Esse Amari Deo Est

It was a gray October day, around lunchtime. I had reached the part of my daily routine which involved walking, and so I was. My eyes scanned the faces of the people I passed, looking hopefully for a friend or acquaintance to greet or talk to. I longed for company, but found no familiarity to converse with. Then things got strange.

Suddenly, I was in a blank white room. Although I had just been walking outside, I was suddenly seated in a comfortable chair at a high table. Across the table there sat a man, somewhat familiar looking, despite a startling appearance.

He was clothed in a deep purple robe and had shoulder-length white hair, which matched the wispy curls that covered his face, in a picturesque mustache and beard. His look reminded me of old paintings of Socrates or even of God (the kind that are painted on the ceilings of old churches), but there was one notable difference: his nose was not nearly as pointy as all of those old depictions tend to show it.

The upshot of this rounded, almost knobby schnoz was that this man, whether he was God or Socrates, looked far less stern than his other characteristics would lead you to expect. He actually looked quite a bit like Santa Claus on a diet (I was pretty sure that wasn't who he was, though).

In fact, very soon after my strange transportation, I was sure that wasn't who he was. He said to me, in a voice so jolly it made Santa Claus look like Bobby Knight,

"Hello, Joe!"

Considering how sudden and odd this change of circumstances was, I actually accepted it all rather quickly. Without much of a pause, I responded:

"Hi!"

It was a happy response, given in good cheer, because there was something about this guy's demeanor, a sort of silent energy, that was contagious. And he spoke English. I quickly ruled out Socrates.

"I suppose you're wondering what you're doing here," he stated matter of factly, but with just as much light-hearted mirth as his greeting.

"Well, yeah--I certainly am," I responded, "but I'm also curious--who are you?"

"Who am I? Well, you're not the first to ask that question, but the full answer would take a little longer than you might realize, so...let's shorten it up by saying that there is one word which would point you toward who I am. Would you care to hazard a guess at what that word is?"

"God?"

"Yes! Such a wonderful boy, you are! I am God."

"It's nice to finally see You face to face!"

"Well, you're not really seeing Me face to face. If you truly saw Me face to face, things would be a little more intense than they are right now. Think of this as a vision."


"Okay." I sat expectantly, waiting for the vision to continue.

Nothing happened. God just sat there, staring at me, smiling.

I stared back, and realized that this His eyes were the most arresting thing about Him. I've heard the eye described as the "window to the soul," but I never really understood how much of a window it can be until I saw His eyes. The longer I stared, the deeper those piercing jewels became, telling stories, stories of woe leading to redemption and ending in joy, all without words, without images. It was fascinating, sort of a unified magnification of all the eyes I'd ever looked into, but with something more added, Something huge and full of energy and love. Suddenly the silence was broken by His voice:


"You never have to feel lonely, you know."


His words surprised me. The deep joy in His voice was overlaid now with a measure of concern, which may have been there the whole time, but was more noticeable now.


It took me by surprise, but I knew exactly what I wanted to say to Him. Not angrily, but with a genuine thirst for understanding, I asked:


"If I don't need to feel lonely, why have I felt that way? If You are so close, how come I never heard You speak back to me?"


"I tried. But you can't talk to someone if they aren't willing to listen.
So many times like today...you walked, thinking you were alone."

There was something in how He spoke and looked at me, something so close to every memory I had, bringing up days and feelings long past, things that even I had forgotten about--all at once, vivid as life itself, and with such understanding and compassion, but mixed with a sense of painful incompleteness, that tears welled up in my eyes. I had been hit full force with the melancholy of memory.


I found words.


"You were there the whole time. I knew it, but not like this. I didn't realize...I'm sorry."


He didn't acknowledge the apology, but responded:


"I have spoken to you all of your life. I have spoken to you through my Word. I have spoken to you through your family's love. I have spoken to you in all the times of joy. I have spoken to you in the leaves of Fall and the snows of Winter, the warm breeze of Spring and the cool rain of Summer. I have spoken to you in every moment of inspiration you've ever had. I have spoken to you by creating you. I have spoken in many ways, even many ways which you cannot yet understand, but my message has always been the same. Do you know what that message is?"

He didn't have to ask, but He did. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I responded:


"I love you." The light in the room was getting brighter with our every word. I sensed things were coming to an end.

"Yes! I love you, too! Above all, remember that! And tell everyone you meet that I love them, too!"

My vision was fading as the light expanded, brighter and brighter, into a world of True Light, and when I could see no more--my eyes shut tightly,


and I was back on the ground outside.


My eyes were fine. My face was dry. Nothing on the outside had changed, it seemed; but the first thing I saw was a tree whose yellow fire matched the blazing of my own heart, and so I pressed on toward my destination.

Phone Home

Have you ever felt like life just played a prank on you? The times I speak of are the nuisances of life, the times that leave us thinking, "Now why did things have to happen like that? It could just as easily have happened this way..." And we follow such thoughts with daydreams about what could have been—ordinarily the most useless type of daydream there is. Nonetheless, life plays its pranks, and sometimes through no fault of our own we find ourselves stuck in a situation we do not want, and would give much to change.

