They are nailed to the cross in the hands of Jesus and thus I can no longer hold them in mine.
With the repentant criminal beside him, I plead “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom,” and he assures me that he does. He remembers me. He remembers the me known by the Father even before I was formed in my mother’s womb, stripped of the sins that mar that creation. With his arms spread on the bloody cross, he moves my sin and shame away from me, as far as east is from west.
This is the redemption of Christ. This is the good of that incredible, unmerited Friday.
Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life; and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God.”
John 6:67-69
Simon Peter’s statement of commitment and faith comes after Jesus’s bewildering explanation of his being the Bread of Life. Surrounded by a crowd that followed him across a sea to continue hearing him teach and to witness his miracles, Jesus boldly declared that he is “the true bread from heaven,” “the living bread,” and “if anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever.”
As the verses pile up through John, chapter six, we hear these incredible words from Jesus and the unsurprising objections of his listeners. With each murmured doubt from the crowd, Jesus deepens his teaching. He reinforces it and makes no move to backpedal or soften the truth he is delivering to them – and to us.
Jesus is “the bread of life,” “true food” and “true drink” to be consumed by those who believe he is the way to eternal life. He is the fulfillment of every sacrifice and ceremonial meal of the Old Testament. He is the manna sent by the Father to feed God’s people, not for a day but for eternity.
When he finishes this discourse, the response that rose above the noise was, “This is a hard saying; who can listen to it?”
Isn’t that the question for me? For us?
It is the question that comes with the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, and the necessity of that miraculous and baffling sacrament.
Just the same, the question accompanies every “hard saying” in the moral teachings of Christ and his church. It is heard behind the disciplines and virtues within the call to imitate Christ, which often fly in the face of what is deemed acceptable or good by the rest of society. From the unflinching declaration of Jesus that he is the way, the truth, and the life, the question comes in the appeal of the wide array of other ways, partial truths, and opposing lives I could live.
Who can listen to it? Who can accept it? Who can live it? The question arises from the voices around me and from deep within my own soul. I hear it echoing through times of suffering and confusion. When I don’t understand where to find God or what he is doing, it is heard above the noise.
“This is a hard saying; who can listen to it?”
Like the followers then, I, his follower now, can respond as many did when they “drew back and no longer went about with him.” Or I can speak in harmony with Peter – with imperfect yet wholehearted faith.
I can walk with Jesus with questions on my tongue, and still thoroughly convinced by all I do know and all I have seen and heard. I can trust that greater insight will come further down the road, just as it did for the disciples when the earlier words of Jesus replayed in their ears as he lifted the bread and wine at the Last Supper: “Take, eat; this is my body…. Drink of it, all of you; for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for the forgiveness of sins” (Matthew 26:26b, 27b-28).
It is from this place of faith and trust that I gaze at the body of my Lord on the Cross and in the Eucharist. With that gaze comes a swell of love, awe, and peace. With that gaze, my soul sees its savior and answers, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life; and we have believed and come to know, that you are the Holy One of God.”
“I want to be with God and receive God and have him in my heart every day all day.”
Annie’s 1st Eucharist is approaching and this was her note written at the end of yesterday’s retreat day for the 2nd graders preparing for the sacrament. Today when we came home from Mass, she and Tim were playing. In the middle of a Lego battle, Tim paused and looked at her.
“I’m so excited for you to receive Communion.”
Oh, the beauty of a child’s faith. That eagerness to encounter Jesus. These two little people have no idea how often they help renew my joy.
We are the cross. The cross that was laid on Jesus’ back and dug into his flesh as he carried it through the streets; the cross that he held onto, bearing it past the taunting crowds and whipping soldiers; we are that cross. The fibers of the wood consist of our sins, our rejections of truth and goodness. It is made up of us, in all our weaknesses and shortcomings. Jesus bears us, lifting us on his beaten shoulders to bring us to the place of salvation.
We are the cross. The cross to which Jesus was willingly nailed; the cross which he accepted in unconditional love; the cross on which he bled; we are that cross. He united himself to us irrevocably. His mercy is scarred into his hands and feet, His blood covers us as it did the wood of that cross: seeping into it and becoming part of it. We are indelibly marked by his redeeming blood.
We are the cross. The cross that was the source of his suffering yet became his throne; the cross that appeared to shame him yet brought glory; we are that cross. He is enthroned in our hearts. He resides in our souls. Every repented sin becomes a glorifying display of the same mercy that held him to the cross.
Oh, Lent, you are much like that dear old friend or family member who it is most difficult to like but impossible not to love for their great worth. That one who is brutally honest (always with the best of intentions), not softening any blows or dressing up the truth. This is what this season of penance, prayer and self-examination does to me: it looks me in the eye and speaks the truth.
I happened upon this statement by St. Therese of Liseux: “Look Jesus in the face. There you will see how He loves us.” She was speaking of Jesus found on the Cross, in particular. I’d add, “there you will see how you are to love.” During Lent, if we have courage enough to take it, we have the chance to look into the face of our Savior and see not only His love but ours as well – or lack thereof. Love… it’s a fluffy, comfy word in mainstream culture but this love that St. Therese discerns in the face of our Lord is neither fluffy nor comfy. It is every virtue practiced, every commandment obeyed, every sacrifice willingly offered, every selfish desire overturned for selflessness. That is love.
When I explain purgatory to the RCIA classes one thing I focus on is the nature of the suffering that occurs during that period of purification. Among the causes for pain in purgatory is the total self-awareness the soul gains of all the ways he or she might have been more ready for Heaven – all the opportunities of love that were negligently overlooked or willfully refused. How painful to realize not only the sheer number of missed chances to love (that is, to be like Christ) but also the consequences rippling out from them.
Lent can be a little slice of purgatory, I suppose. Face to face with my Savior, I can also stand face to face with myself and see just how much I am “found in Christ” and how much I remove myself from Him by my actions and inactions.
Carrie In Writing 