An Allegory For Life

I would like to tell you a story. It is about time-traveling Jesus. Now, from the beginning, I should mention that Jesus didn’t time travel. How do we know? Well, Karen, do you see any mention of dip-n-dots, the greatest invention of the modern era, in the Bible? I didn’t think so. Now, please don’t interrupt.

Like I was saying, Jesus is a time traveler. But on this particular day, he is in his regular-ole time in Jerusalem. Walking down the street, he comes across a friendly stranger named Steve (it’s the Bible, his name can totally be Steve. Stop interrupting). When he finds Steve, Steve is staring at a sundial.

Now Jesus, being a helpful guy, stops to ask Steve if he can help him in any way.

Steve, confused as to why this random guy thinks he needs help when he is clearly trying to find the time and be off to his coffee social at the local coffee shop, cordially responds “no.”

Jesus, more concerned than ever because coffee shops won’t exist for over a millennia, is now convinced that Steve needs help. Convinced, however, that he should permit Steve’s confusion for a little while, Jesus responds, “What if I told you that I could give you something better than you could possibly imagine?”

Steve, intrigued, responds, “Go on.”

Enthused, Jesus explains, “What if I told you that I can give you a way to know the time accurately at all hours of the day?”

“Tell me how!” Steve responds ecstatically, delighted that he will never be late for another fictitious coffee house social.

“I’ll show you.” Jesus responds and poofs into nothingness.

Moments later, Jesus returns holding something glittery in his hand. It is a Zolex, a premium 20th and 21st century time-piece (this isn’t a sponsored blog, but we all know what brand I’m talking about).

“This is a watch. You can carry it with you at all times. It functions on cloudy days and rainy days and at night! Plus, so long as you wear it, it will never stop running. All you would have to do is clean it every now and again. And you must promise to never tell time by the sundial again.”

“No thanks,” said Steve.

“No thanks? Why don’t you want the watch?” Jesus responds, more concerned about Steve than he is about the $2,000 he just spend on a watch.

“It requires some upkeep. It would take time to take care of. This sun dial doesn’t cost me anything to walk over to it and look at it.”

“Well that sounds kinda lazy.”

“Plus, who needs real accuracy? The entire world is functioning off of sundials. Wouldn’t it be pretentious of me, little Steve, to suggest there is something better we should be basing our time on? I want my time just like everyone else. Thanks, but no thanks.”

Jesus watched Steve fade into the sunset, clearly oblivious that even if there was a coffee shop to go to, 7:00pm is way too late to be drinking coffee. Jesus reminded himself that now was not the time to judge, and calmly sat down to await the next person who would come to visit the sundial.

Fin.

Now, many of you are probably wondering why in the world I just told an imaginary story about Steve and a time-travelling Jesus. Well, in typical theologian manner, I will respond by saying that WE ARE ALL STEVE.

What do I mean?

Steve is concerned about the time only insofar as it helps him fit in. He isn’t concerned about what is real, but about what helps him not stand out of a crowd. Steve desires a more efficient way of doing the same thing, not an abandonment of his entire normal life. Steve’s desire for a better way to tell time is restricted to whether that “better way” will also be easier and if it will share the same inaccuracies he is used to.

Jesus, however, is unconcerned with what the world thinks is real. The one who is beyond time itself does not live by a false sense of time. He offers a gift of truth that requires us to abandon our old ways of thinking, our comfortable inaccuracies. Instead of offering Steve a mere shadow of time, His gift is time itself. And beyond mere time, Jesus’s gift to us is life.

Instead of Jesus giving us a shadow of life, His offer is life itself. This life is beyond our hopes and dreams. It goes with us everywhere and changes our every encounter. The kingdom which Christ proclaims lies beyond us, but it is also present in every moment. With a greater focus on the kingdom of heaven, Jesus enables us to see beyond this present moment to reflect more profoundly on our past and to hope more deeply in our future.

There is a cost. In order to be able to live that life to its fullest, we must abandon how we might think life should function. “Those who try to make their life secure will lose it, but those who lose their life will keep it” (Luke 17:33 NRSV). We must abandon mirage-like fantasies of a perfect life filled with money, power and pleasure and drink from the real, living water Jesus offers. We must set aside our fictitious coffee socials to encounter the real presence of Christ.

Practically, what does this look like? It means that if we have our basic needs met, we should seek to meet the basic needs of others. It means that if we continue to be gainfully employed and can continue to pay our bills, we should think about giving our stimulus checks to those who are actually in need. It means that if we are able, we should continue to volunteer in necessary functions for those most in need in our communities.

