interacting with them. I tried to explain the value of prayer and sacrifice to them, but they just couldn't grasp it. How could a life hidden, underground, or behind a grate in a cloister serve God?

This misunderstanding became one of the factors that pushed me toward becoming a salon manager rather than entering religious life—an idea I’ve written about before. The belief persists that we have to be producing something tangible to have value.

We see the purposes of some creatures clearly: bees pollinate, so their value is obvious in our gardens and on our dinner tables. Butterflies pollinate and add visual beauty to our world. Even nasty wriggling maggots eat dead animals. We understand and see the purpose of all these. Cicadas, however, remain a mystery.

Similarly, religious people chanting prayers are often appreciated for their beauty even by those with no faith. Orders that serve the poor or teach provide a tangible service to those most in need. Many priests are counselors and community organizers. But what about someone studying and praying all day, with little to no contact with other people—what good does that do?

I can’t explain exactly how cicadas benefit the world, but I have no doubt that as creations of God, they serve some purpose, even if that purpose is just to be a mystery that we can’t solve, to remind us that we are not God. We can’t know how everything works. We can’t see exactly what each creature brings to the wholeness of creation. Our inability to see purpose doesn’t mean it is absent. And so it is with contemplative religious communities. They serve in a mysterious way, living hidden from the world but serving through their penance, suffering, study, and prayer.

Thanks be to God for cicadas and religion: both serve in ways mysterious yet essential, reminding us that even hidden lives contribute profoundly to the wonder and faith of the world.

Human-Written, AI Spell-Checked 5/16/21 AD

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