Know God, know love

Bishop Edward B. Scharfenberger

After Mass last Sunday, a young man approached me to bless three sturdy-looking beeswax candles. As he was extricating them from his overcoat pockets, I started my ritual without asking questions. He then revealed that each candle was for three friends who had “apostatized,” that is, “given up the faith.” These young souls were poignantly the focus of his care. I settled on just asking him their names because I, too, would take them to prayer. We both had faith God loves them — as indeed all of us — whether they knew it or not. God is with us and in us, as St. Augustine reveals of his “late have I loved thee” discovery in his “Confessions,” after he “found” himself trying to run away from Emily Dickinson’s “jealous” God, of whom another poet writes in “The Hound of Heaven” (Francis Thompson, 1890).

What stood out most in that brief encounter was that I was in the presence of man full of love — for God and neighbor. I did not ask his name. Yet as I reflect, I realize that he was a grace given me by God, affirming not only my priesthood, but my faith — my faith in a God who, as St. John wrote, is love. Love not as just a feeling or a concept, but so personal. Love is a personal presence. It was as clear to me as day that there and then we were both in the presence of God. How else to know what motivates such creativity if not love itself?

It pains me to know some who honestly feel — even if they do not believe it — that God is not real, or that somehow God has abandoned them. In the face of personal tragedy, whether physical, emotional or empathically experienced as in the death of a friend’s child — in a plane crash — one may question how and why God allows such things, at least not without an immediate remedy. “Time heals all wounds” just does not cut it. The agony of Mary at the foot of the cross is as close as we can imagine this most shattering of human experiences, unless we hearken back to words of Christ himself: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mt 27:46).

Shortly after this blessed experience a young woman posed a question I had never thought of. She asked why if we have faith do we need hope? During the homily, I had made a reference to the Holy Year, whose theme is hope. I drew an example from my own life as I had been reflecting on the scene in the temple at the Presentation of the Lord, which we commemorated last Sunday. Old man Simeon’s prophecy must have been a challenge to Mary’s (and Joseph’s) faith, because it foretold great personal suffering and even global upheaval as the child they were holding would grow into the fulfillment of his purpose on earth, what he was born for, which as we and they would learn, was to die.

Yes, we know Mary was a woman of deep faith, but she also needed hope because while faith holds firm to God’s love in the present, hope is needed as we await the fulfillment of that love which can never be captured fully at any one moment in our lives here and now. To put it another way — to be honest — can any of us say that whatever we have right now is all that we want? Isn’t there always more, even if it’s more of “the same” — which is not really the same if we want more of it because the same is never enough. Love is a yearning for something eternal, not “had” by us totally in one moment. Love is a desire, a thirst for what is forever. We may have faith in that “forever love” but we cannot have it all at once so we can pin it down and say we have nothing to look forward to. Hope is that looking forward to the best as something to come, even when we cannot yet see it beyond our horizon.

Okay. Coming back to earth now. I had shared with the congregation something that dawned on me, reflecting on Pope Francis’ exhortations on the Holy Year. He speaks of the virtue of hope, and he says patience is an exercise in cultivating it. That hit home. Patience is not my strong suit. “I can’t wait” is a habit I acquired from childhood — like eating — that I can’t so easily get rid of. I won’t just blame it on aging, with which comes a growing awareness that our time on earth “to get things done” is not forever. This gives me hope not only that I can become more patient by folding my impatience into prayer for patience, but also by embracing the practice, even welcoming tests God sends my way. I have faith I can do this, yes, but I also need hope and help that I can. And that brings me right back to love.

Yes, as St Térèse de Lisieux grasped so well, love is the heart of all our faith and hope, a love grounded firmly in the assurance that love is real and that it is not something we ourselves create. It is of God, the One who creates us and all the good things in the creation we live in. To know God is to know love. Or, to say it another way: no God, no love.

I do not want to be dismissive of non-believers who do good things, undoubtedly out of love. Why they go on doing good, despite a seeming refusal or rejection of the existence of a loving God, is both a mystery and a wonder. It may be God living and working in them, of which they are yet unaware. Far be it from me to impose my faith on them!

A saying from another Theresa — Teresa Benedicta of the cross (Edith Stein) — comes to mind. As I read in the Cathedral of Speier (Germany), “Wer sucht die Wahrheit, sucht Gott, ob er es weiss oder nicht.” In English, “who seeks the truth seeks God, whether they know it or not.” She would know. Born in a Jewish cradle, Edith Stein was a brilliant philosopher who had drifted into atheism during her student days, the nihilism of intellectuals of her time. Reading the autobiography of St. Teresa of Ávila, she declared, “This is the truth,” after years of doubt in the face of so much suffering, especially that of children. “My unbelief collapsed, and Christ began to shine his light on me — Christ in the mystery of the cross.” 

To anyone living in fear, despair, or even conviction that a loving God is not real, I only say “hang on to the cross.” Jesus did not earn, deserve or want the suffering he was to endure. In his human mind did he grasp it completely: “Father … take this cup from me” (Lk 24:42). Yet he “loved on” and trusted in the loving will of his Father, whom he knew and loved. Yes, of course, he is God and could not but love. Not even death could stop him. His death affirms his love — God’s love — breaking even death itself as he broke for us on the cross.