“There have been times when, after long on my knees in a cold chancel, a stone has rolled from my mind, and I have looked in and seen the old questions lie folded and in a place by themselves, like the piled grave clothes of love’s risen body.”
-- R.S. Thomas
Every winter – usually sometime toward the end of February – I begin to ask myself how in the world I ended up in Connecticut. I meander through my mind and the chain of events that brought me here, and I always come to the same conclusion: this is where I belong. But it doesn’t make winter any shorter.
As a native Texan, I doubt that the kind of winters I experience in the Northeast will ever be easy for me. In fact, I’ve noticed they aren’t even easy for the people who have lived here all their lives. Just about every year they say, “That was a tough winter!” Even when tough is normal, it is still tough.
What I like most about winter is the way we all get through it together. It’s rare to be out shoveling snow alone. There’s always a neighbor or two out, suffering along with you. You always have something to discuss with strangers at the store. We ask each other, “Are we going to make it?” or we just call out across the street some quick word of commiseration as we dash to and from our cars (if you can “dash” across an icy driveway). I’ll always remember a sweet moment after Mass one Sunday when I saw a priest lean down and encourage one of his elderly parishioners: “You’ll only need that fleece for about one more week.”
Another thing I like about winter is that it ends. When the warmth of spring hits, we all find our way outside – to the beach, to the park, or we hit a trail somewhere. Here we find camaraderie too. We got through it together. We did our time, we endured, we never really lost hope that there would indeed come a day when we could leave the fleece jacket at home. We feel we earned this beautiful day.
Perhaps it is simply my own determination to find some meaning in the personal challenge that winter poses for me, but I find winter to be a profound metaphor for the natural cycles of suffering that we endure in life, and for the Paschal Mystery itself. Of course this isn’t an original idea – but now that I’ve actually lived through what I can honestly call a “hard winter” – now I really get it.
I treasure three seasons in Connecticut, and I endure one. The beauty of the other three seasons is only enhanced by my memories of winter, by the ways winter has influenced and changed me. And in this I am reminded that the Risen Christ still bore – still bears – the wounds of crucifixion (Lk. 24:39; Jn. 20:25). The victorious Lamb worshiped in the Book of Revelation is the Lamb who was slain (Rev. 5). And this is as it should be. Some wounds, forged in the toughest of times, should never be forgotten – especially those which bring forth new life. No, we never forget about winter here in the Northeast. Winter is part of who we are. But we know and we believe that even the hardest winter leads to spring – always has, always will.
The word “disciple” means “learner.” But what makes a disciple different than a student? A disciple is completely devoted to the teacher. A disciple walks along with the teacher, listening and changing because of him. A disciple might say something like, “I want to think like my teacher. I want to be like my teacher.” A student departs at the end of the course. But a disciple remains at the feet of the teacher.
We are not students of Jesus Christ. We are disciples. As we follow him today along the Way of Salvation, we should also say, “I want to think like my teacher. I want to be like my teacher.” Our teacher will not say much more to us; but he will act, and we will watch. We will see the greatest love of all, the kind that lays down its life for a friend. And so as disciples, we will see what we too must do.
One thing that makes this day so holy and so good is not only what he did, but what he teaches us to do. As is expected of disciples, we must continue the work of the Master:
“We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us – and we ought to lay down our lives for one another” (1 Jn. 3:16).
As Holy Week approaches, it may be useful to focus on one Gospel verse that can serve as your guide through these holy days. This time of year, there is so much going on personally and spiritually – having a theme or focus may help you “get it together” so you can walk with both serenity and purpose alongside Christ as he enters Jerusalem and embraces his fate on your behalf.
You may already have a favorite verse that can give you focus during these last weeks of Lent. Write it on a card or sticky note and place it somewhere you will see it at least a few times a day – near your computer or in your prayer book. Passages such as John 14-16, Philippians 2 or even Isaiah 53 offer a treasure-trove of possibilities.
