My Journey

If you had asked me why I walked into New York's St. Patrick's cathedral that brisk November afternoon, I would have told you I did it to get out of the wind. I think God placed me at Rockefeller Center for another reason.

As the door closed behind me, I shook off the chill. It felt good to be out of the cold. I unbuttoned my overcoat and scanned the cathedral's interior, awed by the exquisite beauty. It's little wonder more than three million people visit the church each year.

I walked into the nave and strolled along the aisles, moving slowly by the Stations of the Cross, admiring the intricate architecture and stained glass windows, stopping now and then at the statues of Saints, savoring the soft glow of flickering candles.

That's when I noticed them . . . the other visitors. Dozens of men and women wandered the sanctuary, pausing when some work of art or devotion caught their interest. Many continued their circuit until they reached the front door and exited back onto the street. Others, though, turned aside to sit in pews and lose themselves in contemplation. A few knelt in prayer. One or two leaned against the side of their pew and slept.

Watching them, I realized those nameless visitors, and those unseen men and women beyond the front doors, illustrated points along my journey toward Christ.

Those who hurried by in the chill outside the cathedral reminded me of myself in my early teen years, brushing past my parent's faith. I wanted to live as I chose, not by what I considered an ancient religious creed. I didn't know -- or care -- that warmth and acceptance awaited me in Christ. I was too busy bundling myself against the cold to bother stepping inside.

In my later teen years, curious about God, I visited religion as a tourist visits a distant country. I wanted to know more about Him. What was He like? What did He think of me? Did He think of me? So, I wandered through the doors and tried to follow the Ten Commandments, to be kinder to others, less selfish . . . I prayed, gave to charities and even fasted.

But the longer I visited with God, the more I learned He required things of me I was unwilling to give. Like obedience. Commitment. Sacrifice.

It wasn't long before I looked for the nearest exit and stepped back onto the wind-whipped streets of my former life.

At twenty-two, still shivering from the cold reality of sin, I returned through those doors of faith. Tentatively, at first, sitting in the shadows. I meditated on what I knew of Christ's passion, death and resurrection. I contemplated the meaning of faith, of God's mercy, forgiveness and love. I sat in quiet reflection, wondering about my future and struggling with memories of my past. Before long, contemplation led to prayer -- prayer for forgiveness of my sins, for a willingness to obey and, if necessary, suffer for Him.

But, like those asleep in the pew, I have also dozed in the midst of the journey. Perhaps because I grew comfortable with my walk with Christ I became self-satisfied with church, the Bible and confession of sin until my faith was nothing more than rote -- routine and meaningless. Jesus wanted me to tell the world the good news of His love, but I wouldn't drag myself from the TV. He told me to go to those who rushed past the doors of faith, to invite them to discover His warmth, but I pulled the blankets over my head and hoped someone else would do it.

I wish I could say my journey has been linear: from doubt to faith, from faith to service. But it hasn't. Like the visitors in St. Patrick's, it's been a blend of slow and halting steps of reflection, prayer, service and, yes, sleepiness. To be honest -- sometimes I've even toyed with the doorknob, wondering if it's still cold outside.

Something else caught my attention in St. Patrick's that afternoon . . . something that reminded me why I first started the journey, and why I continue pressing forward.

I looked toward the crucifix suspended behind the altar and wondered why He did it. Why did the God of the universe empty himself of unfathomable glory and clothe himself in inglorious human flesh? Why did He subject himself to hunger, cold, pain, thirst and a hundred other afflictions common to human frailty? Most of all, why did He permit himself to be mauled, whipped, spat upon, and finally nailed to a splintered cross?

Scripture tells us why. From the earliest hours of creation to its final curtain at the end of the age, God's love for us is woven into the fabric of human history.

Because He so deeply loves us, we have reason to remain focused on the journey. Because God stands beside us at every turn, every failure, every heartache, we can keep our eyes fixed on His Son on the cross. We can continue our journey because the Christ of the cross became the Christ of the empty tomb. And the Christ of the empty tomb promises everyone who loves Him the power to stay the course until the journey's end.

Rich
rmaffeo@comcast.net