Something to Hold On To

I was searching for a photo to add to another blog post when I caught a quick glimpse of the one above.

Stunned by the image of Homeless Jesus, I clicked to magnify it. And then, I just stared.

Most of you have seen it before. The artist, Canadian Timothy Schmalz, told National Public Radio two years ago that the piece was “meant to challenge people.”

I felt that, to be sure. But it also moved me. Deeply.

Not just because it forces us to acknowledge that Jesus, was, in fact and purposely, homeless. And that we need to do better by our brothers and sisters in similar straits. But also because it made me want to do what Pope Francis and dozens of others have done upon encountering the sculpture for the first time: reach out, touch those wounded feet and pray.

And as I gazed upon that striking sculpture—I’ve ordered a replica–it occurred to me that it is that yearning to “touch,” to “feel,” that drew me to Catholicism and sustains me in fleeting moments of post-baptismal doubt. Being able to reach for my rosary, sit with Jesus in Eucharistic Adoration, touch holy water, light a candle, bow before the tabernacle, these are the things that “sealed the deal,” back when I was still considering conversion.

All this is second nature to most cradle Catholics. But for me, they are the tangible manifestations of the mysteries we talked about so much in our RCIA sessions. And of the God/Man we worship.

That we believe we are really in His presence, that we can sit with and speak to Him and His mother and the saints who gave their lives to Him moves me more than I can say.

In fact, I will never forget my first Holy Thursday, when the entire congregation marched from church to chapel behind the stately Knights of Columbus, to begin the night long vigil before the Blessed Sacrament. I didn’t know where we were going, truth be told. Or why we were going there. I just followed the crowd, as I had learned to do, hoping that the meaning of it all would reveal itself as usual.

I was a wee bit unnerved when I entered the chapel to find everyone kneeling, staring at the golden monstrance with such reverence—vestiges of my almost Evangelical upbringing, which cautioned against Catholic “idolatry.” But once I’d taken my place among them and raised my gaze to the Host, I was filled with a profound affection and compassion that I’d never felt before.

Jesus was there. We were guarding Him. And a few minutes later, we were singing to Him. The Taizé song most know so well.

I didn’t know the song. But I knew the story. He had asked his disciples to sit up with Him. But they had fallen asleep, abandoned Him when He needed them most.

But we were there. I was there. And I wanted to stay in that room singing lullabies to Him forever.

I can recall nothing even vaguely similar to this from my brief introduction to my parents’ Baptist beliefs. Worship seemed, in our house, at least, to be limited to Sunday mornings. And to saying “grace” and a nightly prayer that scared me because it included the line, “If I should die before I wake…”

There were sporadic Bible readings. Evening church events, usually to do with community matters, holiday festivals or fund raising–vacation Bible school, I remember well. And also being proudly presented with a white, leather bound Bible which was used more for the recording of family milestones than anything else. Though I was urged to carry it with me to church on Sundays, rather more of a prop, like a purse, than a sacred book.

So I am grateful, now, to have sacred things I can lay hands on, bow before, gaze upon. Still finding my sea legs, when I don’t quite know the words, I reach for the beads, kiss the crucifix. This religion gives me something to hold on to, literally, when all else fails.

I have, in fact, begun to find my own words to say, when I hold those beads or kneel before the Host. I will continue to study and grow more comfortable with the official prayers, the time honored chants and recitations. But I’ve discovered that I feel most connected when I converse with Him from the heart. I stopped previewing the Sunday readings for the same reason. It forces me to really listen. And think.

In fact, recently, during the benediction at the end of Mass on the Feast of Corpus Christi—I hope I’ve written that correctly—I lowered the hymnal in which the sacred words were written, preferring to simply gaze upon the Host and give thanks for the blessing of His presence.

When my little replica of Homeless Jesus arrives, I will find a quiet place for Him to rest in, so that I can sit beside Him as I yearned to do when I found that Google picture. He will probably wind up draped in one of my rosaries. And my friends will say, “What, another one?”

He’s all over the house now. My parents would be scandalized. I, however, envy those of you who grew up surrounded by all this power all the time.

I hope you know how blessed you are.