WHAT MAKES THE DIFFERENCE
Dear Jesus,
How long have we been friends? No, I remember the day this all began, when my parents took me to you to begin this new life. You remember how naïve I was after I came out of the water. I was barely dry when I boasted that I would never sin again. The experience had been so thrilling that I thought I would live in the glory of that moment for the remainder of my life and never be like the rest of the human race, known to be sinners. You should have warned me.
From my present vantage point I realize that that beginning did not make us friends. We hadn’t journeyed very far together yet. Our relationship had not been tried. I barely knew you. Later, much later, when dust had gathered and I found myself sitting in the midst of the clutter and out of touch, I panicked at the thought that I did not know you. I cried out in the darkest night that had yet enveloped me.
Actually, it wasn’t quite that dramatic. I remember staring at a television screen and realizing in a stunning moment that nothing was registering. The clock on the wall told me that I had been sitting there, gaping blankly at the screen for more than an hour. When I heard the woman promise that using a dab of the cream she held would banish the signs of aging from my face, resulting in a veritable fountain of youth, I shuddered.
On a table near me lay my book of the Liturgy of the Hours. I was startled when I drew my finger across its cover and formed a streak in the dust. Remember how I picked up the book and started idly to thumb through it, lisping phrases now and then that caught my fancy? Was that the first time I prayed? The action rose out of my emptiness and caught me by surprise. You seemed to fill the void. That was the moment the friendship began. But then what?
Someone confronted me today and asked me what I get out of my faith. It is embarrassing to tell you that I had no answer. I said I did not understand his question. With great condescension he told me of his own conversion and of all the wonderful things that had come into his life as a result. He described a veritable “rags to riches” transformation as a result of turning his life over to you and, as he termed it, being born again in you. His business had been floundering and he was thinking of closing. Practically over night, the cash registers started ringing and sales took off.
That has not been my experience. I am in the same financial bracket I was in the day we met. Am I doing something wrong? Am I being brash when I tell you that sometimes I think it would be great to enjoy some of the creature comforts that others take for granted? I’ve even toyed with the idea of asking you to help me win the lottery.
Is there another way to follow you that results in some of these tangible benefits? The last thing I see at night before I turn out the lights is a cross on the wall near my bedroom door. That’s the image that looms before me as I slip into sleep. Sometimes I fancy you holding that cross out to me, inviting me to embrace it and the Passover journey it symbolizes. Am I mistaken, or are you daring me to find the elements of my cross in the events and encounters in my life and embrace them, all the while trusting that I can manage because you are with me?
That evening when I gazed at my dust coated prayer book, I realized that my experience of betrayal and rejection had shut down my faith life. I didn’t turn to prayer for comfort but toyed with the idea of seeking vengeance. Bitterness is like a heavy narcotic that dulls the senses and turns one inward in isolation. Some would call it wallowing in self-pity. You can weep just so long before the tears dry up and you find yourself in arid emptiness wondering if there will ever be springtime. Will there ever be a dawn? I remember shuddering as I drew my finger through the dust.
My prayer seeks understanding. After all this time, wouldn’t you think that I would be stronger, more sure of myself? It is not that I want a return to those days of naïveté. I know my weaknesses and I admit that I am a sinner. I could never utter that childish boast I made in that initial baptismal moment. But does my life mean anything?
I spoke by phone with a friend who lives across the country from me. She told me how her strength wanes as her stage-four cancer becomes increasingly evident. She is losing weight and finds it increasingly difficult to negotiate moving about her home even with a walker. She wants a power-chair if she is going to be able to get around at all. I was moved by the confidence I heard in her voice. She could even laugh as she made humorous her plight. She is a woman of faith. I wondered how I would respond in similar circumstances.
When you seized me so long ago, did you have something in mind for me to do? I would like to make a difference. The contrary signs that bombard me are overwhelming. I have tried to love others as you love. I know what Judas’ kiss feels like and the pain that follows it.
At one point you told me not to seek after perishable food but rather for food that endures for eternal life. The perishable food you spoke of may be perishable, but it is also very attractive. The random violence that is chronicled in the daily news proclaims the absurdity of it all. Riots in the streets, countries in revolution, wars, drought and starvation and parents killing their own children make me ask Alfie’s question. What is it all about? Where is there reason to hope?
When I look at the meal fragmented on the table you prepare, knowing that you will invite me and those with whom I gather to come and eat, come and drink, the words you speak every time ring in my heart. Do this and I am present. If I do, will that make the difference? Will I find hope again?
Even as I ask the question, I know the answer. I hear you say it again, repeating it until I get it right. Get behind me and learn from me. I will continue to watch over your shoulder. I will continue to try to imitate you. Will you continue to give me your Spirit so that I will find the strength to make a difference?
Never let me forget what happened on the Third Day.
Sincerely,
Didymus
