On retreat, I study from outside in the darkness of a cold fall night the backlit by effect wooden carved plaque of the well-known scene – Jesus and his followers.
It too is night, although you wouldn’t know it from the carving.
It is the last night. It’s supper time.
And there he is – unknown among the 12 – he is always there – Judas.
He is always there.
As I spy inward through the glass, that is the thought that lingers.
Judas is always there.
It is a present-tense thing, isn’t it?
Whenever we gather, there is the reminder of the perpetual presence of the saints, the communion that exceeds time and space and bids all enter, bids all welcome.
If he is always there, then is he not always here?
And if he is, is that not a sign of enormous hope?
I think so.
The God of the present tense stands, sits, reclines, into all our presents and bids us welcome and we are always there – there, at the beckoning place – present in The Presence.
It argues, I think, for grace possibilities beyond my imagining.
And I am awed.
He is always there.
It too is night, although you wouldn’t know it from the carving.
It is the last night. It’s supper time.
And there he is – unknown among the 12 – he is always there – Judas.
He is always there.
As I spy inward through the glass, that is the thought that lingers.
Judas is always there.
It is a present-tense thing, isn’t it?
Whenever we gather, there is the reminder of the perpetual presence of the saints, the communion that exceeds time and space and bids all enter, bids all welcome.
If he is always there, then is he not always here?
And if he is, is that not a sign of enormous hope?
I think so.
The God of the present tense stands, sits, reclines, into all our presents and bids us welcome and we are always there – there, at the beckoning place – present in The Presence.
It argues, I think, for grace possibilities beyond my imagining.
And I am awed.
He is always there.
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