Human Suffering: Come Unto Me

 

One of my favorite stories about the power of art…A well-known sculptor had a burning ambition to create the greatest statue of Jesus Christ ever made. He began in his Oceanside studio by shaping a clay model of a triumphant, regal figure. The head was thrown back and the arms were upraised in a gesture of great majesty. It was his conception of how Christ would look: strong and dominant. “This will be my masterpiece,” he said, on the day the clay model was completed.

 

During the night, however, a heavy fog rolled into the area and sea spray seeped through a partially opened window. The moisture affected the shape of the clay so that when the artist returned to the studio in the morning, he was shocked at what he found.

 

Droplets of moisture had formed on the model creating an illusion of bleeding. The head had drooped. The facial expression had been transformed from one of severity to one of compassion. And the arms had dropped into a posture of welcome. It had become a wounded Christ-figure.

 

The artist stared at the figure, agonizing over the time wasted and the need to begin all over again. Then, inspiration came over him to change his mood. He began to see that this image of Christ was, by far, the truer one. So, he carved these words in the base of the newly shaped figure: Come unto me.

 

Now, let’s take a look at today’s readings. If you’re feeling down or depressed, I don’t recommend today’s first reading from the Book of Job. “Is not one’s life on earth a drudgery? …. I have been assigned months of misery, and troubled nights have been allotted to me. If in bed I say, ‘When shall I arise?’ then the night drags on; I am filled with restlessness until the dawn. My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle; they come to an end without hope. Remember that my life is like the wind; I shall not see happiness again.”

 

Depressing, isn’t it? The Book of Job is one long meditation about one pain after another, one disaster after another, one loss after another. And there are times when our lives can feel like that, times of prolonged illness, the loss of a loved one, a sense of doom if you listen to too much news about the state of the world… It’s easy to despair and give up hope.

 

But then, let’s turn to the Gospel reading. By contrast, it’s full of healing and hope. Simon Peter’s mother-in-law is seriously ill. Jesus takes her by the hand, and she’s immediately cured. Word gets out, and then the whole town gathers at the door. Jesus performs many healings, curing diseases and driving out demons. Jesus is so powerful and popular that we learn in one of the Gospels that the people want to make him a king. But he refuses to allow that to happen. Why do you suppose he did that?

 

If we turn the pages of our Bible to the account of Jesus’ crucifixion. There we read, the jeering statement, “He saved others, but he can’t save himself! He’s the king of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him” (Matthew 27:42).

 

I think what’s happening is that Jesus is rejecting the first image with which our sculptor began—the triumphant, regal figure. “The head was thrown back and the arms were upraised in a gesture of great majesty. It was his conception of how Christ would look: strong and dominant.” Instead, Jesus saw himself in the second sculpted image: The fog and sea water had created an image of one who was bleeding. The head had drooped. The facial expression had been transformed from one of severity to one of compassion. And the arms had dropped into a posture of welcome. It had become a wounded Christ-figure.

 

When you think about Jesus’ ministry of healing, he showed that he had the power to heal. And during his lifetime on earth, he healed, how many? Hundreds, maybe thousands. But what is that, compared to the billions of people that have existed on this planet? What Jesus chose to do was to take on the suffering itself—all suffering, and not just that of a few. The humble, wounded, but all-powerful Christ took on our human suffering, experiencing the worst of it: innocent suffering, humiliation, cruelty, beating, mockery, torture, and death at the age of thirty-three. Jesus took all of that with him to the cross, all the suffering of humanity throughout the ages, and he took away its power, its finality, its hopelessness. He’s gone through it. And now, he offers to go through it with each of us, and with everyone who has ever lived and suffered: “Come unto me, all you who are weary and find life burdensome, and I will refresh you. Take my yoke upon your shoulders and learn from me…Your souls will find rest, for my yoke is easy and my burden light” (Cfr. Matthew 11:28-30).

 

Our faith doesn’t give us an abstract answer as to why human beings suffer. Instead, our questions are answered by a concrete act of love: crucifixion, death and resurrection. A wounded figure, bleeding, full of compassion, arms open in welcome, saying, Come unto me; don’t try to carry your burden alone. Come unto me.

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