There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.  (Galatians 3:28)

If this is to be true of believers, it is so only because it is already true in the resurrected Jesus Christ himself. We glimpse it in his earthly life, and it becomes literally fulfilled in the Resurrection.

What more then will there be with the Second Coming of Christ than with his Incarnation and his Resurrection?

Look! He is coming with the clouds;
every eye will see him,
even those who pierced him. (Revelation 1:7)

After the Resurrection of Jesus, only his disciples saw him—or at least only they knew who he was, and even they had some difficulty recognizing him. Mary Magdalene thought he was the gardener; and the couple on the road to Emmaus did not recognize Jesus until he broke the bread at supper. But at the end, we read, “every eye will see him.”

Perhaps this means not only that geographical boundaries will no longer exist (for no matter where we happen to be, we shall see him); but neither will we be hindered by those interior boundaries of the human heart which may now prevent us from recognizing and receiving the divine goodness and beauty. Even those of us who have pierced his heart (for it is not only at the crucifixion that Christ is wounded)—by our rejection, our sins, our blindness, our turning away, our denial of him—all of us will see him.

Will this be the moment when we, like Christ, will transcend all our limitations? Is this the moment—though time no longer has meaning—when, as St. Paul foresees in the magnificent fifteenth chapter of 1 Corinthians, God will be all in all?

Paul assures us in that chapter that “as all die in Adam, so all will be made alive in Christ” (1 Cor 15:22). What will it be like after all are made alive? What will we be like after there are no more powers working to thwart the loving purposes of God?

What does Paul mean, that God will be all in all?

Here we must bow humbly before the mystery and not pretend to know the answers. But we may still speculate, as Christians throughout the centuries have done.

From Gregory of Nyssa (c. 330-395):

What, then, is the point the divine apostle is making in this text? That at some time evil will recede into nonbeing and then be completely eradicated and that God’s perfect goodness will enfold in itself every rational being, and nothing God has made will be cast out of his kingdom.

The Church’s Bible: 1 Corinthians, trans. by Judith L. Kovacs

Gregory of Nazianzus (330 – c. 389) reminds us of our human condition:

God will be “all in all” when we are no longer what we are now, a multiplicity of impulses and emotions, with little or nothing of God in us, but are fully like God, with room for God and God alone. This is the maturity toward which we speed.

Theological Oration 30.6, in On God and Christ:
The Five Theological Orations and Two Letters to Cledonius, trans. by Frederick J. Williams, Lionel R. Wickham

Is this glory only for the endtime?

Is it something we can forget about for now? How do we speed toward this maturity for which we are made, as Gregory of Nazianzus says?

We are not intended to sit by idly and wait for the fullness of history to come upon us. Here are a few suggestions as we wait for the Second Coming of Jesus Christ:

  Cultivate Mindfulness. Cultivate a stance of looking for God in all things, so that when the divine is revealed to us, we will be prepared to receive, and so that we may grow in the goodness and beauty God of throughout our life. We can practice gazing on God, as much as our present limitations and the abundant grace of God allow right now.

  Jesus has already prayed “that all may be one” (John 17). We can cooperate in that work of union by doing what we can to make divisions cease and by reminding ourselves of the beauty and goodness residing in ourselves and in each other.

  Pray to become the mercy, peace, and compassion of Christ in and for the world. We are created to be capable of God, capax dei. So we are also capable, through grace, of being Christ’s loving presence, Christ’s merciful presence, Christ’s peace-bringing presence.

  Pray that when people meet us, they will be meeting Christ. And if they forget who they meet, may it be ourselves they forget and not Christ.

The inner affinity with the Mystery in whom we are alive and move and have being—Father, Son, Holy Spirit—can grow on us only in the experience of God as ‘the All’: the God of each of us at the expense of none of us, the God who never comes alone but always with the entire cosmos and all of humanity.  This experience is the heart of common worship, with its cosmic and universalist dimensions, its significant silence and significant speech, its significant gesture and significant motionlessness, its interplay of the seen and the unseen—in sum, its doxology made tangible.