We ought not give “because” it hurts, but rather a little past “when” it hurts. Jesus does not desire sacrifice because he is a masochist; He desires sacrifice because in giving we learn what it means to truly love. Our animal instinct for survival and comfort drive us to protect our own interests; a rooted belief in a life after death, in the truth and reality of the gift Jesus gives, calls us to participate lovingly in the total self-gift of Christ on the cross.

And if we are being honest – relative to the gift, this really is no cost at all. When St. Ignatius prays that we might “give and not count the cost,” he does so with complete recognition that our cost is inconsequential. Indeed, we can be recipients of that “pearl of great price.” We just have to choose it.

What do you choose today?

As an undergrad at Notre Dame, I was privileged to have a plethora of Masses to attend every day. I enjoyed going to the Law school for Mass, and the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, and Knott and Stanford halls. But every now and again, on an odd Thursday evening when I was feeling in the mood to saunter through campus, I would end up at Dillon hall for their liturgy. Most dorm Masses were themed around some type of food, and Thursday Mass at Dillon Hall was the campus’s most famous and well-attended; I speak to you of Milkshake Mass.

Milkshake Mass was always a delight. You could easily find friends from all different majors converging in the same place to celebrate the same True God, accompanied by a great student-led band. Usually, the celebrant would be Father Joe Corpora, a delightfully charismatic and unfathomably kind man. He always made (and continues to make) it a point to learn everyone’s name and story. He really is a model for the priesthood – even when he wears athletic shorts, flip flops, and a t-shirt (usually a red one that had something along the lines of “Make America Mexico Again”) to celebrate Mass in the Basilica of the Sacred Heart. He is, by all accounts, a character.

It was in the midst of this Mass – a collection of all types of people with a truly one-of-a-kind priest – that I heard the words that have echoed in my mind ever since. After the consecration of the host, when the priest presents Jesus to the congregation, he normally says “Behold the Lamb of God. Behold Him who takes away the sins of the world. Happy are those called to the supper of the Lamb.” This Agnus Dei is a form of what St. John the Baptist says in John 1:29 “Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world” (NAB). But the Agnus Dei that I heard at Milkshake Mass was different.

“Behold the Lamb of God, broken but undivided, consumed to make us one.”

I cried when Fr. Joe said these words, this new form of the same prayer I had heard since birth. For me, these words revealed the true intent of the Mass, and they echo in my heart. Fr. Joe, a missionary of mercy, included these words at Milkshake Mass to open our hearts to the merciful and unitive nature of God’s love for us. These ancient words – taken from the Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom – were meant to evoke the unchanging nature of Jesus’s one desire: to make us one.

“Behold the Lamb of God, broken but undivided, consumed to make us one.”

I don’t feel very “one” right now, which is in part why I wanted to write this article. Living in my childhood home in Louisiana, I don’t feel “one” with my Echo community in the diocese of Gary, Indiana. I don’t feel “one” with my students at Andrean High School, now almost 1000 miles away. And I certainly don’t feel “one” with the Catholic Church and the sacraments – those being denied to all of us by nature of this quarantine. I guess it is a good thing that I don’t belong to a religion, or worship a God, whose sole concern for my life is my “feelings.” No. My God loves all of me, and wants to sanctify my soul; Our God loves all of you, and wants to sanctify your soul.

“Behold the Lamb of God, broken but undivided, consumed to make us one.”

In this strange phase of life, many of us feel disconnected from that normalcy we once held so dear. Even though it could be boring, waking up every morning and having the same routine was deeply comforting. Now, even though waking up late and afternoon siestas are easier to come by, there is a deep melancholy about leisure activities that once brought joy.

“Behold the Lamb of God, broken but undivided, consumed to make us one.”

We watch the hourly increase in Covid-19 victims and we are no longer able to fathom the lives lost as people with a story. Instead, we can only stare in awe at numbers on a chart for comprehending death at this scale could easily drive one into despair. More than ever in living memory, we as a human race have an acute sense of our mortality. We are deeply broken – by sin and by disease. Our economy is fractured. Our American government continues to show that party colors are more important than the health and well-being of the American people. We are, like the Body of Christ, broken.

“Behold the Lamb of God, broken but undivided, consumed to make us one.”

