“One of the elders used to say: In the beginning when we got together we used to talk about something that was good for our souls … But now we get together and spend our time criticizing … And we drag one another down into the abyss.” -- The Paradise of the Fathers (vol. II, p. 210)
An old Baptist preacher liked to preach about heaven, but soon before he passed away he described a troubling dream that was not very pleasant. He dreamed that he had died and was standing before the Pearly Gates. People from his congregation were standing with him, and they were all waiting for the Gates to open wide so they might go in.
After waiting for a while, the preacher called out: “Excuse me -- aren’t you going to let us in?” Silence. The preacher tried to list some reasons why the Gate should be open. “We preached the Gospel. We held Church on Sundays and Wednesdays. We had Bible Studies. We sent money to missions and held clothing drives for the poor. We stayed true to the Faith.” Silence.
Again, he spoke up. “We’re all here, Lord.”
Then, a Voice rumbled from behind the Gates: “No, you’re not.”
The preacher looked around and counted heads. It looked like everyone was there and accounted for. “I think we’re all here. The whole membership is accounted for. Everyone listed in our books -- we’re all here, Lord, I’m sure we didn’t miss anyone.”
The Voice now so deep shook the floor. “Where is Mary? Where is Little Mary?”
Little Mary wasn’t on the books, the preacher thought. Little Mary was too quiet, too shy, too hidden to ever make much of a difference. Little Mary was too shabby -- her clothes were old and out of style. She never spoke up and left before the services were over. Little Mary was just an old frail woman who came to church once in a while and didn’t know anyone else in the Church.
And that’s why no one knew where she was.
“We don’t know where Mary is, Lord. She’s not with us.”
“Go find her.”
“I guess I’ll go back downstairs and look for her.”
“No,” said the Voice, “Not just you. All of you.”
So the entire congregation left the Pearly Gates and climbed back down to the world of trouble, just to find Little lost Mary. They looked for her in Church, but she wasn’t there because she was talked about and criticized. They looked for her in her house, but she wasn’t there because the power had been turned off and the roof was leaking in the rain. They looked for her on the sidewalk, but she wasn’t there because her legs were bad and she could stand and walk anymore. They looked for her in the nursing homes and the hospitals, but she wasn’t there because she could not afford the doctor bills. They looked for her in the shelters and the soup kitchens, because they knew, by now, she was hungry and cold.
She wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere.
Weary and forlorn, they climbed back up the stairs.
“We can’t find her Lord,” the preacher said with a crack in his quivering voice.
“We lost her.”
Silence.
“Well,” the Voice said, a lot more quietly, “I did not.”
The Gates cracked open a little ways, just enough to let through a young beautiful lass, shining in the Light. She was so beautiful, so bright that the preacher could barely look at her without his heart breaking, for the sheer loveliness and deep majesty.
She walked up to the preacher and his congregation. “I’ve been looking for you,” Little Mary said. “I’m so glad I found you!” And like a glad little girl, she turned to the Pearly Gate and said, “Lord, we’re all here!”
“But Mary,” said the Voice, “You were hungry and they gave you no food. You were thirsty and they gave you nothing to drink. You were a stranger, and you were not taken in. You needed clothing, and you were left in rags. Inasmuch as they failed you, they have failed Me.”
“Lord,” said she, “Today, they are the hungry ones, and thirsty, and estranged and cold. I will not fail them. Inasmuch as I love these my friends, how much more do I love You?”
Your blessings Fr. Jonathan. I am a quiet reader of your blog and I especally love your stories and your poetry. Poetry and Psalms touch me in a way little else can (and being able to sing hymns during Liturgy by heart is a blessing to me). Poetry trumps science totally.
There is something I wanted to discuss with you that had left a bad taste in my mouth and heart recently: Modern irony/parodys.
