Today’s Gospel Story (Jn 6:60-69) has some very disturbing words, “Jesus then said to the Twelve, “Do you also want to leave?”. He had just said things upsetting to some people, so they grumbled and left. It’s not hard to imagine how Jesus felt as they walked away. Peter said, “Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life”.
Like most of us, I’d like to say what Peter said and mean it, but there have been times when I just walked away. Lord, I’m really weary of this person or that person, of doing this or that. The challenges of family dynamics. I’m fed up with this or that relationship and its tediousness, or when I’m roaring down the track at high speed because I have something important to do and a person jumps in front of me and says I don’t care what you have going on, stop and listen to me right now. At times I have walked away, turned off my phone, blocked emails, texts, and callers. But for some reason, you have always brought me back in one way or another. Kind of humbling. Often it has happened because other folks were helping me when I didn’t know I needed it, or didn’t even want it. I’m thinking of my recent heart attacks and rehab experiences — themselves humbling and wonderful, even life-changing, with wonderfully life-giving women I would not have met otherwise. And there are others, not so dramatic, but just as real. People being there for people. You are showing me things I don’t want to see. You would draw me closer to yourself, but my ego gets in the way. I’m noticing how much of my life revolves around me wanting to be seen as spectacular, unique, different, and my need to be appreciated.
Your words of everlasting life. What are these words? The obvious ones are what we call the Sermon on the Mount, the Great Commandment, “What you do to the least of my brethren you do to me”, Parables like the Good Samaritan, how you reached out to people the Temple and Roman systems made outcasts for their own reasons — tax collectors, prostitutes, lepers, the woman with the hemorrhage, real people who were hurting. You ignored the systems and made the people feel welcomed and loved. You lived your (our) Father’s healing love for everybody.
Lately, especially this week, I’m becoming aware of something called “Welcoming”. While it can be summed up in a short prayer, it is a whole new way of looking at life — I welcome everything in my life as it is; I let go of my desire for affection, esteem, approval, and pleasure; I let go of my desire for survival and security; I let go of my desire to change any situation, condition, person or myself. This does not necessarily mean I agree with whatever it is, but I‘m coming to realize every situation is of Abba, and I might learn to ask what Abba is saying to me, instead of jumping to judgment. It’s about being open to Abba however Abba is coming to me. If I’m upset because somebody isn’t living as I think they should, it says a lot about me, that I am treating this person exactly as I am treating God. Jesus didn’t set up any barriers between Abba and the people. But I’m setting up my own barriers. Something to think about.
While I might accept that you said however I am treating anyone on my life is how I’m treating you, I conveniently block your words so I don’t have to think about them in people I choose to see as difficult. I conveniently overlook the fact that I choose who I will let annoy me, and nobody annoys me without my consent.
Relationships are difficult, especially the close ones, the family ones. So much is left unspoken until too late. Many of these difficulties, which are real, are because somebody is doing something I don’t like. Am I open and willing to move towards forgiving someone whose major failure is they are not living as I want them to? Prayer might lead me to look at myself and ask why I’m so upset, or why what ever the action is bothers me so much. Can I move towards welcoming the person as they are, and asking the grace for insight into why I let them annoy me? Jesus shows us that Abba loves everyone of us as we are, even if I don’t. It’s not up to me to decide who to accept. It’s up to me to grow. People don’t have to live as I want them to. The people I let annoy me are showing me you in ways I don’t want to see. This is my problem, my challenge, not anybody else’s. The Gospel can never be just theoretical. It is real and practical if I am willing prayerfully and trustingly to let it take me where I need to go. It’s about how you call me to live, not a basis for me to judge others.
When I look back over my life, as folks my age tend to do, I notice there were times when you “intervened”, nudged or even pushed me in a new direction, while I was angry, kicking and screaming. One example is how I ended up in the Army, which was pretty much an unexpected spur of the moment decision that the bishop agreed with, and things fell into place. Then there were the various adventures, injuries, and illnesses, inept stupidities, etc. It was you pulling me back to you. I am most grateful for your patience and understanding. How do I in turn share all this?
Your words of everlasting life are most personal to me. They are showing me how you want me to live as your disciple right here and now, today, with all the people in my life, every one of them, no exceptions. At times, as for me now, they are hard to listen to and live. It is easy to ignore them in my dealings with this or that person or situation, but I know you are asking me to move where I don’t want to go, maybe to unblock my phone and email, let go of my need to control, to trust you, really recognize and welcome you in everything and everybody in my life today, and just go where you take me. You’ve always taken me where I need to be, often kicking and screaming. Lot’s of letting go, in no way something easy. In Vietnam we had a saying, “don’t mean nothin”, which really was saying this is important and means a lot. Glad my retreat is coming in a few weeks. I need something. Wandering and wondering. Maybe even some learning and growing. Wouldn’t change a thing. Few answers, many questions. Just sayin . . .