When I was a little kid, my grandmother took me to see a movie about an orphan boy who lived with some monks. Exploring the attic, he found a wounded man to whom he would bring bread and wine. When he took the monks to help the man, he found him to be no longer there, just some old stuff that included a. very large crucifix, a man of stone. As the story progresses, the boy gets sick and before he dies, one of the monks follows him and finds the risen Christ tending to him.
Now I can’t attest to the accurancy of my recollection as it pertains to the movie, but analyzing the memory, a few points stand out:
- the role of grace in religious experience. It’s not something we produce, but rather it is given us.
- what is truly real, intimately experienced, turns to stone in the mirror of those who can’t connect to its truth. Some of us do this to ourselves, having introjected the worldly cynical and skeptical views with which we have been inculcated, and go on to project onto others.
- God approaches us to heal our wounds
- in giving Jesus bread and wine, the boy received His body and blood. The cure for what ultimately ails us is Love.
Another memory, my earliest, involves my going up a mountain, walking maybe, but carried by members of my family. It is Easter time and my birthday. They happen around the same time occasionally. At any rate, it is a great festival, lots of joy and happiness. When we get to the top we have lunch, which consists of hard-boiled eggs, brilliant white and yellow. My wife and I were discussing memories at some point, and she asked me of what my earliest memory consisted. I honestly had to tell her that I believe it to be of my conception. Maybe it is of my death; maybe both.
Speaking of my wife, she respected my intellect and knowledge base. Not long before her death, (She was sick for what seemed to be and would continue to go on forever.) she asked me in those moments of darkness, waiting for sleep to come, “What is a soul?” Putting on my professorial hat, I spoke at length about things such as the self, being, heaven and the Supreme Being. As I spoke, it became ever clearer that whatever I said, could not reach the reality of this soul before me. The intellectual construct, as coherent and internally consistent as it might be, seemed beside the point of the shear presence of this person who whispered, “That’s nice dear.” as she drifted into sleep. Already familiar with scripture, from there I immersed myself deeper in its contemplation.
I bet you touch walls that are behind “wet paint” signs.