He who does not love does not know God; for God is love.--1 John 4:8
The phone call came as a bump in my 
morning, a little bump in the normal, steady flow of the day. The buzz caught me off-guard--a bit of a startling intrusion that snapped me out of my own world of thoughts and got my heart thumping a little faster--the way the unexpected usually does. I looked at the caller ID, recognized the number and flipped it open.
My quick "hello" was greeted with a slower one--a quieter one--and I realized almost immediately that the reason for the call wasn't a happy one.
I listened to the bad news and I felt appropriately bad. I felt bad for the situation, bad for the people involved, bad for their kids, bad for their parents, bad for the whole stupid thing.
And then it was over. The conversation ended and I hung up the phone and I did what I had promised (because I'm such a profoundly Christian man): I said a prayer.
And then I continued with my day. I dealt with work problems and work projects. I wrote a blog entry about paint, a couple radio shows for tomorrow, and I made notes and plans for a weekly Manager's Meeting.
Eventually, 2:15 pm rolled around and I decided to sneak out for lunch. Not to eat, but to pray.
I drove to St. Francis De Sales, parked outside the adoration chapel and let myself in using my card key (I feel very important with my card key and use it even when the door is not locked just because I have one).
I let myself in and glanced, as always, at the candle. (I don't know what this particular candle is called, but knowing Catholics as I'm beginning to, I am absolutely convinced that there's a special Latin name for it). Whatever it's called, it was burning and that meant the Lord was present, body and blood, soul and divinity in the Blessed Sacrament inside the tabernacle--or, as I often think of it: the little box in the center of the room.
Out of respect and adoration, I genuflected (a word that feels foreign on my tongue, but an action that feels perfectly natural given the scenario) and made my way to one of the kneeling benches.
And I began to pray. I prayed and prayed in that stifling, unventilated room. Sweat ran down my back, trickled over my arms and beaded on my forehead. At several points, I stopped and just sat there for a few seconds, wishing they had a shower here for when I left. (And then I spent a few seconds wondering if that was irreverent.)
After a long time of praying and sweating and thinking about showers and the True Nature of Irreverency, I shifted off the kneeling bench and slumped back into my chair. I checked the clock: It was almost time to head back to work. I decided that for my last few minutes, (because I'm quite big-hearted and like to let God do His thing from time to time), I'd sit silently and let God speak to me.
Now, I'll be honest and admit that God normally doesn't speak to me when I do this. I just sit there in silence for about 10 seconds and then my brain thinks it hears something and says: "Was that Him?" And then I listen really hard for about 10 more seconds. "Nope. Just a bird. Out by the window. Oh yeah, there he goes. What's that thing he's got? A cigarette? Oh, no--it's a sucker-stick. Wonder where he picked that up? What's he doing with it? Taking it to his nest? Do male birds even have nests? I bet they don't make them themselves. Probably just find one that's already done and . . . what was that? Was that Him?"
I normally do this for about 5 minutes and then I just figure God doesn't have anything to say and I go back to asking for things.
Well, today I sat there, staring at the Tabernacle, imagining Jesus standing right in front of me, trying to wrap my brain around the Catholic idea of the Eucharist. And while I sat there, doing all these things, a sudden, single thought shot through my head: "You go through all of this but don't love."
Reading it just now, it seems vague. But when I thought it today, I didn't have to ask what He was getting at or if it was really Him speaking. I knew the answer to both questions: It certainly was Him and He was talking about my phone call from earlier today. Or rather, He was using my phone call from today to make a larger point about my life in general.
It was painfully clear and painfully painful. In the 10 minutes or so that followed, I very clearly was confronted with the ugliness that our words can so easily hide. I realized how I can muster some emotion when necessity dictates. I can feel bad when I should. I can get a lump in the throat when things call for one, but that's about it.
There's no way in this world that I can say I feel another's pain as if it were my own. I don't churn and ache inside when friends struggle through tragedies. I don't lose sleep over their hurts. I rarely even lose my appetite.
Oh, I like to think that I'm Jesus' hands in this world, but I realized today how much of a sick joke that thought really is. Jesus touched lepers: I can't even google images of lepers. Jesus built His life around the needs of others: I cringe when the phone rings because I'm afraid somebody might ask something of me. Christ wept. I yawn and look at my watch.
God made it abundantly clear to me today that Love bleeds and cries. Love doesn't "feel bad". Love doesn't "say a prayer" and then move on. Love is aching muscles, blistered feet and dirty hands. Love is inconvenient. But the amazing thing is that it's only inconvenient in the beginning when it's just awakening.
When Love finally opens it's eyes, it hungers. It hungers to give and touch and heal and carry and it won't be satisfied until it's poured itself out at the feet of another.
Because that's what Love did.
For me, I've got to be honest: Love's still sleeping. But maybe morning's coming. Maybe today was the first ringing of the alarm.
morning, a little bump in the normal, steady flow of the day. The buzz caught me off-guard--a bit of a startling intrusion that snapped me out of my own world of thoughts and got my heart thumping a little faster--the way the unexpected usually does. I looked at the caller ID, recognized the number and flipped it open.
