On the way up the darkened staircase of his grandfather's house, he thought of the things that he had heard and learned about that day. Maybe his tiny brain had heard those things before, but today was different because today something powerful struck his heart. Even children, maybe especially children, need to get away with their thoughts and take counsel with their hearts; it's not just a deep, adult thing. Yes, he may have heard those things before today, but today he learned. Learning is different than simply hearing. Little boys and girls, men and women, hear many things in life, at the beginning, in the middle, and, sometimes, near the end of life, but only the heart is capable of learning special kinds of things. Science, mathamatics, history, all such academic understanding is accomplished via the ears to the brain. But even a child can tell you that some things, things such as what this little, Catholic boy learned that Sunday morning, are only accomplished through the process of ears to heart. When things are learned by this process they are very seldom forgotten. I dare say that even the senility of old age and disease cannot wipe them away, for the heart is more than a database of facts and memories that can be plundered and destroyed, unless it be plundered and destroyed by its owner. The heart, you see, from the time it is formed, is far, far superior to the brain; it's capacity to store, its eagerness to dispense, its magnitude to feel, its passion to share, and its supremacy to treasure make it the most awesome of God's wonders. It is a nearly impregnable safe that spits lightening bolts into the sky to scare off thieves and enemies, yet a sweet music box that comforts and quiets the soul. It is hard and soft when it needs to be, and it only changes when greatly traumatized. It can bounce back, retract quickly, and dream more dreams than the brain can dream alone. Yes, again I declare it: the heart is far, far superior to the brain, for the heart informs and nurtures the soul, even on Sunday afternoons, at grandfather's house, inside a quiet, upstairs bedroom.
Rounding the curve of the staircase, almost to the top, the little, Catholic boy's memory replays the scene in church that morning, replays the words of his mother.
A life-sized crucifix stands near the altar. Blood paint streams down the man's arms, his legs, his face. The life-sized man has a ring of thorns around his head, and the daggers of nature are clearly imbeded into the man's skin. His eyes are open, his head tilted and resting upon his shoulder; he is in agony. His chest is sunken in and his hands and feet have nail heads protruding from the wounds. He is nailed to the crucifix. His hair is long and matted from sweat. He wears only a cloth around his body, which, too, is covered in blood. His eyes deeply look into the little, Catholic boy, so much so that the boy cannot stop gazing back into the bloody man's eyes. The church rises and is dimissed, people begin to shuffle out the doors of the grand church. The organ music swells as the boy's mother takes him by the hand to leave.
"Mommy," says the little boy, pausing their leaving, "who is that?"
"Jesus," replies the mother.
"Why is he up there?" asks the little, Catholic boy.
"He died up there for you and me," she simply answers the simple, little boy.
And out they go to grandfather's house.
The little, Catholic boy thinks about those words as he sadly places his last few, sad, steps upon the final stairs. He died up there for you and me.
Topping the quiet staircase, the little, Catholic boy opens the first door - a bedroom. This is where he sleeps when visiting now. He used to sleep with his old, old aunt, in her bedroom in the adjacent bedroom. Now he and his mother and tiny brother sleep in this bigger bedroom. The image of the large crucifix is still in his memory, profound and sad, as the door swings open. The lad walks inside the quiet room.
He looks up from the floor and there it is: another crucifix, on the bedroom wall, a small crucifix. It, too, is covered in blood paint, just as the one in the church that morning. The sad, little, Catholic boy hears the words of his mother again. He died up there for you and me. He looks intently at this new, smaller version of the bloody man, and his wounds, and his open eyes, and his face. It is love and pity, the little, Catholic boy percieves, that radiates from the face of this bloody man. The same love and pity that he felt when he first looked at the life-sized, bloody figure. Love and pity. Again, he hears the words: he died up there for you and me.
