Loving as Jesus Loved
Acts 14: 21-27; Rev. 21:1-5a; John 13: 31-33a, 31-35
Sometimes, as we get older and look back on our life, we tend to do so through rose-colored glasses. We often look back and see events as we wish they had happened and not as they actually did, and we view ourselves, not necessarily as the person we were, but as the person we would like to have been. That being said, when I look back at my younger self, I think I can honestly say I was a good kid. I loved my parents, had lots of acquaintances and a few really good friends. I did relatively well in school, respected my teachers and had a good relationship with all of them. That is, until my freshman year in college.
For some reason which defies logic, after taking four years of Latin and three years of French in high school, I decided to now take up the challenge to tackle Spanish. My professor was an elderly Italian priest by the name of Fr. Minelli. Fr. Minelli hated me, and, as hard as I tried, nothing I did could please him or change his opinion of me. You see, I had the misfortune of sitting next to Pete Cavanaugh in class. Pete didn’t pay attention, constantly talked, and made fun of Fr. Minelli’s accent, the gimp when he walked, and his right eye, which seemed it might be searching the skies for enemy aircraft as his left eyes stared directly at you. It was a case of guilt by association. Because Pete sat next to me, Fr. Minelli assumed that I was in on it, and in his eyes (or at least the one that wasn’t focused skyward) I was just as guilty as Pete. He even had a name for us – “The Collaborators.”
One day, the class was assigned a particularly difficult and lengthy passage to translate for homework. I spent hours preparing it because I knew . . . I just knew that I was going to be the “chosen one” who would have the misfortune of being singled out to read and translate it in front of everyone during the next class. Sure enough, my worst nightmare became reality. But despite all my preparation, I delivered, shall I say, a less than stellar performance. And after struggling, stammering and shuffling for what seemed like an eternity, Fr. Minelli had this assessment of my performance: “Senor Olsen, your grammar is not good; your pronunciation is not good; your translation is not good; you are not a good student. I hope you are a good lover!”
That was my last day in Spanish class. A knowledge of Spanish might not have sunk in, but common sense had, and I realized I was in a no win situation with Fr. Minelli. And so, I decided to return to "parlez vous-ing my Francais."
But Fr. Minelli’s humiliating words to me that day in class are Jesus prayer for each one us: “I hope you are a good lover.”
Many times the last thing a person says before he or she is dying takes on a very special significance. It is as if the very essence of that individual is somehow summed up and compacted into a single message. I imagine this is how the earliest disciples felt about the words that are in our gospel today. They were all at table with Jesus, and the impending crisis that would take his life loomed ahead of them inescapably. And then came those final, poignant words, his last will and testament, "A new commandment I give to you; love one another. As I have loved you, you are to love one another." This will become your unique signature in the world, the way people will sense your true identity, your essence. This will be your ultimate reason for being.
There is actually nothing original or brand new in these words. The commandment to love one another goes back much, much further than Jesus himself. It is one of the themes that is cited again and again all through the Old Testament. And Jesus had certainly repeated those words again and again as he walked the ways of the earth during the days of his flesh. What, then, was the unique nuance that made this final mandate so special and so memorable, as it is, right down to this very moment?
I believe that it was the fact that when Jesus gave his last will and testament, he gave it as a commandment. He didn’t say, “This is my suggestion; here is an idea that you may want to consider; here’s something to think about.” No, he said, “Here is my new commandment.” And he goes one step further. He qualifies it. Jesus will be dead in less than 24 hours and he proclaims, “Love one another as I have loved you.” There’s the remarkable difference—loving like he loves; as he will love; as he loved.
In other words, the unique way that Jesus had incarnated that ancient ideal was to become the pattern of how the disciples, and that includes us, were to love one another. Here is one of those places where the famous imitation of Christ's ideal got its origin, and it raises the seminal question, "Exactly how did this one, who became what we are so we could understand more fully who God is, actually and realistically love?"
St. Augustine has given us two clues to answer this question. He once observed that Jesus loved each one he had ever met as if there were none other in all the world to love. In other words, Jesus radically individualized the affection he acted out toward others. He didn’t just love everyone, but loved every ONE. Instead of never seeing the trees for the forest, as the old adage goes, Jesus reversed that process and never failed to focus on the particular and the unique in each human being. This represents an extraordinary commitment and discipline, especially because, even in Jesus' day, he came in contact with so many people and, therefore, must have found it tempting to lump people together into categories, into classes, and to allow the forest mentality to blind him to the genuine uniqueness of each human being. And even though such an ideal to individualize our loving energies is difficult, it is within the possibility of each and every one of us. Let’s never forget that we're made in the image of that extraordinary love. And doing what Jesus did in loving each one he ever met as if there were none other in all the world is the ideal toward which we can reach. Jesus would not have given us this new commandment if it had not been possible.
The second clue St. Augustine offers is that Jesus loved all as he loved each. The way he loved was not only individualized, but it was also incredibly universal. He didn’t play favorites. His love wasn’t just extended to the priests, and the Pharisees, and the rich. It was all-inclusive and was extended in the same measure to tax collectors, lepers, prostitutes, and the poor. His love was unconditional. His love, his mercy, his concern, his compassion was extended to saint and sinner alike. Those eyes out of which he looked when he lived upon this earth were never filled with contempt or disdain. Even when the words Jesus spoke assumed a note of harshness, it was because of a concern that he felt for those whom he addressed. They were never words of hatred. We must never forget that the opposite of love is not anger or hostility but indifference. There is not one example in all of the gospels of Jesus ever turning away from another as if what happened to that one made no difference to him. I find St. Augustine's words to be a wonderful description of that unique way that Jesus loved and invites us now to love also. He loved each one he ever met as if there were none other in all the world to love, and he loved all as he loved each. I don’t know which of these qualities is more amazing, but, once again, Augustine’s description remains true to the memories that we're given of Jesus in all four of the gospels.
“Love you.” It’s a phrase which seems commonplace and overused in our society. It can mean everything and mean little. It can roll-off our tongues effortlessly—“love ya.” It’s the last thing we say to someone when we part company; it’s how we end a phone call; it’s the way we sign-off a letter or an email. It can be void of all meaning when we tell someone we love them when we barely know them. Sometimes it just seems like the only thing to say. “Love you."
But Jesus’ command to love is radical. He is demanding that the love we have for those closest to us—our spouses, our children, our grandchildren, our dearest and closest friends—that love is what we are to have for everyone. For sinners, for people we hardly know, for those we’ll never meet, for those we cannot stomach, even for those we despise and hate, for those who are our enemies, and for all of those unworthy of love. Just as he loved us, “while we were still sinners,” we also are to love others. This is his last will and testament. This is what he really wants us to do. Nothing could be clearer; nothing more challenging. To love as Jesus has loved us is the most difficult demand of Christianity. But it is the easiest path to human perfection.
How do we measure up? Can we ever hope to love like that? Today, when we receive Jesus in the Eucharist, perhaps we can tell him that we accept his bequest; that we promise to try and love better; that we will go back to those we have failed to love; that we will heal what has been hurt and broken; that we will let go of anger and hate, and that we will strive to love as he loves.
“I hope you are a good lover.” And if we’re not, we only have to look at the example of how Jesus loved to become one.