We are, like the Body of Christ, undivided. Men and women in the medical field are sacrificing their lives to save others. People are staying home, connecting with loved ones through technology. The walls that keep us inside our homes do not keep us away from all that we love. Indeed, inasmuch as “Zoom” and “Google Meet” keep us connected to others who are not physically next to us, they also remind us that our experience of the sacramental life is not restricted to our being 5 feet away from the Blessed Sacrament. I am not speaking simply of watching Mass online, although that is a beautiful practice. I am speaking of just how far God comes to meet us in the sacrament.

“Behold the Lamb of God, broken but undivided, consumed to make us one.”

Jesus affirmed to the Woman at the Well that “the hour is coming, and is now here, when true worshipers will worship the Father in Spirit and truth; and indeed the Father seeks such people to worship Him. God is Spirit, and those who worship Him must worship in Spirit and truth” (John 4:23-24 NAB). The one who “became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14) is not quarantined. Our God is not restricted from entering into our hearts. It is for this reason that, during every celebration of the Mass, we are invited to pray the act of spiritual communion. This isn’t simply so that we can think about Jesus a little while longer, but is done so that the God who is fully present in the Eucharist might be welcomed fully in our hearts.

“Behold the Lamb of God, broken but undivided, consumed to make us one.”

In as much as God makes us one when we physically receive Him, He makes us one when we spiritually receive Him. Okay, okay. This is a bunch of fancy theology, but what does this mean? It means that even though I may feel separated from my students, I am completely united to them through Jesus. It means that even though I may feel distant from my brother in Florida, I am with him. It means that even though I may feel separated from my roommate, from my friends, from all those other people that I love, I am with them. It means that even though I feel separated from those who have gone before me in life and are in heaven, I am with them.

“Behold the Lamb of God, broken but undivided, consumed to make us one.”

My feelings are a part of my, but do not dictate ultimate, reality. God dictates ultimate reality. And because he prayed that all people would be one, through the sacraments it is so. The God who declares His love for us has not abandoned us in these dark times; He is inviting us to turn towards Him. He is inviting us to be consumed in our focus on Him, in His mercy, in His love.

“Behold the Lamb of God, broken but undivided, consumed to make us one.”

• 

Last week I was privileged to help judge auditions for our school’s upcoming musical! I love music. Growing up, I spent a lot of time performing in a choir and working in musical theater. Plus, my brothers can attest that I sang pretty much everywhere I was – in the house, in the car, on a walk, in a bookstore (I hope God reduces their time in Purgatory for all that they suffered). So, when our theater teacher and musical director invited me to sit on the panel, I giddily smiled and said “yes!”

If you have ever been in an audition before, the nerves can be paralyzing. Here you are, laying one of the most intimate parts of your life (your voice) on the line for people you may or may not have met – all so that they can judge you. On top of that, you are competing against your peers for something that you all want: a part. And, as we can all remember from our high school days (and is still true, I am sure, today), being recognized by those around us is one of our deepest desires. We want to be chosen, to be counted as worthy, to be loved. A musical audition is just another test for us to grade ourselves in a merit-based system of belovedness.

Sensitive to the drama of a drama audition, I quickly prayed to Mary for those students whose voices I would be privileged to hear. And then I got to work. I scribbled notes on the students’ performance – notes about pitch and tone quality, notes about performance anxiety. Most importantly, though, I tried to write at least one positive note that I could share with the student either at the end of their performance or when I see them next around the school. It was important that they knew from the outset that they were beloved, that they were counted worthy, that their song is and will always be worth singing.

Yesterday, I was privileged to be in a similar position to my students. I was asked to cantor at our all-school Mass, which also happened to welcome many of the surrounding grade schools, their faculty and staff, and important officials from the diocese. I was, like my students at their audition, a wee bit nervous. As I approached the ambo (where the readings are proclaimed) to cantor, a role I had not had for 6 years, I lost my breath. The music started, and I lost my words.

Then I saw Jamie.

Jamie is an excellent student, a real gift to teach. While he is a brilliant basketball player, Jamie’s real gift is in his ability to befriend anyone he comes across. Anyone. Student, teacher, jock, nerd, drama geek, cheerleader, outcast. Jamie loves, or at least tries to love, everybody. His joyful demeanor and attentive discipline are also welcome attributes in any class, especially mine (cause I can use all the help I can get).