My quick "hello" was greeted with a slower one--a quieter one--and I realized almost immediately that the reason for the call wasn't a happy one.
I listened to the bad news and I felt appropriately bad. I felt bad for the situation, bad for the people involved, bad for their kids, bad for their parents, bad for the whole stupid thing.
And then it was over. The conversation ended and I hung up the phone and I did what I had promised (because I'm such a profoundly Christian man): I said a prayer.
"Dear Lord, please be with so and so and help them with such and such. They're in a tough situation, Lord, which you, of course, know. In fact, I probably don't even need to say that. I mean, the part about their situation. You were there for the phone call--you know what's going on. In fact, now that I think about it, you were there before she even called.And that was that. I didn't feel bad anymore. I'd listened. I'd prayed. I'd been Jesus to my friend on the phone.
In fact . . . and this is really cool, Lord . . . you were there when the situation occurred that prompted the call. Now that I think about it, you probably prompted the call to me in the first place--so I could pray for them. Wow, Lord--you're using me to be your hands and your feet. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for bringing this situation about so I could be like you. Amen."
And then I continued with my day. I dealt with work problems and work projects. I wrote a blog entry about paint, a couple radio shows for tomorrow, and I made notes and plans for a weekly Manager's Meeting.
Eventually, 2:15 pm rolled around and I decided to sneak out for lunch. Not to eat, but to pray.
I drove to St. Francis De Sales, parked outside the adoration chapel and let myself in using my card key (I feel very important with my card key and use it even when the door is not locked just because I have one).
I let myself in and glanced, as always, at the candle. (I don't know what this particular candle is called, but knowing Catholics as I'm beginning to, I am absolutely convinced that there's a special Latin name for it). Whatever it's called, it was burning and that meant the Lord was present, body and blood, soul and divinity in the Blessed Sacrament inside the tabernacle--or, as I often think of it: the little box in the center of the room.
Out of respect and adoration, I genuflected (a word that feels foreign on my tongue, but an action that feels perfectly natural given the scenario) and made my way to one of the kneeling benches.
And I began to pray. I prayed and prayed in that stifling, unventilated room. Sweat ran down my back, trickled over my arms and beaded on my forehead. At several points, I stopped and just sat there for a few seconds, wishing they had a shower here for when I left. (And then I spent a few seconds wondering if that was irreverent.)
After a long time of praying and sweating and thinking about showers and the True Nature of Irreverency, I shifted off the kneeling bench and slumped back into my chair. I checked the clock: It was almost time to head back to work. I decided that for my last few minutes, (because I'm quite big-hearted and like to let God do His thing from time to time), I'd sit silently and let God speak to me.
Now, I'll be honest and admit that God normally doesn't speak to me when I do this. I just sit there in silence for about 10 seconds and then my brain thinks it hears something and says: "Was that Him?" And then I listen really hard for about 10 more seconds. "Nope. Just a bird. Out by the window. Oh yeah, there he goes. What's that thing he's got? A cigarette? Oh, no--it's a sucker-stick. Wonder where he picked that up? What's he doing with it? Taking it to his nest? Do male birds even have nests? I bet they don't make them themselves. Probably just find one that's already done and . . . what was that? Was that Him?"
I normally do this for about 5 minutes and then I just figure God doesn't have anything to say and I go back to asking for things.
Well, today I sat there, staring at the Tabernacle, imagining Jesus standing right in front of me, trying to wrap my brain around the Catholic idea of the Eucharist. And while I sat there, doing all these things, a sudden, single thought shot through my head: "You go through all of this but don't love."
Reading it just now, it seems vague. But when I thought it today, I didn't have to ask what He was getting at or if it was really Him speaking. I knew the answer to both questions: It certainly was Him and He was talking about my phone call from earlier today. Or rather, He was using my phone call from today to make a larger point about my life in general.
It was painfully clear and painfully painful. In the 10 minutes or so that followed, I very clearly was confronted with the ugliness that our words can so easily hide. I realized how I can muster some emotion when necessity dictates. I can feel bad when I should. I can get a lump in the throat when things call for one, but that's about it.
There's no way in this world that I can say I feel another's pain as if it were my own. I don't churn and ache inside when friends struggle through tragedies. I don't lose sleep over their hurts. I rarely even lose my appetite.
Oh, I like to think that I'm Jesus' hands in this world, but I realized today how much of a sick joke that thought really is. Jesus touched lepers: I can't even google images of lepers. Jesus built His life around the needs of others: I cringe when the phone rings because I'm afraid somebody might ask something of me. Christ wept. I yawn and look at my watch.
God made it abundantly clear to me today that Love bleeds and cries. Love doesn't "feel bad". Love doesn't "say a prayer" and then move on. Love is aching muscles, blistered feet and dirty hands. Love is inconvenient. But the amazing thing is that it's only inconvenient in the beginning when it's just awakening.
When Love finally opens it's eyes, it hungers. It hungers to give and touch and heal and carry and it won't be satisfied until it's poured itself out at the feet of another.
Because that's what Love did.
For me, I've got to be honest: Love's still sleeping. But maybe morning's coming. Maybe today was the first ringing of the alarm.
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