Today in my job as the church's weekend receptionist, I received a call from a wonderful woman whose calm but thoughtful manner at once caught me off-guard and brought me to my most alert senses. Perhaps you have met such people. Perhaps, bless your heart, you are one. They are the rarest of breeds, but perennially the type of person this world most needs. They speak slowly and deliberately, but their manner lacks not an ounce of confidence. They seldom stutter or stop in the middle of a sentence, for the simple reason that they are sure of what they want to say before they start saying it. And unlike the rest of the huddled masses, they are not afraid of pauses in conversation.

Such a one was this woman, whose first response to my inquiry of "Can I help you?" was "I don't know!" Such an exchange perfectly typifies this kind of person. Rather than play by the common social rules (rules which nonetheless remain useful and beneficial in most cases), this person retains a measure of perspective and sees society for the game that it is, and thus chooses when to play and when to sit out and make up their own rules. Such people are always needed by a society because they remind the rest of us that we belong to a social system, an order of sorts, yes; but that the system is not what we answer to, ultimately—that there is Something higher than the human structures we have implemented throughout history. Such people inspire us to question the system, to examine it, and perhaps to better align it with what we know is right. Yesterday's civil rights crusaders and Abolitionists, to use a popular example of the day, aligned America's practice with its inspired theory, and it all started with people asking questions (and, perhaps, responding to questions) in ways which no one had previously had the moral courage to do—taking their example, of course, from a well-known Nazorean of a prior epoch, who specialized in moral courage.

But back to the tale at hand—a wonderful woman called in who, despite being 79 years old, had the voice, demeanor, and conversational pizazz of a 25 year old. After telling me that she would call the church back later in the week (the priest she wanted to talk to was not available), she asked my my name and then began regaling me with a personal story involving St. Joseph. As is known to happen at this job, another call came ringing in on the other phoneline—just as she was reaching the conclusion of her story (as I recall, it had been a very good story, to boot). I wanted to wait on the second call and finish speaking with her first, but I had waited too long already—a moment more, and the second caller would be diverted to the answering machine, a definite no-no for an on-duty receptionist. Siezing on a momentary pause in the woman's speech, I asked her if she could hold on a moment while I answered another call. This proved a worthy decision, because the other caller was requesting Last Rites for a dying family member. It also proved a disappointing decision, because as I took care of the 2nd caller, I noticed that, after about 3 minutes of waiting, the wonderful storytelling woman had hung up or been disconnected. I hadn't been able to hear the finish of her story, or say a proper good-bye; I also didn't get her name or number, with which I might call her back.

So there I was, unable to contact her, and left with the anxiety of wondering whether she thought I had just ditched her. Why did this bother me so much? I believe it was the pinchy feeling of broken camaraderie, the tragedy of a "beautiful friendship" that never begins, the ironic nuisance of a misunderstanding which causes alienation where unity would otherwise reign easily. I had been brimming with good intentions, but the click of a phone had rendered them homeless. So life had its prank, and I was left scratching my head.

Why do such things happen? It would have been so easy for that second call to have come in just five minutes later. Five minutes! Did God not see that? Does He not see all of these things, our better alternatives to what we call reality? The only answer, of course, is that He does—He sees them more clearly than we possibly could, and clearly enough to know that they are not better. Realizing this and resting in the truth it provided, I set about guessing what I was supposed to learn from this situation.

This woman had had an effect on me, and despite the abrupt and disappointing end to our interaction, the effect remained—and it constituted the first lesson—calm down. Speak deliberately. Mean what you say. Don't be afraid of the other person as you talk to them, but look on them with compassion, the lowly, fraternal kind of compassion that only a fellow creature can know. Conversation is a connection, not a performance. It is ideas being traded, not lines being read. And all the petty templates we follow for how to interact with each other, they are all just suggestions, and it is no sin to break such guidelines. Great things have been started in that way.

Now after remembering those wonderful ideas, I naturally felt better. In fact, as is the way of things when we follow such adages as the aforementioned, I began to feel a creeping sensation that I was not alone—by which I mean, I began to notice the presenc of God, in later conversations as well as in all the beautifully silent spaces of solitude, those blessed places in which Thoreau dwelt devotedly for so many peaceful days and nights.

This feeling of a Presence at once visible and invisible, beautiful and elusive, made me realize yet again the true relationship of a Catholic to the Church. This recognition of divine Presence in a drab and empty office hallway reminded me that all of our ceremony, all of our decoration and tradition, is designed to bring about Christ's Presence in the world. We can so easily get caught up in devotion to the institution of the Church, and in doing so we turn away from that noble body's humble mission—to help keep Christ present and active in the world until He Himself returns in His full glory. Many people today attack the Church and its ideas and mission, but if we fight them back on the grounds of defending the Church, rather than the ideas and mission which give it purpose, we are idolizing a body of disciples, starting our own heresy, so to speak—a heresy of such implosive orthodoxy that it threatens to topple the Church from within. No, the true Catholic loves the Church, and fights alongside it or within it, but not for it. The Church itself doesn't even do that.

We don't know the ultimate purposes behind God's actions in this world, but we do know how we are called to respond—take the best out of each situation, and work with it until we have forged something better. We can take confidence, even amidst apparent disappointments, that God is not our enemy—He knows what He is doing, and there will be a day when we can see how everything in this human drama worked together to bring about the fulfillment and triumph of all that is truly good. Perhaps on that day, I will finally catch up with this blessed woman again, and we will have all the time we need to share stories and listen, relaxing in the abundant Presence and sweet Love of the God Who saved us.