The Iron Man

“A great famine arose in that country, and he began to be in want. So [the Prodigal Son] went and … fed swine. And he would gladly have fed on the pods that the swine ate; and no one gave him anything.”   (Luke 15:14-16)

 

Have you ever had the feeling that your cross was just too big—that you got yourself into so much trouble that no one could get you out or that Jesus overestimated how much you could carry? I hate that feeling. It makes me feel weak, burdened, and overwhelmed. In fact, I occasionally feel broken under the cross’s heavy weight. “Lord! I can’t do this! Help me!”

This past week, I got to participate in an eight-day silent retreat. That’s eight days of no talking. Complete silence of mouth and mind. The only ones that are talking are God to my heart and my heart to God. But this week I was certain that God too was making a silent retreat.

You see, on the second day of the retreat, I came down with the flu. It started with a backache, then a sensitivity to light, then a brisk chill in the summer heat. “Somethin’s goin’ on here” I thought to myself. “Lord, please don’t let me get sick.” Silence. “…please?”

So, as my head burned something special—a fever into the 100s—I was supposed to be pondering God’s love for me. “Oh yeah, that’s gonna work” as I rolled out of bed, a huge, wooden cross fixed squarely on my shoulders. I was complaining to myself because there’s nothing worse than feeling miserable and not being able to complain to anyone. Misery loves company—and I had no company, and if I did, I wouldn’t be able to complain anyway. Big, heavy cross.

I went to the chapel and slouched in the back row, away from any healthy seminarians.

“Ok, God. I’m here. I’m sick, I’m achy, and I’m completely bored. So I’m just gonna sit and try to think how in your good name you could be loving me right now.”

I pulled out my Bible and began reading the story of the Prodigal Son—the story where the greedy son asks his father for money, takes the inheritance, goes out and spends it all, and then realizes—when he has nothing left—that he has hurt his father. The son treks back home to ask forgiveness and the father runs out to embrace him, forgiving him of everything. Awesome story.

And so I tried to think about how God loves me. “God, you love me….you are the father who embraces his son… you love me…. you love… you…. I…. I wish I could be outside running right now. It’s such a beautiful day. Or swimming. Mmmm…. swimming. Or biking! … in the mountains! Oh, I miss the mountains…. Hmmm, I wonder what the mountains are like in Hawaii….”

Soon, I was running and swimming and biking in the mountains in Hawaii. In fact, I started imagining myself competing in the Iron Man Triathalon out there. It’s a race where crazy-strong people (ok, just crazy people) swim for a couple miles, then bike a hundred miles around volcanoes, and then, just when you think they can’t do anything more, they run a marathon, which is 26 miles. Yeah, I’d die too.

So for a half hour I was thinking about this—not about the Prodigal Son. I was swimming and biking and running… and, yeah, I was sick. With the flu. In the chapel. Supposed to be reflecting on God’s love for me. Ummm, heh heh. “Sorry, God. I kind of got distracted.” So, I told him about it. I told him about the distraction, about how I was running and biking and swimming and how I just remembered that I was supposed to be reflecting on how much he loves me.

Honestly, I don’t know why I got distracted. I was a little bored and I didn’t want to be there—but, of all things, why was I distracted by the Iron Man Competition of Hawaii??? And so, I asked him: “God, why this distraction? Why THAT, of all things? … Was that you?”

Silence.

For another five minutes, I just sat there, asking God to show up, to show me his love. And, well… I started thinking about Hawaii again. I started thinking about how hard and how long I’d have to train in order to compete in an Iron Man. I started doing laps at my local pool and biking around St. Louis. I started imagining an intense work-out program that had me ripped, chiseled, and perfected into a high-performance machine. Soon, I was buying a plane ticket, arriving in Hawaii, and competing in the Iron Man.

The gun fired as the race began: I navigated the waves of the bay, tasted the salt-water, felt the burn of my lungs and arms as I swam, up-and-down, for 2.4 miles. Then, I felt the warm Hawaii breeze as I climbed onto the beach and mounted my bike for a 100-mile trek through the winding volcano hills. Nothing but sunshine. I imagined myself tired after the ride, but ready for the marathon. This, I imagined, would be the easiest part of the race: just me, my legs, and the distance. This could be done, I thought.

Miles flew by: 5 miles… 10 miles… 15… my body was aching, but I was going to make it. 20…. 25…. I was just a mile from the finish. The Hawaiian sun was setting into purples and reds. It was just me on the road, lungs burning, legs cramping, head dizzy from exhaustion. I can do this… I can do this…. I… I… I can’t do this.

Leg tripped over leg and hands slowly extended to the ground as I collapsed onto dusty pavement. I gasped for breath, soreness penetrating every joint, every muscle, every bone in my body. I knew I was broken, unable to finish, unable to complete my dream. Tears welled up in my imaginary eyes and I saw myself crying, upset that I had spent so much time on this project, so much energy, given so much of myself—only to end up in a mess of a failure so close to the finish.

This was not how I would have imagined the Iron Man.

But, something was going on here. As I cried, a man approached me with a stretcher. As he walked in the setting sun, his shadow of a figure became light and his appearance became clear: it was Jesus. “My Son,” he said, deep and low, “I see that you’re having trouble.”

“Yeah,” I sobbed, looking down, ashamed that I had been so hard on him for not showing up when I wanted him to show up, ashamed that I thought I could do this race all by my self.

“Let me help you,” he said. And he placed me on the stretcher. I was thankful for him, thankful for his help. Yet, as I laid there flat on my back, looking up at the beautiful, purple sky, I was sorry too. I had pushed him away from all of my work and my struggles. Even now, I was happy that it was just me and him—I had, after all, collapsed far enough away from the finish line that no one had seen me. Only, I realized that my stretcher was parallel to the ground. If Jesus was carrying me on the stretcher by himself, I would be at an angle. I quickly sat up, and there was Mary.

She had been there too. The whole time. And she knew what was going on. She wanted to help me along, but I was pushing her away too. “My Son, you had me worried. Are you ok?”

“Yes, mother. O, yes! O, yes! O yes!” I scrambled across the stretcher and gave her a giant hug, tears streaming down my cheeks. I sat upright by her as she and Jesus carried me to the finish line. I was forgetting about my brokenness.

Then, Mary whispered, “Look, Anthony.” And she pointed over my shoulder. In front of me, lining both sides of the street, were large crowds, applauding, cheering, waving banners and jumping up and down. They grew closer and closer and louder and louder. I could see writing on a sign, “Welcome home, Anthony!” And I could see the finish line up ahead. “This couldn’t all be for me,” I thought to myself.

Jesus turned around and looked at me: “All for you, Anthony. This is all for you.”

My friends approached the stretcher, “Hey, buddy. Good job,” they smiled as they embraced me. Then, I felt a touch on my right hand and a voice: “Welcome home, sweetie.” Wait, that’s what my mom calls me when she tells me that she loves me. I jumped off of the stretcher and gave her a giant hug. I wasn’t broken anymore. I was walking with Jesus, and Mary, my friends, and my mom. I was home!

* * *

I looked up at the altar where Jesus rested in the monstrance. And I just looked at him, my eyes blurry with tears and flu and gratitude. “So, that’s how much you love me…”

“That’s how much I love you.”

 

 

“And he arose and came to his father. But while he was yet at a distance, his father saw him and had compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him. And the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his servants, ‘Bring quickly the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet, and bring the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and make merry; for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.’” (Luke 15:20-24)