I glanced around and noticed he was sitting next to his classmates – all of whom I teach. In an instant, a crowded auditorium of over 1000 people became my classroom – the sea of faces transformed into the faces that I knew and loved best. My breathless stumbling transformed into a beautiful melody when I recognized those whom I love, and when I allowed them to count me also as beloved. At the ambo, I found myself worthy.

In his post-synodal exhortation to young people, “Christus Vivit,” Pope Francis discusses briefly the sirens of Greek mythology. These beasts were known to lure sailors into the sea, lulling voyagers into a false sense of wonder as these vixens drowned them. Some travelers, like Odysseus, sought to hear the siren song despite its danger. To prevent himself from succumbing to their song, Odysseus had his men (who had ear plugs) tie him fast to the ship’s mast. He struggled against the ropes and pleaded for them to be cut, but his sailors held firm and Odysseus escaped a watery grave. Pope Francis, however, does not focus on Odysseus’ foolishness and desire to test fate, but uses it to contrast with Orpheus. A musician, Orpheus does not need to be tied down to a ship. He doesn’t even listen to the siren song. Rather, “he intoned a more beautiful melody which enchanted the sirens” (Christus Vivit 223).

Orpheus does what no one else seems to be able to do – he relies on his own beat, his own melody, to counteract the tantalizing music enveloping him. His music washes truth over the sirens, and they can’t help but be enticed by something truly beautiful.

We all have our own sirens that seek to drown us. Grief, depression, anxiety, fear, lust, greed, anger, laziness, pride, loneliness. And their song is so attractive. We can easily find ourselves tuned into their melody – having heard the song for so long, our hearts begin to even sing along. The counter to such a melody is not to tie ourselves down to posts and listen to the lies as they wash over the bow of our ships and pour into our hearts. No. The true counter is to intone a more beautiful melody – the melody of truth.

We sing truth when we recognize our own belovedness – that when we were made, “God looked back upon everything he made (especially us) and found it very good,” (Genesis 1:31). The goodness is unmerited. Creation has done nothing for its Creator; she is found worthy simply because God chose to find her so. The chorus of our hearts – a desire to be chosen – sees a chord shift when it finds that chosen is all that it has ever been. We are chosen by our Father who dotes on us.

I am blessed to be in a position in my life to try and help my students intone a more beautiful melody in a world that seeks to beat them down. And I am grateful for my students, because when I forget the tune to my beloved song, they intone it for me.

In August of 2019, I began my first semester of teaching. To say that it was difficult would be a drastic understatement. At 22 years old, I was put in charge of the mental and spiritual formation of 80 impressionable and rambunctious 16 year-olds. The task was daunting, but I felt ready. With a lifetime of Catholic education and four years of undergraduate study under my belt, I felt that I could change the world. I went into my first semester wanting to make massive changes to the way that Theology is taught in schools – shifting from the textbook-based snooze-fest which plagues many schools to a dynamic presentation of the Gospel’s penetrating joy. I thought I could be the change, be the joy, I wanted to find in the world. However, I quickly lost touch with the very joy that I sought to proclaim.

Teaching is hard. Teaching high schoolers is hard. Teaching about a God that many do not care about or feel is relevant is hard. The difficulties of the job, along with homesickness, emotional and mental struggles, and a deep feeling of isolation all left me struggling under the weight of what I felt was my cross. I was angry at God and others for seeming to have abandoned me. This abandonment became my narrative. I was not living as a person who knew God’s love for me; I was living as one who felt forgotten by the very person I hoped to serve. I let my false, pitiable narrative control my outlook on every aspect of my life, and that control meant that my self-pity became the primary author of my life’s story.

In December, I was able to immerse myself in the sweet bliss of Christmas break. Sleep was desperately needed, as was time with my little cousins, brothers, parents, and dog. Being home also meant answering questions about my life from family and friends. To these questions, I responded with the same narrative I had so often told myself: life sucks. It seemed easy enough to proclaim that anti-Gospel (bad news). All aspects of the narrative were factually true. Life had been genuinely difficult. Plus, I relished the attention that I received. It isn’t every day that one gets to receive the doting love of family, right? And pity is the best way to receive love, right?

The questions that my family asked prompted these new questions in my head and in my heart. One day, while moping around the house, my parents confronted me about it. “Either be joyful or quit, I’ll support you either way,” I remember my dad saying. It jolted me. Never had I really given thought to quitting. That would mean failure, and failure couldn’t be an option. But, here was my father, the man who taught me what it means to be a man for God, to persevere during hardship, giving me permission to leave. And not only permission, but unconditional love and support! The very love that I had been wanting to be showered in was offered freely, not needing the condition of my misery. In fact, my father’s love for me deeply wanted me to encounter joy. This sudden realization of what love looks like popped the balloons at my pity party.

