Stepping in for God

What does it mean to be a Christian - a Christ person, a savior of sort who can make a difference in the lives of so many who have poor, cruel and frightening ones. We are not Christ-like because we could never excel or even climb to a mountain peak to be perfect in any way, to get near or equal to Him. It seems that the reason Christ was a temporary human on earth, to test the waters so to speak, to feel the pain and heartbreak of so many who had suffered with no spirit to cling to that would convince each human that they would make it to the top of the clouds into the heavenly kingdom. We are all promised a pathway to that kingdom, but it requires a lowly, difficult test on that road to get to eternal life in God’s place. It is more than that, I think, after the servant has found His way about faith, about doing good, about saving the suffering from faithfulness and hopelessness, that this whole world is just a blank in the end.

And all of us, whatever our faith or desires, seek to find the pathway that can teach us how to be a decent person, a loving servant, an honest trophy that can make a difference in the lives of those who have nothing or nobody. I don’t think we even have the right to declare someone as Holy. The Saints who are Holy are already gone off this sand, dust, and green earth. Those of us left behind really are not saints yet, until they pass through the judgement of those in the heavens. I know I have known a few, already up there in the sky – E.A. Carman who used to share his love and humor for the saints; and Antonio Cardoso who gave me the opportunity to learn that my calling was to work in prisons, in Uruguayan prisons where not many understood my stumbling Spanish. Yet, I was able to wear that white robe and the deacon shawl (for a long while) and bring in grape juice and wafers to do the Eucharist, a primitive one, in the basement where families could visit three times a week, and somehow share the Eucharist with many who didn’t even know the why or who or reason as they dipped the bread circle into grape juice. I wonder if they felt any different, any kind of stir in their souls that maybe there is a Jesus, or wondering what their fellow prisoners were thinking, if they were thinking at all.

Those moments, I will never forget. I may have told you this already. I did the first Misa in the tough and taught giant nightmare prison called, of all things, “Libertad.” Various areas of the prison residents were allowed to come, and we were locked into a large room. The guards were so nervous they waited on the outer side of the locked gates. I had to laugh at that. I had no fear because the leaders of a couple groups had a peace agreement that hour, that day, so they could all share this Eucharist, although few knew really what it meant.

It is odd that somehow in my life there was a twitch, a switch, when I decided to be with the lowly, the needy, the suffering, the criminal, rather than to be with the highfaluting, always generous, who has had all the delights of life, even had a chance to step into churches everywhere to pray to God, to sing to God, and to befriend the others who were dressed up to listen to spectacular choirs and a good sermon.

There was a point when I preferred to be with the needy, the dangerous, the sad, the despised, the untrustworthy, because they needed to learn that not all people are criminals, or necessarily the victims of criminality and there is a Jesus, if you can just trust history that goes back at least 2020 years. I was raised by a series of wonderful African American women and men, who influenced my vision of daily life and how people were treated, some of it so painful that I can remember even as a toddler. I knew it was wrong, and disrespectful, and there had to be another way to hold hands and hug each other. And we could join to worship God.

Even in my own family, I was semi cast out, but it was my fault not theirs. I sought to make a difference in the lives of those suffering in prison or with HIV or with tortured experiences - who just needed a wafer of Jesus or a hug of confidence. Luke said, “He was counted among the outlaws.” Well, I was moving along with the outlaws, but kept my spirit of love so that most of those around me had no inkling how to snip out of that outlaw, sinful, criminal boutique where they wandered because most of them had no other option. We’ve been told that Jesus favored the homeless, the confused, the questioning ones, the reluctant believers who attempt to pray as told.  I have aways favored the prisoner, especially the youth who have little hope once that metal door clanks shut, and they are no longer free nor have power of the streets. It is these impossible ones who we cannot give up on. Somehow, we are called to give them another chance.

It is ironic that Jesus did not write anything. He spoke everything and so did a few who had gotten a twitch of what He had said, many of whom came after the fact and acts of Jesus. But if He had the power to convince the uneducated, the  fisherman, the not particularly wise men, then He knew that what He said and shared would somehow wander up and down the streets where men and women strolled, and they would finally hear the message, so that was a success when He could get crowds of thousands, hungry thousands, to sit down on a dirt or rocky hill to hear what He had to say. I surmise that they all thrived from the experience, since prior to that, most preachers of any faith rarely got to them because they were not of high-level intelligent - and didn’t need psychology nor philosophy, just hope and direction to get the point of what the Son of God shared with them.

~ Rev

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audrey@audreytaylorgonzalez.com
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