Ignatian Spirituality

“The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him.” Luke 2:40

The older I get, it seems, the more I want to look backwards, to see through the clouds of time and remember — even if imperfectly — the people and events that shaped me. It’s an exercise in time travel, of sorts, a chance to go back and pay more attention. For example, I would like to go back and listen more carefully when my father tries to teach me how to use a miter box to cut perfect angles and make a picture frame for Mother’s Day. I’d like to make that frame and give it to her. I want to take notes, to have a tape recorder running. I want to stand by his side and ask the questions that I didn’t. I want to somehow force his hand to answer the questions he was never able to. I could write a book.

At the tail-end of John’s gospel, we get this intriguing, beguiling sentence: “There are also many other things that Jesus did, but if these were to be described individually, I do not think the whole world would contain the books that would be written.”

Oh, to have access to that library! To be able to roam its stacks and immerse ourselves in the “further tales and adventures” of the boy from Nazareth. I’m especially intrigued by that boy, as we know so little about him. I want him to be just a boy like I was, want to know that he struggled with math, the bullies in the schoolyard, and with the confusing glances and giggles from the girls. I want to hear him say, “Sorry, father, but I don’t want to learn to cut perfect angles today. I want to go play with my friends.” I don’t want him shielded from the pain of adolescence and his teenage years; I want him to have experienced them fully so I can know for sure he was one of us.

Perhaps we would be different Christians if we knew more about the childhood of Jesus. Perhaps we would learn how his mother taught him to love without asking why and how his father taught him to give without stopping to count the cost. Maybe some of this would rub off on us and we’d let love and giving come to define our faith and our lives instead of drawing lines in the sand and picking and choosing who gets to be on our team.  

Standing Beside His Father at the Bench

Back in the old neighborhood and under the influence 
of duties and ancient Psalms 
you grew strong and wise like others around you but different somehow. 
Awake before dawn, you knew just how many steps 
from bed to workshop, thirty-eight,
walked in the dark without bumping into furniture or stubbing a toe 
until you stood beside him, already hard at it.

You came to know the need for the right tool for the job
the feel and comfort of a well-worn handle
closed your eyes and allowed it to fit perfectly in your hand
knew its purpose and limits and origins in the family. 

You savored that favored place beside him — watching, imitating, repeating
doing your small part for the family business
sweeping up curls of cedar and acacia. 

Obedient to all this and yet, you knew there was more 
knew you would leave at some point as all boys and girls must 
and give yourself to another. 
For you, another father.
You would be about his business and learn new steps
from bed to temple, fishing boats to tax collectors 
to villages beyond sight and knowledge
to kneel in the dirt and heal
to stand at the center and teach
to be followed, adored and welcomed 
then ridiculed, plotted against, betrayed and denied
lashed thirty-nine times, crucified. 

And still you would rise from that bed 
and do it all again, every step
knowing I would be sitting here today
telling the hidden story as best I can imagine.

After everything that happened and everything I witnessed, all I wanted to do was sleep, but I couldn’t. The day kept flashing through my mind…

I heard his last words from the cross: “It is finished.” I saw the spear pierce his side and what looked like water and blood pour from him. I stayed close by not because I was brave but because I couldn’t take my eyes from him. But if you asked me why I wouldn’t have been able to explain. I just know there was something about him, the way he moved toward me for the first time in that upper room, the way he knew me and called me by name. As if he knew me all along. So I stayed and waited.

Sometime before sunset a man came and told the women — including Jesus’ mother — that he had permission to take the body. He told the women that he would take care of it, that he had a tomb nearby where he would take him. They seemed grateful. One less thing to worry about.

Another man, a rich Pharisee, arrived carrying a huge jar of ointment. The men saw me standing there and asked for my help, handing me burial cloths to carry. With the women, we walked as a small group together toward the tomb, carrying the body and everything needed for the burial, each of us sharing our first encounter with him, prompted by some deep need to remember. To re-member. To put the pieces back together.

“I came to him one night asking what I needed to do to be saved,” said the pharisee with the jar. “He said I needed to be born again. I’m beginning to understand what that means.”

