Finding Jesus

 The soul should always stand ajar

That if the Heavens inquire

He will not be obliged to wait.

- Emily Dickinson

It was an inspired idea for Maundy Thursday. A living tableau of Da Vinci’s Last Supper.

The script contained soliloquies for the apostles as they might have expressed themselves immediately after hearing the Master say, One of you will betray me, whereupon each man had cried out, Lord, is it I? 

However, we thought it easier if the lines were to be simply read by a narrator. So, no memorization required. No acting either. Just a stanced posture, frozen for the duration of the narration. Bartholomew, James, and Andrew formed a group of three - all were surprised. Judas, Peter, and John were similarly grouped. Then Jesus. Two more groups of three disciples each completed the picture.

For the most part, casting the disciples had been easy. Church members were cooperative, several of them volunteering for roles. I thought of Paul, but Andrew is fine, Ken said with a genial, expectant smile.

Arvin said matter-of-factly, Sure, I can be John the Beloved.

Peter, that’s me! Dick burst out.

I had a few concerns: what about Judas? That would have to be handled delicately, for who would like to be Judas? Duane – of course, it would be he who would come to the rescue. Don’t sweat it. I’d do Judas! he squealed.

So, Jesus. For a couple of weeks now, I had been in search of my Jesus. I was in a beleaguered frame of mind that Sunday when an anxious committee member yelled the question from across the church quadrangle, Have you found Jesus yet?

My response was quick. No, I haven’t!

The words reverberated onto the complicated reflection of the church’s stained glass windows. The accidental clarity of my declaration instilled silence.

Complete silence. The kind one would hear when a baby was asleep, or when a spider wove a web. Silence. The words lay in the space between aghast parishioners, out there with no way to get them back, like a letter dropped into the mail chute.

The import of what I said suddenly bobbed up into my consciousness. I just verbalized a fear buried deeply within me - that I hadn't found Jesus, despite my handy assertion to the contrary. Then it dawned on me: I was pursuing a futile search, whereas it was I who had to be found.

Poised on a donkey, riding into Jerusalem, He already saw and found me. I only needed to say, Here I am! - and spread a coat on the ground in front of Him.

I only needed to join the throng waving palm branches and shouting:

Hosanna!

Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord - the King of Israel!

As a postscript to my non-metaphoric search, I did find my Jesus – a soulful, bearded young man who attended second service. His father had pestered me thereafter, If my son is Jesus, does that mean that I am God?

Holy Mary, pray for me, a sinner. Help me find God!