So while there in my seat, I closed my eyes and recalled my favorite part of that movie and probably one of my favorite accounts in the Bible. It takes place Jesus is alive, after having conquered death. The disciples are fishing. Fishing, like they had always been doing, before the Son of God called them to follow. Fishing, like the average Joes that they were. And then on the shore stands Jesus, telling them to cast their nets on the other side, knowing the large catch that awaited. I could imagine that He was eager for them to catch the fish and eat breakfast, eager to be with them.
And then I too was there with the disciples, heading for the shore where Jesus stood, waiting to eat with us. And as we got off the boat, He was so glad to see us, taking our hands, clinging to us in a warm embrace. I could see myself and my friends meeting with Jesus and having breakfast with Him. The affection in His eyes and mannerisms spoke of a pure love, that makes the spirit come alive. It’s the thing that all men and women yearn for. I saw this and tears streamed down my face. What feeling or ideology or iron will could succeed in persuading a human being to reject this Man’s presence, if they could be partakers of this meal?
I saw that others came to join this gathering. These others were people I knew, people in my life who I personally do not care to love or even attempt to love. People, who one minute I ask for the supernatural strength to love and the next minute deem unworthy of any compassion or mercy. People to whom my heart has grown embittered and to my chagrin, I have cursed with my own words.
This fig doesn’t belong, does it James?
These, whose specific names I will not mention, were welcomed by Jesus. Most affectionately and unreservedly. He saw them, welcomed them, accepted them, simultaneously. In being with Jesus, are there no steps or stages? No. He loves us first. And so I submit. Compassion, like the scent of freshly-baked bread, filled me up to the brim. I wept and wept…because Jesus loves them. And He gives me no other option but to do the same! HOW can I not?
Still sitting in the cushioned sanctuary seat, behind the veil of my own eyelids, I beheld a picture of something sweet and simple. I don’t quite know how to describe it. Simply put, I think it was a picture of Abiding. Abiding, like we see in the sparrow, the lily, the baby breathing, the branch extending. Abiding, as in a transitive verb: a verb that does not take an object. An action to which we can never add by our own doing, no matter how terribly we may desire to. We cannot muster up our own compassion. We humans must view the perfect love in the face of God Himself: a humble Man. And there we abide, and there let it overflow... And from there? We make those intransitive verbs so difficult sometimes.
I opened my eyes, which were puffy and red, to the sound of voices raised in singing.
I am fond of this kind of Abiding.
It would be nice to eat spaghetti with Jesus.