“Like so many, I just heard him speak and couldn’t help but follow and believe,” said the man who came with permission to take the body. “I was a secret disciple because I was afraid. But no more of that. No more secrets.”

“I was minding my own business, mending my nets with my brother,” said one of his followers. “Then nothing was ever the same. Nothing will ever be the same.”

“He healed me, drove the pain from me,” said a woman. “He changed my life.”

“I held him as a baby,” said another woman. “Even then, there was something about him.”

“I felt him stir inside me,” said his mother.  

They all turned and looked at me, asking for my story, even though I was young and used to being ignored. I stopped. Tears filled my eyes. I remembered his eyes, his touch, his smile.

“He called me by name,” I said. “He washed my feet. He called me to his side. Why did he do that? Now he’s gone and I’m not sure what to do.”

“There’s still work to do,” said the disciple. “There’s something to carry. There’s a story to tell. There’s always someone who is hungry…thirsty…in need. There’s always a need to fill and you will always have something you can offer. I promise you that. We need you. There’s a ‘we’ now, and you’re part of it.” 
  
Never had anyone talked to me like that before. I was needed. Even me, even then. Even now.

Arriving at the tomb, the women anointed the body and wrapped him in a shroud, according to Jewish custom. The men laid the body inside the tomb and rolled a large stone across the entrance.

No one wanted to leave. We were waiting for something we could not explain. 

Note: A number of years ago, when I was praying my way through the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola, I “met” a younger version of myself in my prayer and journaling, and it is still a practice I return to from time to time. This adolescent perspective for some reason allows me to see in new and clearer ways just what is going in me when I read and pray with the stories of Jesus. So this is my imagination and my “reading between the lines” of scripture, although I’ve tried very hard to not change the meaning or impact of the original words. They are powerful on their own.  

Image by Wiesiek Pasko, Pixabay  

The teacher had been arrested in Gethsemane and brought here to the high priest. A few of his disciples followed but others snuck off into the night. I guess I could hardly blame them. So much happened so quickly and there was a growing mob calling for violence against him. I didn’t get it. Had they never met him? He had done nothing to deserve this.

I was young and small so people paid little attention to me. Now the one called Peter stood in the courtyard, warming himself by the fire. I hid behind him but he knew I was there. A woman — the gatekeeper — approached and looked at him, tilting her head, first one way and then the other, as if she had seen him before.

“You’re not one of his disciples, are you?” 

He said, “I am not.”
 
Wait, what? I tugged at Peter’s garment.  I thought maybe he hadn’t heard the question correctly.

“You told him you would never…” I whispered, but he shushed me and pushed my hand away. I left his side and wandered the courtyard. I pushed my way into another area where a small crowd gathered around Jesus as the high priest questioned him about the things he taught.

“I have no secrets,” Jesus said calmly. “Everything I have spoken has been spoken publicly to the world. I have always taught in a synagogue or in the temple area where all the Jews gather, so why don’t you ask them what I said.”

They didn’t like his answer. Someone hit him. “Is this the way you answer the high priest?”

Again, he is calm.

“If I have said something wrong then tell me what I said. But if I’m telling the truth, why hit me?”

It was hard to argue with that, so they sent him away. I walked back over toward Peter, just as another person questioned him. 

“You are not one of his disciples, are you?”

Tell them the truth. Be brave.

“I am not.”

Someone else: “Didn’t I see you in the garden with him?”

Come on, Peter.

“No.”

I looked at Peter and saw the sadness and dejection in his eyes. We both remembered the words Jesus spoke at supper: “Will you lay down your life for me? The cock will not crow before you deny me three times.”

I counted them. So did Peter. Had I been older and in his position it could have been me. We stood in silence, waiting.

And the cock crowed. And Peter wept.  And I wondered. 

Note: A number of years ago, when I was praying my way through the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola, I “met” a younger version of myself in my prayer and journaling, and it is still a practice I return to from time to time. This adolescent perspective for some reason allows me to see in new and clearer ways just what is going in me when I read and pray with the stories of Jesus. So this is my imagination and my “reading between the lines” of scripture, although I’ve tried very hard to not change the meaning or impact of the original words. They are powerful on their own.