Life and the Living of It

  I just finished reading Peter J. Gomes' The Scandalous Gospel of Jesus.  Interesting book (my brief thoughts on it can be found on my blog for the church)--but it's strange to read a book written by a man who recently passed away.  I don't know if I read the words any differently, or if the message changes, but I certainly look at the book and wonder if he'd be happy with it.  If he knew exactly when he would die, and he knew that this book would be his last major (to my knowledge) contribution to the literary world, would he change it?  I have no doubt that he did far more than I am aware of, and, from what I know, he should be proud of most of it, but I wonder what he would say about it, in reflection.

  I suppose it's a question for all of us--are we happy with the contribution we've made?  If we knew that today, that tonight, was our last, and we had the chance to look back and reflect upon how we've spent our time on this incredibly vibrant orb as it spins through the galaxies, what would our attitude be?

  Would be grateful that we simply had the chance to participate in this delightfully unpredictable thing called life?

  Would we be disappointed that we tried and failed, or perhaps that we failed to try at all?

  Would we be filled with anguish or remorse, with joy and thanksgiving, or some strange alchemy of each?

  If the Lord came and took your hand, would you look back over your shoulder as this sweet and sorrowful place faded into the distance, or would you simply let it slide, knowing that each moment had been lived to the best of your ability?  (Now, I firmly believe that all of life will pale in comparison to the fullness of Christ's glory, but we can still wonder, right?)

  We always count on more time, until there is no more.  And then it's gone, and our contribution to our brothers and sisters with whom we share this planet is frozen, even if the way it is seen is often altered by those left behind to process it all.  We can no longer control what we offer.

  And so, with that knowledge, how do we live?  Do we live panicked, afraid of an uncertain end, terrified that all we desire will never fit into the time we have left?

  Or do we embrace love, certain that whatever contribution we can make is best spoken in the universal language of love?  Do we live with a firm confidence that God has filled us with a love that is to be shared, rather than hoarded, and trust that while we cannot control the amount of time we have to love, we can control the amount of love we share within our time?  Do we offer ourselves freely, sweetly, to those in need, friends and strangers alike, or are our hands so tightly clenched around the blessings we have received that we are unable and unwilling to speak a word of compassion to those with whom we wander this way?

  When it is all written like this, it seems so clear.  In the living of it, so often my view grows fuzzy, as though blinded by continual snowstorms of fear and uncertainty.  I hoard my talents, my treasures, afraid of what might happen if I do not maintain the illusion of control over my fate.  As a result, I so often fail to love, ducking at opportunities to embrace a world that seems to be crying out for a hug.

  I try to love, and believe that I succeed as often as I fail.  I believe that grace abounds, that the love I see on the cross is stronger and deeper than I can imagine, and I believe this love picks me up and sets me back upon my feet when I stumble across so many man-made obstacles that litter the narrow way.  I have great hope.

  So are we happy with the contributions we have made, with the lives we have lived?  Are we hopeful for what awaits?

  How shall we live--with faces turned towards yesterday, shrouded in questions about choices and actions, or looking forward in hope, to the east, where the sun rises once more to illumine a world in need of love, and warms us to the core, reminding us of the love that lies within, ready to be poured out, that we might truly live?