Franz Josef van Beeck, “Trinitarian Theology as Participation,” The Trinity: An Interdisciplinary Symposium on the Trinity, edited by Stephen T. Davis, Daniel Kendall, SJ, Gerald O’Collins, SJ

Doxology—from the Greek word doxa (δόξα), meaning glory: Glory to “the God of each of us at the expense of none of us, the God who never comes alone but always with the entire cosmos and all of humanity.”

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“Space fractal with stars” image by Rose Hoover, rc

For high quality viewing, click on “HQ” (bottom right of frame) after video starts.

Jesu, tibi vivo; Jesu, tibi morior;
Jesu, sive vivo, sive morior, tuus sum.

(Jesus, for you I live; Jesus, for you I die;
Jesus, whether I live or whether I die, I am yours.)

The lyrics are based on Romans 14:7-8:

We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves. If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.

I used to think that “Jesu Tibi Vivo” belonged to us, but have recently learned that it is far older than the Cenacle. It dates from the Middle Ages (at least according to one source), and it can be found here and there on the internet — primarily on Italian sites.  In fact, there is a rather remarkable photograph, posted on FlickR by Lyonora, of a young Italian drinking what appears to be an espresso.  On his arm are tattooed the words, “Sive vivo, sive morior, tuus sum”: whether I live or whether I die, I am yours.

Tuus sum: I am yours.

This is the primary, the most basic reality of our human existence. We belong to God who loves us totally and without reserve. We human beings can be confused about who we are in the depth of our being – and who we are called to be.  But one thing is clear. We are God’s, and our life is gift. Tuus sum.

Now saying “I am yours” is different from saying “You are mine.” In the human context, “You are mine,” can be abusive if it is not part of the relational and reciprocal “I am yours.” God in Christ does say to us, “You are mine” (see Isaiah 43, for example); but being claimed in this way by God is freeing, not imprisoning. According to Pope Benedict XVI:

Before we can say “I am yours”, he [Christ] has already told us “I am yours”… With his Incarnation he said: I am yours. And in Baptism he said to me: I am yours. In the Holy Eucharist, he says ever anew: I am yours, so that we may respond: Lord, I am yours…

Address at the opening of the 12th Ordinary General Assembly
of the Synod of Bishops, October 2008.

The Creator of the universe does not call us into an abusive relationship. God does not say “you are mine” as if speaking to a slave, because God also says “I am yours.” As strange as it may sound in a society that tends to idealize autonomy, obedience to God becomes what is most freeing for us. Dwelling in the love of God to whom we belong and whose own love is self-giving, our own limited love may then be transformed into the joyfully self-giving love of Christ.

I am not my own.
I am yours.
In that I find my joy and my peace.

_____

Listen to “Jesu Tibi Vivo,” as sung by Cenacle Sisters.
There are two CDs available on the Cenacle Sisters’ website which offer “Jesu Tibi Vivo” with both Latin and English verses.

On the way to church, we held our umbrellas close as we sloshed through puddles and peered through the downpour. We wouldn’t have been surprised to see an ark under construction. Everything was saturated, dripping, sodden, or swimming, and at times it seemed as if we were viewing buildings and cars and each other from under the sea.

After Mass began, we listened to the Sunday readings. The first reading and the Gospel were:

· Exodus 17, where the people were thirsting, and God told Moses, “Strike the rock, and the water will flow from it for the people to drink.”

· John 4, where Jesus says to the Samaritan woman, “If you knew the gift of God and who is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’
you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.”

And…

“Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again;
but whoever drinks the water I shall give will never thirst;
the water I shall give will become in him
a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”

Water everywhere!
And we sang:

· “Crashing Waters at Creation” (Sylvia Dunstan)

· “Come to the Feast,” with the words, “Ho, ev’ryone who thirsts: Come to the waters!” (Marty Haugen, © 1991, GIA Publications, Inc.)

· “O Healing River”: “O healing river, send down your waters…” (Fran Minkoff)

The church seemed to be awash. At the end of the celebration, we rose from our pews and slogged back to the car.

God is never stingy with the living water. Even when our hearts feel barren and dusty, the water is there for the asking. When we ask and still feel dry, the living water is with us nevertheless, permeating the truest, deepest part of ourselves, nurturing us, filling us, nourishing us, and bringing forth life — sometimes in spite of ourselves. Like the unborn child in its mother’s womb, we are surrounded by the waters of God. It is so much our element that we may not even notice that we float in it.

