In case anyone was wondering, even though people stop paying attention, this is still my reality. I have made contact with the diocese in which my abuser serves, and as much as I have confidence in God’s ability to read hearts, I fear that these people do not have enough experience with abuse nor with the serious amount of deception that takes place from the abuser. I can relate to Jesus in Gethsemane (mildly speaking), where he knew what was about to take place. He knew the whispered deceptions about him. Likewise, he knew the result of his actions and of being in Jerusalem. He also was terrified. I’m not sweating blood, but as scared as I am, not my will, but his be done. If Jesus was resurrected after all this…
The one thing I have is faith in God’s faithfulness. That’s all that I can cling to. It feels so fake, so phony saying it out on paper (so to speak), but, what else is there? This is what it comes down to for me. Without this faith, I have nothing to stand on. Here’s hoping my fears prove false.
I have tried to get in contact with the priest who was president of the college at the time, who spoke for me to the bishop, but his congregation has not responded to my request. He is also somewhere in the age of 80+ years; I do not know if that contact will end up being fruitful or not.
And amidst all this, I wish I could remember the last name of my therapist at the time. I only remember her first name, and I haven’t the courage to go through my journals in detail to see if I wrote down her last name.
I had the joy of being able to go to adoration last night for an hour. As I sat there, I thought about how we sometimes think that God is this unmovable statue; this constant being that disconnectedly overlooks the world and all that is in it. Like the gods of old, polished, shiny, intimidating, aloof. Worthy of worship and awe, but nonreciprocating.
But that’s not God at all.
I sat on the hard wood bench in the chapel, and it isn’t some disconnected god on the altar, but Jesus. It is his heart there, in the experience of ordinary broken bread. It is pulsing, breathing, breaking, bleeding. He is calling our names from that altar, each of us. He’s not just in some shiny monstrance, he’s presently calling to every person in that room. Calling us to be with him to join him. But how do we do that?
Look at the cross and you will know what is happening. Suffering, pain, sorrow, humiliation, feelings of loneliness, are nothing but the kiss of Jesus, a sign you can come so close that he can kiss you.
I keep coming back to this because I know he is on that cross still, he is nailed there and is bleeding over all these scandals, over all the sin. His crucifixion is my experience, and that of every other person. And he is asking each one of us in our moments of pain and horror, when we are tempted to turn our backs and look away, or give into the fear and be silent,
“But do you not want to be here with me?”