Gus the cat comes to lie on my lap and purr.
What, to him, are my thoughts, my actions, my decisions, and my priorities?
Why must I get up and thereby disturb his rest and reverie?
What possible reasons can I have for doing things that make no sense to him?
Why all my comings and goings, that do him no good, and advance his interests not one bit?
Why do I wait until his food bowl is empty, so that he must stand in the foyer and yelp at me to remind me of my duty?
Why does my attention to his litter box follow no pattern that is discernible to him; and why is it so disconnected from any plan that makes obvious sense to him?
Why do I merely dispose the bodies of the dead mice he places so carefully and so proudly in deliberately chosen locations for me to find? Do his triumphs mean nothing to me?
Why do I begrudge him his little flights of freedom out the front door and into the garden? Have I not noticed that he never actually exits the garden? Why am I jealous of his freedom, and work so hard to prevent it?
Why is the door closed and firmly locked behind him on those rare occasions that he evades detection while dashing outside? Why have I not anticipated his need to return when he wishes to? And why have I provided him no means to open the door himself, a feat which is otherwise beyond his ken?
Why have I organized my life around priorities that differ so from his? He is the center of his own universe; why is he not the center of mine?
Why do I trouble myself with that dog, who is funny enough, but perhaps not worth the trouble?
Why do I not permit him to walk on the kitchen counter when there is delicious food set out upon it? Do I not realize that he wants what he wants? Who am I to deny him these things?
Why is the tuna in the can never meant for him? What kind of cruelty rules my mind and my actions?
Why do I fold up paper grocery bags, and remove empty cardboard boxes which are a delight for him to play in? Have I no thought for his enjoyment?
Why do I not notice when he is feeling down? Why am I not ready to rejoice when he rejoices? Why do I think that he should be playful when I want him to play?
Why is the window that looks out onto the street not left open for him to sit by always? Why is the screen there to prevent his elopement?
Why is the heat turned off for large parts of the year, denying him some of the warm places where he likes to stretch out and soak up the heat?
Why is string not scattered throughout the rectory to play with? When there is string to play with, why is it removed long before its delightfulness has expired?
Why are there days when his tummy hurts? And why do I not notice them? Why have I not prevented this occurrence altogether?
Why is water not allowed to stream in a slow, clear, thin line from all the faucets at all hours of the day and night? In heaven the faucets must surely be thus allowed to gently stream.
Why are the pigeons kept outside, where they coo and coo, and make their constant presence known? A window left open just a few inches would allow such easy congress, so much excitement, and such good sport!
What governs the workings of my mind to order things the way they are, if, indeed, you want to call it ordered?
Why must the rug under the dining room table be vacuumed? Why must anything be vacuumed?
Why is that door closed when it was opened before? Why may he not go where he pleases, when he pleases?
Why was the Christmas tree removed? He was not done with it.
Why do I not scratch the back of his head more often? Why do I insist on scratching the back of his head?
Who do I think I am? Do I not realize who he is?
Why is that silly dog so slavish and so faithful? Has he no will of his own? Has he no mind of his own? Has he no dignity? No self respect? Who does he think I am? God?
Why are my deeds and actions so inscrutable to Gus? I claim to love him, do I not? So why, oh why, do I do the things I do? And why do I fail to do so much that he would like for me to do?
Why do I not speak his language, nor have I found a way to let him speak mine?
My ways are not his ways, nor my thoughts his thoughts.
My life is impenetrable to him in so many ways, and yet, he wants me in his life (except when he doesn’t).
Am I not in near total control? Does his fate not rest almost entirely in my hands?
True, sometimes the wing chair in my office is pushed back far enough so that he can leap from the back of it, up onto the mantelpiece, where he can thread his steps through the brick-a-brack there; and this, he knows, will cause me to pick him up in my own two hands and remove him unceremoniously.
We both know that this only proves that, in the end, I have more power than he does.
Still, it seems important to him to remind me that he is capable, under the circumstances, that he is dexterous and acrobatic, strong and precise, with impressive finesse.
If he could speak, would he not ask me all these questions? Would he come to me in the dark of night to earnestly express his confusion about my rules and regulations?
If he could listen - not just hear me, but really listen - could he comprehend the universe from my perspective? Would it make any sense to him?
How could I explain my love and care to him in ways that mean something to him, in language that begins to approximate the truth to him?
Maybe it is enough that he will come to lie on my lap and purr.
Oh, Nicodemus! The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.
If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things?
I want you to know of my love, dear child, dear friend.
I want you to know that I am love, sent for love’s sake; that I am life, sent for life’s sake; that I am light, sent to pierce darkness.
I tell you all this, and I see how it confuses you. I have put it in the simplest possible terms: love, and life, and light. I have used language that you should be able to comprehend.
I have power about which you know nothing, for which you have no language. But I have spoken to you in the simplest possible terms about my love for you, about my desire for you, and about what you must undergo to love me back. You must be born again.
But even this simple metaphor is too much for you. It requires you to stretch your imagination in ways that you are not willing to stretch; not now, anyway.
My ways are not your ways, nor my thoughts your thoughts; but that is why I have come here to be with you: to embody my love, since I cannot ever explain it to you. Love is inexplicable: often, highly tangible, but largely unyielding to inquiry.
How like a kitten you are, sometimes bemused by me, sometimes highly annoyed; sometimes seeking my embrace, often running away to do things your own way.
But if your ways are so inscrutable to a cat, dear friend, how inscrutable must God’s ways be to you?
Of course you struggle to comprehend.
Of course you are free. This was always how it had to be, otherwise you would never have believed that I love you.
Of course you may come and go. You were always free to leave the garden. I could never keep you there by force. Such is the essence of my love.
Of course I knew you might choose to go.
But I have always tried to let you know that there is always a way back. No matter how far you strayed.
In distant lands and dire circumstances, I visited you, sometimes in your dreams, to remind you of my love.
I led you with a pillar of cloud by day and with a pillar of fire by night.
I sent you the prophets to remind you of my love.
I have come to you, so that I can sit with you, so that you can see, not so much that I am like you, but that you are like me, in some ways, since you were made in my image (which is to say that you were made in the image of love).
I have come to remind you what that image looks like (it looks like love).
Are you a teacher of Israel and yet you do not understand these things?
Let me put it plainly: God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.
Enough talk, now. Come sit with me; lie down in my lap, and purr.
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
13 March 2021
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia
