The Perfection of Love

“God is love

and whoever remains in love

remains in God

and God in Him.

Love comes to its perfection

in us when we can face

the day of judgement fearlessly.”

--1 John 5: 16b-17

Two of my daughters graduated this past weekend; one from high school and another from college. At the same time, on the same day, two daughters graduating.  Quite a time for celebrating and, if it were only possible (Padre Pio...), bi-locating.  Instead to make sure we were present for both, my wife and I had to split up and each take one.  She did the high school and I did the college. It was quite a week (and weekend). 

Two things about the graduation experience that stood out to me:  first, the crowd of people arriving before the ceremony; almost all of them smiling.  Despite the fact that a graduation is a tedious and painfully drawn out event, most people seemed truly happy to be there. And somehow (of course) it all reminded me of Dante.  Second, afterwards I ran into a woman that I knew in college.  Her daughter was graduating too. Meeting her, I had the awkward experience of hearing something of the person I used to be.  And though this old friend spoke only kind words and greeted me eagerly, I was left with a sting of shame and the sensation of being haunted by the ghost of Herman past.

In canto II of Dante’s Purgatorio, Virgil and Dante witness the arrival of souls hopeful to climb the mountain of Purgatory.  As the joyful souls step onto the shore, they look around for some sign or guide, looking “like those whose eyes try out things new to them.” (53-54). They are confused and excited and happy and filled with wonder. But not sure which way to go or what to do next.  Like parents and grandparents at a graduation ceremony. Excited about the reason they are there, but uncertain which way to go and where to sit, and a little anxious about what lies ahead (a few speeches and 2 hours of names).  We all wandered those halls of NRG arena with a little trepidation.

And just like in Dante, as I was standing there waiting for someone, a soul approached me –an old friend.  Walking past with her daughter, she noticed me holding up a wall and came over to give me a hug.  Her oldest daughter was graduating that day as well. She felt a need to explain to me that this daughter had taken a bit longer to graduate: 8 years. And that the last few she’d worked for the university full-time to get her classes for free, and I said: Just like me.  I was on that same 8-year track and ended up working for the registrar’s office for 4 ½ years to finish my degree. Heck, that’s where I met my wife (when she came to get her diploma).  We laughed and she asked me if I still make great pizza.  Not as often, I said. But, I still dream of it.  As she left, she told me to watch for her husband --but I didn’t. I took a book out of my pocket and started reading instead.  Crowds can be a bit overwhelming to me, and hiding in a book seems like a safe coping mechanism: it’s legal, not too addictive, and if anybody asks, because I’m a librarian, I can always say: it’s okay. I’m a professional.

But, in reality, I only pretended to read. My eye kept rising from the page to watch the people. Parents carrying small children, laughing excitedly; dressed in their best. A small child clutching flowers and balloons looks so proud, a little boy wearing a fedora and suspenders wiggles about like he can’t wait to start dancing, and the elderly move with delicate, cautious steps; slowly and with great solemnity, intent on not missing this momentous day. 

That solemnity, that exuberance, that was a sign of true love. Graduations aren’t fun for the audience (or the graduates, usually). But these people were excited and looking forward to being a part of this special day –not because it would be fun for them, but because it was important to someone they loved.  Their very presence in the NRG arena was a physical manifestation of their love for someone.  It was a love so overpowering that it wouldn’t let them stay home in bed; it wouldn’t let them just send a card; it was too big to stay put; it had to get out and go. It had to become flesh, so to speak, and dwell among us (among the beloved).  Like Jesus, the word made flesh; God’s love made flesh; God so loved the world that His love became flesh and came to dwell among us, to live with us, to share our lives with us (all of it, the boring and the beautiful) and to bless it by His presence.  That’s what all those parents and grandparents and brothers and sisters, friends and neighbors, were doing; they were (in a sense) sanctifying the moment by their presence.

And what was the other experience? It was a more intimate moment. At the end of the ceremony there was a brief yet very moving talk given by one of the graduates.  As I listened, I sensed an odd familiarity in her voice.  On the big screen over the stage, I could see her face and it too had a strange familiarity to it.  Then she mentioned her mother’s name and suddenly I saw. Wow. That is the daughter of someone I used to see almost every day.  Someone I would visit and drink tea with and talk with; we’d discuss literature and music and why neither one of us had a date --ever. 

Afterwards, as I looked for my daughter, I kept an eye out for this old friend; wondering if I would even recognize her.  Looking for her, I was greeted by other friends and old familiar faces (mostly professors I knew long ago).  Even though very welcomed, I began to feel shy and a little anxious,  lost; began to try and call my daughter, though my phone wasn’t working very well, and neither were my trembling fingers.  I was ready to give up on finding anyone when suddenly I saw her. My old friend.  I hadn’t seen her in over 30 years, but there she was and I knew it the moment I saw her.  My first thought –sadly, I must admit—was to turn and walk away. I was afraid. All those people, all that joy, all that noise, and exuberance; I felt an urge to withdraw and go hide in my car. And I was a little nervous that she wouldn’t even remember me.  But, instead I walked toward her; telling myself I needed to at least let her know what a great job her daughter did. When I spoke her name I immediately saw that old familiar light flash in her eyes:

Herman! And she pulled me in and gave me a wonderful big hug and then turned to the young men standing nearby and said: This is Herman.  The guy who taught me about Max’s Kansas City and the Velvet Underground! And then looking back at me, exclaimed: These are my sons. They love the Velvet Underground. This one sings just like Lou Reed. He sings that song: shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather…

For a moment I was a little embarrassed. This was the mark I had left on my friend’s life? A song about… leather? But, as she continued to tell me of her family and tell them of me, I realized it was something more. It wasn’t about the music or the tea or the literary talk. It was the community that we had shared. We had –for a time—helped each other carry our crosses. We had given each other time, encouraging words, and most of all: presence. Our (very platonic) friendship had been a true self-giving. Whether it was sitting at her table sipping Celestial Seasons, or going for a jog at Hermann Park, or running over to Cactus records, we had dwelt together, borne each other’s burdens, and shared not a few moments of sanctifying laughter (and Velvet Underground songs). 

And perhaps the key to God’s love becoming perfected in us is that simple; perhaps all it takes is our willingness to become flesh, to dwell physically (and sanctifyingly) among others and give ourselves fully to them. Don’t be afraid, just be present to the moment and place wherein you find yourself.  God’s word, God’s love becomes flesh every time we give ourselves fully (and un-selfconsciously) to the person next to us –whether it is our spouse, an old friend, a child, or a complete stranger.  Let us bear witness to God’s love, let us become God’s love and let us bear that love to the world –one person at a time. Make it your mission today to let someone feel that they matter, that they are wanted, that they are loved. Wherever you are, even if it is only at some boring old graduation ceremony.  You may never know how much that will mean to them, or what details (or songs) they will remember, but be certain of this: it will matter. In fact, it will probably be the most important thing you ever do.