Think of the person you love the least in this world. That’s how much you love God.
Nothing like staritng Sunday morning off with a
challenge. The community’s mind, I
think, is very much on Father Malachy; he is much loved and much missed. Natural enough that the homily today would
center on love.
The longer I think about it, the less I understand that word. Certainly I can define it to at least some
satisfaction in both the spiritual and the secular sense, but really, I don’t
have a clue. Love, like everything else
in the Christian life, is learned by encountering it and this place provides
the time and the space to begin to do so.
The encounters start at a place far past the mind and work their way
up. Clues are the last thing to fall in
place.
The celebrant’s words disturbed me. There’s a part of me that celebrates God’s
love in the positive parts of my life, those I like as well as love. Those whose presence and affection give me
pleasure, nourishing and sustaining me in ways that feel good. There is nothing wrong with that; absent those
experiences of worth and value, how could we ever learn to respond to the God
we cannot see? How could we ever hope to
understand His love for us without feeling those things that reaffirm us from those around us? The good
feelings of love are surely the start of
the journey of faith.
This weekend, though, has brought into focus the ways in
which I still have to grow first in awareness and then in love. So many of the images we looked at from the
greats of photography were images of the broken human family, no accident, I
expect, for the leader of the retreat is man intimately connected to the human
condition and who has, as a consequence, a great understanding of the
brokenness in even the best of us.
The journey begins there, with an awareness of those outside
us—the “others” of the world who are at once so different and individual we can
never really know them and so much the same that we cannot help but recognize
them. After that, I think, comes the
detachment that these monks teach so well: learning to put the created world
into proper perspective.
For most of us
on the retreat, detachment means learning to conquer our desires for material
comfort in order to encounter—and love—all things and all people in proper
order. Maybe it’s the same for the people
in the images we looked at, only for them it is not detachment from having so
much as detachment from wanting to have. I can’t possibly know. But it makes sense. We are, all of us, ultimately much the same
in spite of circumstances, too much possessed by possession, too much involved with creation and not realizing how intimate is our relationship with the Creator.
And that ought to be the basis of learning to love, whatever
that ultimately means. Finding that
hidden likeness in each of us that provides a place of encounter, a place of
relationship, a place of love.
I found an image of that this morning between nocturnes when I
knelt in front of the Easter decorations at the back of the church to
pray. An empty cross made of posts is
draped in white cloth, with a huge branch of silk dogwood flowers making a
spray above and around. A white candle stood in front and potted palms behind. In the low light of the morning,
it almost glowed in its clean, bright lines.
I was halfway through
my prayers when I noticed the light from the tabernacle through the leaves of the palms behind the cross. The fronds were interlaced with each other, like the bars on a protected window, like the bars that too often are on my heart. When I focused more deeply on
what was before me this morning, looking beyond the flowers and the candle and the wood and
the fabric, there was the brilliant gold of the wall behind the tabernacle, lit
up with the light that announces Jesus is here!
That image surfaced again as I listened to the homilist take me
through the demands of love and the connection with Christ that makes something
so impossible a reality. Jesus, His life,
coursing through me, vine and branches, the grace without which I can do nothing, not even accept the grace I need. That mysterious encounter with the Divine, the delicate dance of wills that is the Christian life. If I look deeply enough in the world around me, I’ll see that light
that tells me Christ is present there, too, beckoning me to encounter Him wherever I am.
The challenge of this life and the goal of this journey is to let my light out and the light of others in. Love seeking love, no matter how difficult
and obscured. I imagine I'll figure out the details as i go.
How much I love the ones I love least is indeed a measure of
how much I love God and with God's grace, that will increase as I learn to take my proper place in the world and let the world take its proper place around me. But I am reassured
that it is not just my love for God that ultimately matters. It is God’s immeasurable love for me.
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