I was reading a passage in the catechism about marriage — how human marriage is supposed to be an image of the relationship that Christ has with the Church.
Well, we know more or less what that means: in a good marriage, there is love, fidelity, and sacrifice. The man and woman each seek their spouse’s happiness before their own, and they dedicate their lives to making the marriage stronger and holier. I can see how marriage is a good metaphor for our relationship with God. Likely it’s more profound than that in some way, but I’ve been pretty content to chew over these aspects of this teaching.
But then I thought of how my own marriage first happened. My husband chose me. He wanted to marry me. He didn’t make some general Resolution To Marry, and then I stepped into the role: he picked me, and he put a ring on my finger.
Christ did, too.
Without realizing it, I had always thought that God was made flesh, died, and rose again for everyone… en masse. That He made us in His image . . . overall. That He held out His arms to choose the whole bunch of us, with a sweeping, global gesture which we are welcome to partake in.
Have you ever seen a movie with a great battle scene, in which the heroic underdogs are gathered in a shabby, yet resolute band? The enemy, rich, powerful, and overwhelming, is poised to attack; so before the charge is sounded, the Good Guy general gives a stirring address to rouse the hearts and courage of his men. He speaks of their just cause, of their courage, of the glory of their desperate strength.
But what always bothered me is that he’s riding back and forth on a horse the whole time. He’s galloping past hundreds and hundreds of guys as he speaks.
How are they supposed to hear him?
Trying desperately to suspend my disbelief and just watch the darn movie, I can never help imagining the peasant warriors saying to each other, “What did he say? Something about honor . . . wait, here he comes! I think he said ‘cattle’; no, it must be battle… aw, rats, there he goes again. Well, let’s just follow the guys in front.”
Of course, in the movies it always works out fine. Somehow they all hear everything their beloved general says, and it stirs them each to the core, and they charge forth valiantly. It would be ridiculous if he had to give that speech to every one of them separately. They’d be there for weeks, and by the time he was halfway through the front lines, the first guy would be all discouraged and timid again. This is no way to talk to a crowd.
But Christ is not talking to a crowd. He is talking to me. He didn’t invite the whole Church as His abstract, collective bride — He asked me to come and meet Him.
I’m still a little bit stunned at this new-old idea, and I haven’t figured out what it means yet. So far, I’ve discovered that when I sin, it’s not just “what we humans do” — it’s personal.
Oh no.
There’s another side to that terrifying discovery, though: if it’s really that personal on my end, then it must work both ways. It must mean that if I were the only person in the world, He would still have become a man and died for me.
If I hear the word of God as a vague, disjointed speech, it’s not because the crowd is too big, or because He doesn’t know how to project His voice. It’s because He’s trying to get my attention, and I keep trying to blend in, pretending I think He’s speaking in abstract terms to abstract people. He keeps proposing marriage, and I keep changing the subject. He keeps trying to put the ring on my finger, and I keep pulling my hand away.
The great thing about being Catholic? We know that God has more patience than any human suitor. He’s always ready for us to come to our senses one more time. In His infinite generosity, this intensely personal offer of love is perpetually open: at the Mass, at confession, and at every minute of our lives, as long as we both shall live.
