"If they say to you, 'Where have
you come from?' say to them, 'We have come from the light, from the place where
the light came into being by itself, established [itself], and appeared in
their image.'
If they say to you, 'Is it you?' say,
'We are its children, and we are the chosen of the living Father.'
If
they ask you, 'What is the evidence of your Father in you?' say to them, 'It is
motion and rest.'"
--The Gospel of St. Thomas
This passage is from the Gospel of St. Thomas. While it may
be a Gnostic gospel, and it may not be something Jesus actually said about the
nature of God and the nature of humans, it is a warning for me. It warns me not
to confuse personal righteousness and
piety with the will of God. It also warns me to remember where I came
from and where some day we are promised in our faith that we will return from
our spiritual journeys: a return to the place where the light resides.
Often, I have confused the concept of being a child of God
with being Godly. I have sat in judgment of those to the right and left of me
who were in pain, who were lost, who were self-hating. I have put myself up as
better than them, more aware of the world and what lies beneath its surface.
That somehow, I have some erudite knowledge of God that no one else does. The
hilarious thing is that armed with that false knowledge, I look in the wrong
places for Him. I look up into the sky expecting to see God, or look down at
the ground beneath my feet because of some people's teachings about damnation
and unworthiness. The only place I don't look is in the eyes of the person next
to me in the pews of a church. Or the eyes of the stranger I meet on the
street. Or the eyes of the child in my class at the school where I teach who
failed all of her classes because she was taking care of her sick mother in the
hospital, wondering if her mother would live or die. Or the man who in my past
life as an executive assistant made my life so miserable as my boss that I quit
that job and began to search for a career that would make me happy. Yet, it is
into these all of these eyes that I must look to find the evidence of the
Father in them, and ultimately in me.
Coming from the place where the light resides as mentioned
in the Gospel of St. Thomas means that our spiritual journeys won't be easy
because what God asks of us is not easy. It is a journey that takes you near to
grace and sometimes as far away from grace and God's presence as we can
imagine. I can remember being fourteen years old and sitting in church after the
Eucharist one Sunday and feeling a peace and happiness that I wanted to hold
onto forever. It was so alien to me up to that point in my life and in my
spiritual formation as a young Roman Catholic.
I was surprised it existed. That revelation led me to follow God's
whisper in my ear and to contemplate the priesthood as a gay young adult.
I have wondered where the Father is in me and been surprised
at the answer. In contrast to that time as a teenager, I can remember praying
as an adult trying to discern a vocation in a big empty gothic church. Except,
the feelings were not of peace and tranquility.
I was overwhelmed with feelings of sadness, loneliness, and fear. In retrospect, perhaps I knew what was about
to happen at work was too much for me. I could chalk this up to depression, or
anxiety from a job at a think tank that was abusive, low-paying, and empty. And
yet, it felt more profound than that. The pain was more profound than that.
Because I knew that even though there was pain, there was also the grace of
God. I hadn't asked for it. I hadn't earned it. But there was the Father. With
everything in my life in turmoil, there was a quiet whisper from something,
Someone. It told me that I needed to watch and pray. Not think about it. Not
talk about it. And so, I prayed and watched alone. Sometimes, motion and rest
mean more than doing: they mean waiting in contemplation and being open to what
will come.
