We are told that for those children who grow up in an atmosphere of abuse, addiction or violence; hyper-vigilance becomes routine. You learn to be constantly on guard and attentive to protect yourself. An adult could lose control; something is likely to go wrong; the situation could become dangerous in a flash. You have to be ready for anything. You learn vigilance at an early age because vigilance means survival. My sisters and brothers, the vigilance Our Lord invites us into this morning, is something quite different, far more benign, luxuriant and quite spacious, born of a deep confidence in God’s love for us. We are invited to be mindful of the nowness of God’s presence with us. Jesus invites to live in this now of the kingdom – a place where God is in charge, disposing all things suaviter, as Aquinas will insist; suaviter means that he is arranging everything gently, lovingly, smoothly. For if, as we believe, the kingdom will come to fullness in the age to come, Jesus’ plea is for us to believe and live within the reality that it is happening even now and that it can flourish only if we attentively allow God in. The “unexpected hour” is now; the Lord is coming toward us.
It is always worth waiting for someone you love. And as monks we’re made to live with that kind of expectation. Somehow our praying is our waiting, a constant vigil of the heart. It’s what we came for. And with loving expectation, the waiting is perhaps its own reward. We’re meant to live in incessant vigilance for Someone who is supremely worth our waiting. “Be like servants who await their master’s return from a wedding,” Jesus tells us this morning.
For he is like that master returning home at a very late hour from a wedding feast. Perhaps a bit tipsy with the wine that was in ample supply. He knocks at the door. And he’s so delighted at being welcomed at that late hour, that he giddily tells his servants (that’s us) to sit down. And in an amazing reversal, he our master waits on us. And it’s not just a light late-night snack but an all-out feast. He sets the table and invites us to recline. (That’s a signal word, for in Jesus’ day, reclining was only for banquets, daily meals were taken seated at a table.) The message is clear: God's promised One is here to feed his people with as much as they want. Jesus is presiding at the banquet in the kingdom.
And then in thinly coded language, Jesus goes on to insinuate that he is like a thief, a real sneak. “Be sure of this: if the master of the house had known the hour when the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. You also must be prepared, for at an hour you do not expect, the Son of Man will come.” He wants to break in. Having your house broken into means literally in the Greek, having it “burrowed through.” For in the Palestine of Jesus’ day, walls were made of mud bricks, and to break in all a thief had to do was dig through the wall. The message: Jesus is sneaking around trying to stage a break-in. He wants to come near; he’s trying to burrow through the thick wall of our resistance. That’s pretty sturdy material alright, and Mercy himself wants to blast right through, invade our space and suffuse it with his gracious presence.
Vigilance is essential for us because the mystery of God’s presence is constantly revealed even as it is hidden. Jesus is always reversing things, trying to engage us in unexpected ways. Attentiveness is our way of being in the kingdom, because then with the eyes of faith, all of reality can become increasingly transparent to the surprising beauty of One who is always advancing toward us.
And in the end it seems to me, we are left with the greatest reversal of all – for it is God in Christ who is always waiting for us. He wants to wait on us, redeem us, unburden us. The question: Am I willing to bear in peace, the discomfort of being served so tenderly by Christ Jesus, as I come to see more and more clearly each day that as a sinner and a “repeat offender” I do not deserve such loving regard?
Thank God, it’s never been about what we deserve, or we’d all be in big trouble. Didn’t we learned that from the parable of the Prodigal Son? Remember that resentful older brother in the parable. He knows that his younger runaway brother does not deserve to be welcomed but disowned and punished for his disrespect and betrayal. And you know what, he’s absolutely right. But the Father doesn’t see it that way. The best robe, new shoes, the fatted calf, music and dancing; that’s what the Father wants. It makes no sense. But he’s been so very heartbroken, waiting and waiting for that boy to come back. And when he catches sight him, he runs out, panting, unembarrassed and heedless of losing his dignity; he hugs and kisses this lost son, burying his dear old face in the boy’s unwashed neck. My brothers and sisters, it’s never been about what we deserve. God is not fair. He is pure love, unrelenting, unmanageable, giddy with his joy over us his children. He is the one who waits; he will not stop loving, longing, and waiting, always waiting for us to come back to him, so he can serve us. It makes no sense. It’s not supposed to. Love makes no sense.
This is why we return here over and over- to let him wait on us. Liturgy means service, and it is first of all God’s service of us. Jesus has come to serve not be served. This is why we gather here. The divine Thief is always on the prowl; the Master is at the door. And so we open to him and with deep gratitude and humility we somehow have the sense to let go of our awful reserve and revel in our undeservedness and allow him to feed us with his best and most perfect gift.