So I don’t need to be miserable? That isn’t a requirement? These may sound like silly questions, and you may find yourself constantly able to choose joy. But, maybe you are like me. Maybe we all get so caught up in our own sad stories that we forget that life is beautiful. This isn’t something to feel guilty for, though. It is easy to fall into the trap. Fearing that there may be nothing to talk about, we default into the intrigue of a sad story:

“Honey, how was work?” “Oh, you know… My boss was really tough on me again.”

“How was school?” “It sucked. My teacher is just mean.”

“How are you doing?” “I’m okay. Life is just hard right now.”

Oftentimes, these narratives are totally accurate. A difficult boss, seemingly unkind teacher, and crappy life situations are normal parts of our everyday life. And yet, in order to pry intimacy from our interlocutors, we spit out negativity. Positive parts of our day aren’t as interesting; one can only talk about the beauty of a sunrise for so long, but can go on and on about how frustrating the co-worker is that always takes the last drops of coffee.

Hopefully it is becoming obvious, but I am not saying that we should seek to change all of our life situations. That would give us a power that is so far beyond our ability as people to wield. Rather, I am saying that we should seek to encounter the joy that is present in our daily lives. We should seek to open ourselves up to real intimacy, to real love – one that wills the good of another. If we can choose the vulnerability of joy, then we can genuinely foster a relationship with others and with God. For indeed, “the glory of God is the human person fully alive,” (St. Irenaeus). And our family and friends who love us desire the same things for us that God desires; for wherever there is real love, so is our God who is love.

Where is the joy? The joy is in the gift of breathing, inhaling and exhaling air perfectly concocted for our existence. The joy is in the sun, always true to its promise to rise again the next day. The joy is found in a warm cup of coffee, the smile of a student, the pages of a good book, the melody of a great song. Joy is pervasive – it’s everywhere. The question is: are we willing to look for it? Are we willing to choose it?

For this new year of teaching, rule number one in my class is to “choose joy.” Some days are far easier than others, and even during my first week back I do not have a perfect record. But, despite my struggles, I am committed to keep searching. And I hold on to hope that, at some point each day, I will find it. “For everyone who asks, receives; and the one who seeks, finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened” (Matthew 7:8).

Everyone loves a good holiday. Spending time with family nestled by a crackling fire, resting from the hassles of early-morning alarms and long commutes, and eating Christmas fare whilst drinking hot cocoa in a nice ceramic mug are some of life’s most beautiful – and often most needed – joys. One of my favorite parts of the holidays is getting to relax with my family and watch old Christmas movies. My favorite, beating out all the Christmas classics from Miracle on 34th Street and White Christmas to Die Hard, is the heartwarming story of It’s a Wonderful Life.

If you are unfamiliar, the movie follows the life of a charming young man – George Bailey – in 20th century, small town USA (Bedford Falls). George has a penchant for adventure, but this good soul finds himself trapped by a need to serve his community. He abandons his hopes of travel to take care of his father’s company, the Building and Loan. He abandons his hope of college so that his brother can pursue a better career. He even abandons an excellent paycheck and a once-in-a-lifetime job to sustain the Building and Loan, hoping simply to keep in business Bedford Falls’s only hope for affordable loans. All of this sacrifice comes to a head when, having lost $8,000 of the Building and Loan‘s money before an audit, he seeks to commit suicide to save the family company by cashing in his personal life insurance.

In Dante Alighieri’s in his masterwork, The Divine Comedy, writes extensively about Hell (see Inferno). Most striking are the words inscribed over the doorway to hell:

Abandon all hope, who enter here.

It might be easy to miss, but underneath George Bailey’s sunny disposition is a soul going through a triptych of abandoned hope. George is going through hell. But why does this matter?

It matters for two reasons: 1) it shows us that God bends down to love us and 2) that love is transformative. God sends help in the form of an angel-hopeful: Clarence (heaven’s version of Steve Urkel). God doesn’t deny George’s pain, nor does He leave the prayers of His people unanswered. He bends down and sends someone to accompany George and show him the beauty in life. But Clarence doesn’t bend down just to walk alongside George, but to literally take on his sin. How does Clarence save George from jumping off the bridge and committing suicide? By doing what heaven does best: he flips sin on its head. Clarence jumps off the bridge and into the river, forcing George to save the literally fallen angel. The deepest moment of despair becomes the first spark of hope. The waters of suicide become the waters of Baptism.

