Of those who know who Anne Lamott is, some will be offended that I am about to acknowledge her at all in a Catholic homily, that I would ever say anything good about her; others, though, will be thrilled by it and then, as happens on occasion, mistake me for some subversive progressive I am not. If you don’t know who Anne Lamott is, perhaps that’s for the better (at least for what I’m trying to accomplish in this homily); she is a writer—a very good one—and a Christian, although a Protestant and (I believe she’d own up to it herself) a leftist. Hence my warning even mentioning her name in a Catholic parish; so, just relax. I’m not trying to pull anything over on you; I just want to talk about an experience of hers, which I’ve always found quite real and quite moving. Quite controversial too; which, of course, is probably why we should pay attention. Because I think we could all learn something from it, no matter how much we’re shocked at first.

Controversial as I said: it’s about an experience Lamott had after having an abortion. She writes of it in her book Traveling Mercies. Alone in her room, in the dark, miserable (she wasn’t a Christian at this point), she said, “I became aware of someone with me, hunkered down in the corner, whose presence I had felt over the years when I was frightened and alone.” “I knew beyond any doubt,” she wrote, “that it was Jesus.” “And I was appalled,” she said. The pull of the Gospel, the pull of Christ, was not something she was ready for. “I thought about my life and my brilliant hilarious progressive friends, I thought about what everyone would think of me if I became a Christian, and it seemed utterly impossible…I turned to the wall and said out loud, ‘I would rather die.’” But still, she continued to feel his presence. “I felt him just sitting there on his haunches in the corner…watching me with patience and love, and I squinched my eyes shut, but that didn’t help because that’s not what I was seeing him with.”[1]

I’ll be honest with you, I think about this a lot—the moment Anne Lamott, after doing what she did, miserable and alone, was visited by Jesus, of him watching her “with patience and love.” Again, some will be offended that I dare at all to think this a beautiful moment. To be sure, she interprets it differently than I do; or, at least, our views on abortion are radically opposed (don’t ever make the mistake I’m not Catholic on the matter). Yet, the reason I think Jesus visited her in her dark room in that moment, after doing that terrible thing, is because that’s exactly what Jesus does. It makes perfect sense to me that Jesus would be there, then in that moment. It makes perfect sense to me that he would just be there, watching her with patience and love. And that’s because—believe it or not—Jesus is always there in our worst moments; or, at least—again, believe it or not—Jesus desires us in our worst moments, even then. He desires you—the Lord desires you—not just when you’re at your best, but when you’re at your worst, especially then. Because, you see, that’s the Gospel. That’s what God does. If he weren’t there in those moments, that’s when you’d know none of it was true, I think. Our God is there—in Anne’s dark room, my dark room, your dark room. That’s thing, the point, the grace.

Think about it. We hear in today’s Gospel Jesus praying to his Father. It is his final prayer. Soon he will be arrested; soon after that, he will be scourged; soon after that, he will be crucified. As he’s praying this prayer—simultaneously—Judas is betraying him. The disciples will soon scatter, almost all of them. Looking at Jesus’s predicament very reasonably, this is the disciples’ lowest point; this is the disciples at their worst, their weakest, their most wicked. Yet, what does Jesus pray for? Well, he prays for a lot—that they may be one, for one. But notice what else he prays for: “Father, they are your gift to me. I wish that where I am they also may be with me.”[2] There, in that horrible moment, that’s what Jesus prays for—that his weak, wicked disciples be with him where he is. And, why? Why is that his prayer? Why does he desire to be with these weak and wicked disciples? Because, again, you see, that’s the Gospel. That’s what God does. And Father and the Son are one.[3] And so, he doesn’t leave us alone. He doesn’t abandon you, no matter if your Anne Lamott or Joshua Whitfield. Again, that’s that thing, the point, the grace. And also the love.

And I hope you see this for the hope this is. Jesus is there; he’s always there. He’s there in holiness, in your moments of holiness, in those sweet, silent moments of communion. He’s also there in moments of Christian victory and witness, in moments of confession and martyrdom—like when Stephen was martyred, in the very moment of his death when he said, “Behold, I see God…Behold, I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.”[4] He’s even there in the moment you suffer injustice, even there in your enemy—like when Christian de Chergé, that Cistercian martyr, prayed for his assassin: “And also you, my last-minute friend, who will not have known what you are doing…May we meet again as happy thieves in Paradise.”[5] Even in those moments, he is there.

But he’s also there when you don’t want him to be—like when Anne Lamott turned to the wall and said, “I would rather die.” God is—as the opium-addicted Catholic poet, Francis Thompson, called him—the hound of heaven. He’s there in your darkness. “Is my gloom, after all,/Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?/‘Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,/I am He Whom thou sleekest!”[6] the drug addict, Thompson, wrote. He’s there. He desires you even in that dark moment. He’s even there when you are his enemy, when you’ve wickedly taken control, when you’ve wickedly twisted the faith for your own ends, ideological or petty. Even in those moments, he’s there—when we stand in front of the silent Christ like Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor. Standing before a silent Jesus who will have nothing to do with the faith we’ve twisted, the foolishness we’ve rationalized, when we ask him like the Inquisitor did, “Why, then, have you come to interfere with us now?”[7] Even then, in that nonsense, Jesus is there. That’s the thing, the point, the grace.

And, of course, the upshot of all this is what? Again, as I said, it’s hope. Hope that in your worst moment there is indeed hope—because Jesus is there. Because he’s not left you. Hope that in your most wicked moment there is indeed hope—because Jesus is there. Hope also that in the weakest and worst around you—in those you despise, those who despise you, those in error, in the ignorant and hateful—even them, Jesus has not abandoned them, still desires them; and so, we should not abandon them either; we should desire them too. This is the sort of grace we Christians need to remember—the grace given to us, the grace we’re called to share. “I wish that where I am they also may be,” Jesus prayed. Can we pray like that for the people around us, all of them? It’s not an easy prayer, but it’s what we’re asked to pray, to desire. Can we be the sort of Christians in this city, this country, that can do that? Goodness gracious, I hope so. For I don’t know how we’ll be Christians otherwise. Friends, let’s be Christians. For Christians are beautiful; for they hope like this. Amen.

[1] Anne Lamott, Travel Mercies, 49-50

[2] John 17:24

[3] John 10:30

[4] Acts 7:56

[5] Christian Salenson, Christian de Chergé: A Theology of Hope, 201

[6] Francis Thompson, “The Hound of Heaven”

[7] Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov 5.5

© 2022 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield