The following began its life as a letter and was then
amended and used as a homiletic response on Sunday, June 7 at St. James
Episcopal Church, Mansfield, PA. It was again amended for the purpose of
this blog.
Earlier this week I visited Jim, a lifelong parishioner of St.
James. Now 80 years old he’s in a facility for Alzheimer’s patients. There
are only three people left in the parish now with that length of corporate
memory. Though he knew who I was he was clearly mentally unhinged. Much of what
he said made little sense. But at other times he was as clear as a bell. At one
point he said that the church was very important. He described it as, “Not the
only thing, but the main thing.” Though urine was covering one of his pant legs he was not bothered. Behind us was a
woman yelling, "Help me!" Not one octave in her voice changed as she
repeated her pleading chant. It seemed to me the only orienting thing about the
place. A row of people in wheel chairs were looking out a glass wall that
overlooked the parking lot. A younger man was walking around carrying a leather
jacket on a hanger. I thought he was visiting someone but it became obvious he
was a patient as he made harsh remarks to other patients he walked by. We shared holy communion together. Then after a
long silence between us, Jim looked at me and said, "Where is Jesus Christ
now?" I said nothing. I could guess
at what I should say but it would have been trite and inauthentic because it
felt to me like the wrong question. Nonetheless it was a valid question for
which I had no ready response.
In my mind, in the span of just a few seconds, I visited all my teachers in search of an answer to that question.
Bishop Bob was standing right beside me with his hand
resting on my shoulder. I looked up and noticed the soft folds of his smile
lines and he was nodding with empathy for my inability to comfort but he gave
no hint as to where Jesus was. Something about the look on his face told me he
might have struggled here himself a couple of times along the way.
Nancy was sitting directly across from me eating salad with
no dressing. When I told her about Jim her eyes welled with tears. Sometimes when
she looks at me I think she can see the whole of my entire soul, and though it
is very flawed she seems to ignore those parts. She saw that I was
distressed and in need of help so she focused intently on the question. She put
down her fork and began to answer self-assuredly, saying, "Well, okay,
Jesus is…" (As if it was perfectly logical and if we just thought about it
rationally the answer would become clear.) Then she suddenly stopped and looked
sharply away from me, her eyes settling on some point across the room, and
finished with, "well, I don’t know how to explain it; but he’s there."
Pais was in his office and sank back in his chair with his
arms on each arm rest and just looked at me sitting across the desk from him...
as if he waited long enough perhaps I'd answer my own question. It was so quiet
for so long I began to hear a low buzz coming from the fluorescent bulb above
my head. The silence seemed its own
living being that was like a third party in the room that belonged there and I
did not feel awkward. Though it was raining outside the window I couldn't hear
it. I hadn't expected rain. I imagined that when I left I was going to get wet.
He remained perfectly still moving only once to grasp his hands and interlaced his
fingers and rested them on his lap but never moved his eyes and patiently
waited for me to speak.
Bob was walking across the floor of his cabin and turned to
look back at me sitting cross-legged on the coach. It was dusk and the only
light was coming in the open door on a clear humid evening. The smell of burnt
sage was still in the air. He said, "Yeaahh, that's a good question: where
IS Jesus now?" It wasn't a rhetorical question and he was never going to
let it go. He smiled and went to pour spearmint tea from last year's garden
that had been steeping too long.
Mike was in the coffee shop and he answered the question by
reading me a poem by Haffiz that I did not understand. Jim, who works in the
bike shop, was sitting next to him and after taking a sip of coffee from his
stainless mug he grimaced and waved his hand across his face and said,
"Come on! You're still stuck on THAT! Really?" (As if it were so
simple, so obvious.) Then he got up to get a refill leaving me with Mike who
had moved on to another poem; Jesus was there I knew but strangely hidden in
the coded text. Other people caught his eye as they came in and they came over
to the table and the question was lost and forgotten.
Diane was in her garden. We were standing by a long row of
very tall flowers by a fence. They were almost as tall and I was. As she
clipped them it occurred to me that while it appeared random she was very
careful about which ones were cut. She’s always says they tell her who is ready
to go. She was thoughtful and did not answer me quickly. Finally she said, “You
know, it is alright that you are struggling with this. There’s nothing wrong
with you.”
In my mind I consulted the Bible and read from Luke: “At
that same hour Jesus rejoiced in the Holy Spirit and said, “I thank you,
Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the
wise and intelligent and have revealed them to infants… and no one knows who
the Son is except the Father, or who the Father is except for the Son and
anyone to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.”
There wasn't a lot to say to Jim after a while that wasn't
being repeated so I left him sitting in his wheelchair. He wanted to get up to
see me out but his chair alarm sounded and he fell back into place obediently.
His hand began to trace the edge of the table as I walked away. From the
parking lot I looked up to the third floor and saw the people lined up in their
wheel chairs starring down at me. And the whole 90 minutes home I felt
completely fraudulent.
Later I read these words from Thich Naht Hahn: “You cannot
be by yourself alone. You have to be inter-be with everything else in the
cosmos. That is the nature of interbeing.” It was then that it dawned on me
that I had been sitting with Jesus. But it was more than that. I was Jesus. I
was Jesus having a conversation with Jesus. Jesus was in the bread and the wine
and in the words of the Lord’s Prayer we spoke together. Jesus was the woman
who rolled up in her wheelchair and asked if I was Jim’s daughter. I said I was
not, but rather his priest. She said the word “priest” slowly and looked over
our heads trying to find a way to connect with that word. But clearly it meant
nothing to her. She only said she had to go to the bathroom and needed to get
some help. A young woman in scrubs walked briskly by and told her she would
have to wait. I have eyes yet so often I cannot see. I have ears and yet so
often I cannot hear.
Jesus was the orderly who was helping Jim walk down the hall
when I arrived. I told him I was clergy there to give him communion. He looked
puzzled and said, “I don’t know what that means.” He smiled widely and
continued, saying, “I don’t know about anything churchy. I lost my faith when
my mother died.” And then he shrugged and turned his attention to Jim. Another orderly came in the room and the
first one asked him, “Hey, do you know what communion is?” The other scratched
the side of his head uncomfortably and repeated the word, “Communion…” and
shook his head. I said it was the bread and wine, holy communion. They looked
at me blankly. Could I have not seen that they were Jesus?