Is the rebirth instant? Yes and No. George remembers his worthiness instantly in the river’s waters, seeing dimly that his life has value (if only to save Clarence’s). But, like a blind man having his sight restored gradually by the workings of the Master Potter (Mark 8:22-26), he must learn to see his value gradually. He must encounter a world without George Bailey – a rather sad world – to truly see his worth. And learning to see again is painful. He has to experience the full weight of his lifetime spent in hell. Instead of rejecting his hopes for the sake of his community, his community rejects him. His friends abandon him, his mother forgets him, and his wife screams at his touch. And yet Clarence, God’s emissary, doesn’t forget George. Isaiah 49:15 reminds us “Can a mother forget her infant, be without tenderness for the child of her womb? Even should she forget, I will never forget you” (NAB).

God restores George’s vision of his own worth by removing George’s habit of sin. But wait. How is this guy a sinner? Doesn’t he do everything right? Isn’t he always serving “the good?” Again, yes and no. Yes – he is always serving the right end: the good of his community. However, he does so at a great cost to his soul. As a banker, George is very astute in counting up the cost of his labor. St. Ignatius offers a healthy view of our labor, praying:

“Lord, teach me to be generous. Teach me to serve you as you deserve: to give and not to count the cost, to fight and not to heed the wounds, to toil and not to seek for rest, to labor and not to ask for reward – save that of knowing that I am doing your will.”

George’s sin isn’t that he gives the wrong thing. Rather, his sin is that he gives in the wrong way. He gives up his life for his community at the cost of abandoned hope. His hometown is not a safe haven, but a prison; while he gives keys to new homeowners, he himself is the gatekeeper of despair. His self-giving can’t be generous because of the place from which he gives. He gives from a place of emptiness. Because he lacks so much, he miserly counts the cost of his self-gift – forcing his wife and children to pay the fees that his broken heart desperately needs to cash in. God re-teaches George gratitude by stripping him of all the people whom he counts as debtors. George undergoes a masterclass in debt forgiveness taught by the one whose sacrifice paid the debts of sin. Being separated from a debt-debtor relationship, he can again learn what it means simply to be loved.

What does this have to do with us? Well, everything. In this new year, many of us are working on resolutions that can help us to be better versions of ourselves or better serve the world around us. Yet, our aspirations for such self-improvement can easily come from a place of pride or despair: I will only be worthy of love if I lose 10 pounds, am more productive with my time, give more of myself to those around, am recognized for my work. We become, like George, trapped in a hellish narrative where our self-centered or abandoned hopes cloud the goal’s ultimate value. Losing weight, productivity, and self-gift are all goods in themselves, but they can be easily corrupted by the attractive false Gospel of merit. Then we, like George, plunge ourselves into despair as we count up every unmet goal as evidence of our unworthiness or every met goal as the maximum extent of our value. Both leave us empty because of our inherent, infinite value (see Genesis 1:27 for details).

How can we treat this? Jesus says that he “came that they might have life, and have it in abundance” (John 10:10). Jesus does not come to flip society on its head – he does not topple governments, change social systems, or revamp healthcare. “O Holy Night” reminds us that while our souls are pining in sin and error, Jesus does not even come to remove temptation. He comes so that the soul may “feel its worth.” That’s it. The Word becomes flesh and dwells among us so that we can know that we matter. God isn’t results oriented; He is orienting love. We must orient ourselves towards God’s love, working from and for that alone. This is how we can properly respond to the world around us and avoid giving from a place of lack. This is exactly what George models. Like our lives in this new year, no major aspect of his life changes. Certainly, the debt that he incurred is paid for by the community and the story ends happily enough. But the missing $8,000 was only a fraction of the lifetime of debt that had burdened George. What we do not see is that he will still have to go back to the Building and Loan come the end of Christmas. He will have to resume his lifetime feud with Mr. Potter. He will have to live in the same rickety home. Yet, he embraces life’s joy. His soul recognizes its worth. His heart finds its rest and its zeal when it is oriented on its Maker. He can see himself anew through heaven’s eyes. This year, let us commit ourselves not only to doing new things, but to seeing ourselves anew. Let us recognize that we are “wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:14). Let us open our souls to God’s love so that we might know our worth.