Moved further than he had, thus far, been moved, this little, Catholic boy bows his head back to the floor boards and cries for the bloody man. He cries for the bloody man's wounded head punctured by cruel thorns. He cries for the bloody man's nail wounds and spent blood. But, most of all, this little, Catholic boy's tears are spilled over this bloody man's obviously broken heart. For this bloody man, the man that his mother called "Jesus," has had his heart broken for someone else. And the little, Catholic boy's heart understands that it is he over whom Jesus is showing love and pity. It is he. The face of this man, Jesus, says it all. "I love you," come the words, inaudible but real words, "and I died up here for you and for all people, because I love them, too."
And then the little, Catholic boy senses a different movement of his little heart. His heart begins to swell with love, extended back at the bloody man, Jesus. The two of them speak, one to the other, much is said between them. The little, Catholic boy is no longer sad but happy inside. He does not understand why he feels happy, but he cannot deny it nor does he try to dispell the feeling. He simply enjoys it and he understands that this new feeling has been GIVEN to him by the person, the bloody man, the suffering man, Jesus. His little heart understands that the bloody man's gaze of love was of a love for him, a little boy. The pity, also, was for him, a little boy. So the little boy again begins to cry, but this time his tiny tears are not sad but greatful tears. He has spoken, in a way of sorts, with a bloody man upon a crucifix, inside of a quiet, upstairs bedroom, on an early, Sunday afternoon at his grandfather's house, and he is different, forever different now. And then the bloody man, Jesus, relates one, final message to the little, Catholic boy.
"You will be my messenger and minister, and you will work for me to help others."
The little, Catholic boy does not know what this means, but he believes it all. He knows that it is true. He will always love and serve his friend, the bloody man, The Lord, that died up there for you and me. And so he sort of kisses this bloody man, Jesus, farewell, and leaves that upstairs bedroom for Sunday dinner, downstairs.
And Forty-six years later, though the little, Catholic boy grew and fell away from his promise and the memory of that day, he still loves that bloody man, Jesus, and, eventually, he did come back to serve him, to help others, for the sake and for the calling of his bloody friend. And he was not punished for having left for a time. Indeed, his gifts, he discovered, were never taken from him, even though, by rights, they probably should have been taken away. But the bloody man, Jesus, does not condemn little boys, nor anyone else, nor does he take away the things that he has given them, for they were given in love, and love never fails; it is permanent.
Listen, all you who love hope and can muster even a crumb of a musterd seed of faith. What this bloody man, this Jesus, did for a little, Catholic boy, he does, still, for older boys and girls. This is no fable; it is all true. All that is needed is love and acceptance. With those two ingredients, repentance and increased love will follow. And then such things will you see and experience! You, too, shall talk with the bloody man, just as did that little, Catholic boy. And you, too, shall be told what you are to do. It is never too late to climb the staircase and enter the quiet bedroom, unless, of course, you die beforehand. Beyond your breath of life, there are no more chances, for this bloody man, this Jesus, is also Just King and Just Lord, and he will not allow those that have done evil, those who rejected his free gift of love, to dwell with him forever. Oh, he is such a loving but just saviour and friend.
In this world we hear some say, "Your bloody man is a ridgid man!" Some say, "this bloody man is too strict, too authoritative, a harsh judge, demanding to be worshipped, and so I say to him that he can kiss my ass!" They say such things as, "if I have to to follow and obey a god like that, who demands strict obediance and who makes only one way to be saved, I say he is not worthy of my obediance and love; and he can kiss my ass!" But, more than fools, people who say such things are lost and confused. They have only heard with their ears and their brains. They have not tried to seek out and stand before the tender, loving, bloody man, in order to hear with their ears and their hearts. And that, you will remember my saying, is where real learning and understanding is accomplished. To them I say that the bloody man does not condemn you. Instead, he waits up there, in that place, that church, that bedroom, that appointed place of meeting. He waits for you to come in and to come before him as a little child, Catholic or Baptist or anything you may be. Young or old, he waits there for you. And if you come, moved for him and his suffering, then he will speak directly to you, and you, too, shall be different. No longer will you judge him. You, my friends, will understand, for you will have learned with your heart, through hearing with your ears.
I should know this to be true, for I was that little, Catholic boy!
Please watch this video, below. It will help you find your staircase to that bedroom.
"We Are The Reason" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrPAZbD6fG0&feature=related
