Is it a mistake to try to put words to the wordless love of Jesus?
If I could make one complaint about Christianity this morning, it would be this: You talk too much, Christianity. You talk too much and write too much and sing too many songs. Sounds like an odd complaint. I'm not advocating complete silence on your part, Christendom. Just more silence. Just, please, a few moments of quiet and peace, of saying and doing nothing, producing no models for display, providing no explanations for debate. Just silence. But ah, enough of this taunting of an unseen monolith, conveniently labeled "Christianity." I will speak to myself now.
You talk too much, self. Even when your mouth is closed, even when your tongue is still and your jaw is clenched. You are talking. Talking all the time. Talking about God. Talking at God. Fingers inching up the rosary, talking a blue streak with every bead; all giving and no receiving. Even your prayers, self, your prayers! And you dare to call them prayers. Your prayers are trapped inside your head, going around in circles. Dear Jesus, dear Jesus, dear Jesus. Holy Jesus. Well, Jesus is standing above you while you kneel down there with your skull gripped in your hands. Jesus is looking at you and loving you and wondering what you are doing down there, what you are saying. When, if ever, do you intend to look up?
Anyone would think I was some ascetic, some cloistered monastic, fasting forty days and forty nights, self-flagellating, hating the world, but no, I was just me last night when I shut myself in the dark, cold room and covered my face with my hands. Just me, just one of the ordinaries, the one who talks too much and writes too much and sings too much and never, ever stops to listen to the God who hears. But in that room I was visited by silence. Sweet, sacred, simple silence. And then I heard him say to me, Just be with me. Just be with me. Just rest. Just stay here with me.
I recognized the voice of Jesus. And for five minutes, maybe ten - oh, but it felt like eternity - I stayed. And since he had spoken, I tried to reply, even to simply report that I loved him, but he said, Shh, shh. Just rest for a while. I want you to rest. Such an alarming request when I am supposed to be his disciple. I am supposed to be his agent, right? The one who does things for him. The one who proclaims his teachings. Just rest, he said, and I saw that he was with me, saw that I was in his arms and his hand was holding my head against his heart...