O God, may I never try to shut myself off from your living water. Grant me the grace to know the gift of God and to receive with joyful heart your “spring of water welling up to eternal life.” Amen.

A favorite activity was looking at mail-order catalogs. Even an ordinary catalog was filled with marvels. I can still hear Juanito’s voice, filled with wonder, exclaiming: “¡Mira, Rosa, Mira!” (Look, Rose, look!) And I was led to see for a moment with his child’s eyes.

The Wise Men must have had something of a child’s eyes to be able to see the remarkable in the commonplace. After all, babies are born every day, and this particular birth was not outwardly extraordinary. The family was not prominent; the surroundings were poor. To exclaim, “¡Mira!” and fall down in wonder before such an unexceptional scene: this required eyes open to what was not readily visible. Yet it was at this ordinary scene of a family with a newborn that they knelt, then presented their royal gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

Today the Risen Christ is always with us. The goodness of God is all around us and within us. Not only does every newborn share in the glory of Christ, but also the struggling teenager and the elderly person approaching death. Each star, each sunrise, the people we meet, our meals, our computers — before all of these do we not hear the voice of the Spirit whispering, “¡Mira! Look!” and calling us to gaze in wonder?

Wonderful God,
grant me the eyes to look with wonder on your world
and to see myself and all creation
with the heart of Christ.

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.’
(Matthew 2:1-2)

OK, so it is really yellow, not gold, and it is ordinary oak pollen. But ordinary though it may be, it is ubiquitous, and it is insidious. You may first become aware of it when you notice the yellow coating on the car and the garbage can lid, or perhaps when you begin sneezing and your eyes start itching and your nose starts running. (I am writing with a wad of Kleenex next to the computer keyboard.)

Even more pervasive — and far more precious than this golden dust that brings tears to our swollen eyes — is the mercy of God. Like the pollen, we walk through it and breathe it in. Not only that, but it fills every atom of our being. We sleep wrapped in mercy, and we wake refreshed by it. And God’s mercy, unlike the oak pollen, doesn’t make our nose run, but instead heals what is raw in us and calms what is troubled. Rather than clouding our eyes, it gives us clearer vision.

Contrary to what society would have us believe, mercy is not a feeble virtue. It is a mighty force, stronger than wrath or threats or vengeance, which are ineffective as incentives to righteousness. But the power of mercy claims us, directs us, and sometimes surprises us into goodness.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.

“The Lord is my portion,” says my soul,
“therefore I will hope in him.”
(Lamentations 3:22-24)

When I think of how much I delight in seeing this parrot, I realize that God’s delight in creation is beyond my wildest imagination. Not only does God gaze on creation and find it good (Genesis 1), but, as St. Ignatius of Loyola says, God also dwells in creatures, giving them being and life. If we really took in the fact of God’s presence with — and delight in — all of creation, how would our lives change? How we would reverence ourselves and each other, the whole earth and all it contains!

[God] brought me out into a broad place;
he delivered me, because he delighted in me.
(Psalm 18:19)

The heat will be back, of course. It is only the beginning of September in southern Louisiana, so it will be important for me to remember yesterday’s fresh wind in the hot days to come.

We are always enfolded in God’s love, even when we are not aware of it, but sometimes there are privileged moments when we may become mindful, and then the comfort of the divine presence is like the coolness after that day of terrible heat, and all at once it is easy to be grateful.

— “I told you that you could have one,” said the dad. “You’ll have to put the other back.”

— “You told me I could have one of everything.”

— “You may have one! Now put the other back.”

Sometimes I feel just like that child. I want one of everything, too. I don’t want to have to choose, because choosing one thing means giving up the possibility of something else. This is one reason commitments are so difficult. Life doesn’t allow us to have everything and do everything and experience everything. But in fact, our joy in this life resides not in refusing to choose, but in experiencing, first, that we are chosen, and then in choosing what our good and loving God desires for us.

May we have the grace of knowing deep in our hearts that, no matter what we have had to let go of in our lives:

“…all things are yours. . . and you are Christ’s,
and Christ is God’s” (1 Cor. 3:21b, 23).