It's only taken me about twenty years, but recently, and finally, I've noticed a trend in my life. I'm a coward. In more ways than one, but particularly in my relationship with Jesus.
I'm always afraid to go deeper. I'm always afraid to give Him more.
Its been a constant struggle.
I used to think that the more I gave Jesus the more limitations I had. That in order to be holy, I would have to morph into a made-up, over-exaggerated "cookie-cutter" version of Catholicism and I'd have to wear long jean skirts and give up makeup and only watch G-rated movies or something.(I know. I used to be dumb).
I was afraid of the change that giving Jesus everything would bring. I was afraid that others would notice the change and not want to be around me. That my friends wouldn't recognize me.
For a while in the early parts of my life, I was a closet-Catholic. I didn't want to admit how much God was a part of my life, how much He was changing me. But what I didn't realize then, was that one can't have a powerful encounter with God and NOT change. You have to change. Whether or not you feel the effects of the change immediately, a change happens. Deep within your soul. Something has to shift.
Such an experience happened to me when I was seventeen. After experiencing God in a powerful time of Eucharistic adoration like I had never experienced Him before, I was reminded of the quote Frodo says at the end of The Return of the King after he, at long last, finally gets to return to the Shire.
"How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back?"
Indeed, what I came to realize was that there was no going back. Once you experience God, nothing else than living for Him will satisfy. Funny how that works.
Because I'd spend the majority of my life until that point going deeper in my faith-life in cautious increments and half-steps, I surprised myself when, without consulting anyone about my decision, I signed up for an 11 day retreat at a convent half-way across the country.
As I stepped onto the plane, I had a distinct feeling that my life was about to change again. Because surely, I would encounter God here. And surely that meant I would have to change.
During the retreat we had scheduled in approximately a day and a half of silent prayer. Half-way through the first day, the Sister who was running the retreat would take each of us into her office and chat with us, asking how our prayer was going, and how our heart was faring.
It was then that this very wise and beautiful Sister gave me the best analogy for my relationship with Jesus that I had ever heard. Now, after further reflection, I have expanded and dramatized the metaphor to what I'm writing now. Imagine this:
You have a house. You're really sucky at managing your finances because, lets face it, you're not a real adult yet and that crap is scary. So you realize in order to make ends meet, you have to rent out the upper-floor of your house. There's a full bathroom up there, a bedroom, and besides the need to share a kitchen, you might hardly ever have to interact with the person renting the upper part of your house, so as long as they're not totally crazy, it should be good, right? So you put an add in the paper and hope for the best. The next day you get a knock on the door.
It's Jesus.
Okay. You know Him, he seems like he'd make a solid roommate so you give Him a tour. When the tour is over and you're about to tell Him how much the rooms upstairs cost, He looks at you and says:
"This house is nice. I like it. I'll move in at once."
"Well, you don't get the whole house," you say, sort of put off. "You just get upstairs."
"Oh, but I really like the whole house. I'd really like to move in and share the whole house with you."
"Well, I'm sorry," you say. "But the upstairs is all you get."
"Alright," Jesus says, "I'll come back tomorrow."
You really like Jesus. The two of you have been friends for a while. But you're not sure about being roommates. Because if that happened, you'd probably see Him all the time. And He'd want to spend a lot of time with you. And He'd probably end up meeting all of your friends. And maybe if you were watching a movie in the living room and He didn't like it, he might ask you to change it. And He'd probably end up knowing all about your life if you live together.
No, you think. Its better that you just stay friends. Living together might be pushing it.
Jesus comes back the next day and the process repeats. He's still being stubborn. He wants to whole house. You stubbornly tell him no. But there are no other takers on the rooms upstairs. And you really are pretty broke. Eventually desperation kicks in, and you finally agree to let Jesus move in. To the whole house. You're scared at first, but Jesus turns out to be a pretty good roommate. He comes in, not even judging how much of a mess your house is and helps you clean up. He fixes the broken faucet in the kitchen and He turns out to make your whole life a lot better. You guys stay up way too late talking all the time and if you go a whole day without seeing Him, you miss Him. You begin to wonder why you weren't house-mates from the beginning.
Ok. That analogy is slightly whimsical and may seem silly. But I've been meditating on it for a few months now, and I realize its validity.
I had been confining Jesus to the upper room for months. He wanted the whole house. Heck, upon further reflection it seemed like I hadn't even let Jesus in the door. He was still waiting on the porch.
It was then that I realized I need to let Him in. By talking to Him about everything. The good and the bad. My successes and my failures. By talking to Him daily. By letting Him be apart of every mundane daily task. By striving to live with virtue and to clean up my own messes, but asking Him to help me when I needed it, instead of trying to hide it all from Him.
It's a process, friends. It is such a process. To let Him in. Let Him have His say. Let Him love me. Let Him see every part of my house. Even the things I shove under the rug.
It is a process.
But thanks to that retreat. Thanks to that analogy.
Jesus may still be getting unpacked, but He is here to stay.
Take the whole house, Lord. Make it beautiful. Let us make a home together.
Omnia Gratia Sunt. Allelujah.
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