Another favorite of mine – and one I offer you here – is found within the very poignant depiction of Jesus’ last meal with his disciples as found in Luke’s Gospel (Lk. 22:14-38). Here we witness an intimate scene between Jesus and his closest companions. The disciples – who have failed Jesus in the past and will fail him again in the very near future – are the objects of Jesus’ love and affection. Jesus tells them how eagerly he has desired to share this meal with them (22:15), how his blood is poured out for them (22:20), and – even when they begin to argue over which of them is the greatest (note that this conversation takes place immediately after receiving the bread and wine given and poured out for them!) – even when they again show their human frailty – Jesus patiently points them back toward humility (22:27) and then promises them the future bounty of his Kingdom (22:30). One might see in this passage – punctuated by the betrayal of Judas and the impending denials of Peter – a portrait of Jesus’ undying love for sinners.
In the midst of this communion, Jesus says to his disciples: “You have stayed with me through all my trials” (22:28). It is bittersweet to know that these friends of Jesus will soon abandon him – first by sleeping and then by fleeing, leaving Jesus alone to face the brutality of his captors and a lonely death. But we cannot judge them. We also sleep and flee; we leave him alone on a regular basis.
For these next few weeks, we can meditate on these gentle words of Jesus and the trusting expectation they hold: “You have stayed with me through all my trials.” We often talk of trusting Jesus – but it seems he also trusts us – to stay with him, to be faithful, not to scatter. Perhaps our hearts must change if we wish to never betray this enormous, divine trust. But isn’t that what Lent is all about?
Lord Jesus Christ, give me the strength and serenity, the focus and purpose, to stay with you. You believe in me and my love for you. I do not want to fail you. I do not want to sleep through this time. I do not want to abandon you for the cares of the world. Change my heart so I may love you more than I love myself. Change my heart so I do not turn away from your Cross. Change my heart Lord, and this time, I will stay with you through all your trials.
Nathanael said to him, "How do you know me?" Jesus answered him, "I saw you under the fig tree" (Jn. 1:48).
Have you ever been noticed across a crowded room? Has anyone ever paid attention to you unexpectedly? Has someone noticed something special about you – something small or something you didn’t think anyone knew, or something you didn’t even know yourself? Has anyone ever looked at you in such a way that pages of words and thoughts were communicated in a moment?
And how did that make you feel? How did being connected with that person make you feel? Alive? Like the best version of yourself? Not alone?
We live in a constant state of tension between two extreme opinions of ourselves. On the one hand we are utterly enamored with ourselves – this is the side of us that subconsciously thanks God that we are not like the rest of humanity (cf. Lk. 18:11). On the other hand, we doubt and even despise ourselves to the point of believing ourselves unlovable (“If they really knew me, they would not love me”).
But what if there was someone whose gaze alone could penetrate us with such clarity that we moved away from this exaggerated tension into the peaceful middle, where we could see ourselves as we truly are – genuinely flawed but entirely lovable? What if there was someone whose gaze expressed such love to us that we believed once and for all that we are the beloved? What if there was someone who could simply say “I saw you” – and in those words communicate to us that he knows all the little things about us, all the special things, all the things no one else ever noticed before? How would we respond to that remarkable person?
Nathanael responded: “Rabbi, you are the Son of God; you are the King of Israel” (Jn. 1:49). And then he followed him.
I suppose one who noticed us across a crowded room and loved us so would be irresistible. I suppose that is what Nathanael felt. Jesus saw Nathanael – saw him, knew him, and loved him. And as one of his disciples, he taught him, nurtured him, challenged him, called him friend, encouraged him, died for him. He made promises to him and kept them. Then he went and prepared a place for him.
Under the fig tree, you too have been seen. Loved, taught, nurtured, befriended. Everything about you. Seen, known, and loved beneath the fig tree.
Nathanael Under the Fig Tree by James Tissot
“Standing before him with open hearts, letting him look at us, we see that gaze of love which Nathanael glimpsed on the day when Jesus said to him: ‘I saw you under the fig tree’ (Jn. 1:48)” (Pope Francis, Evangelii Gaudium 264).