I was at the bookstore visiting my mom who works there and I was taken by this book "The History of the World According to Facebook" (sorry, don't know how to link) which presents word history - from the "beginning" up to Saddam's death by Seal Team 6 - as how it would appear on the workings of Facebook. Some things made me laugh but after awile I became too disturbed by the whole idea that I stopped reading it. My beef is this: Everything is now the object of mockery, scorn; it is defiled and made out to be pathetic and trivial. All the things people suffered through in the past are degraded to something we can laugh at in a bookstore. I see books like this all the time, and when historic events and people can't be made ironic they turn and make ironic parody's of fiction books both classic and modern. Nothing is held sacred anymore; nothing is held in respect. It's all been reduced to this degraded BS that sells, and sells big.
That's my rant...my little nasty pre-Lenten discovery about this world. I live a sheltered life; I was home-schooled. My mother read The Hobbit and The Children's Homer out loud to us. I was Chrisimated into the Orthodox Church when I was 10. And living
in the smoke and smog of the Mordorish parts of this world can take its toll sometimes.
But I love the Lord and I enjoy your blog very much; thank you, Fr.
Posted by: Sloane | February 18, 2012 at 02:28 PM
Dear Sloane,
It seems that seeing the world a bit more Mordorian is a prerequisite to Lent. I wonder if that is not only given us to help see the Cross (a symbol that should become weightier throughout memory and the ages), but also so we can suffer evangelistically, better.
In any case, the calumny of the nations against "whatsoever is noble, beautiful and of good purport" (Philippians 4) is a large ongoing tradition. I really do not know whether it is worse or not. Some days I think it is, then others no.
This parody, too, is something we should see and understand. Some of it is simply comedy emerging from the folds of a frustrated, sometimes truncated, human nature. Some of it, too, is simply demonic -- an acute, psychotic rebellion against the presence of the Word. Thus -- a comedy that destroys meaning, instead of enhancing it (which is the true potential of comedy).
Comedy, and its worse denatured sort, has always sold in Gomorrah and will always sell in Babylon.
The Lord is faithful: greater is He that is in you than he that is in the world, you know: if God is for us, who can be against us.
And, He will have the last laugh.
Blessings,
Fr. Jonathan
Posted by: Fr. Jonathan | February 18, 2012 at 03:26 PM
Thank you, Father. God WILL get the last laugh, and may I be made worthy to join Him. I guess right now I'm tired of beautiful and honorable things being degraded.
I will be at a monastery for the next five days (my Church makes two annual pilgrimiges each year) so I won't be visiting for a while - I'll look forward to future posts when I get back. Have a good Lent; and thanks again.
Posted by: Sloane | February 19, 2012 at 11:37 PM
What a reversal if I ever heard one. And a delightful one at that! Could it be, Father, that there just might possibly be Marys like this in Heaven, and that your fictional story might be truer than our understanding of judgment and justice?
I find myself these days calling out for the mercy of God upon my soul more than ever before. I know I have failed as a Christian in many ways. I have no doubt that I have been quite like this Baptist preacher and his congregation - that is, I have forgotten Mary as well. I don't want to forget her, but my conscience, and even more profoundly my heart convict me. I have been selfish on various occasions, forgetting those whom Jesus spoke of in His parable of the sheep and goats.
I need to, and desire to amend the condition of my heart so that there is no chasm between Christ and me, between His Heavenly Kingdom and myself. How does one become transported to such a place, spiritually speaking? How does the heart become softened so as to weep with those who weep?
Posted by: Darlene | February 20, 2012 at 02:01 PM
Well, Darlene, this is one very special Mary that comes to mind, and quickly. There are certainly others.
This Baptist vision admits of several interpretations.
Thank you for your brave and beautiful words.
In an inarticulate attempt to answer your last question, the first and greatest step is the courage to be convicted and to recognize the expanse of the chasm. The second step is to weep, and in so doing, become immersed in the second baptism of repentance.
Posted by: Fr. Jonathan | February 20, 2012 at 02:35 PM
"This Baptist vision admits of several interpretations."
I considered that, thinking that Mary possibly might be referring to the Mother of God, our blessed Theotokos. After all, the Baptists have virtually ignored her for the most part.
Posted by: Darlene | February 20, 2012 at 04:07 PM
Nicely done.
Posted by: Fr N | March 10, 2012 at 12:08 AM