Of all the retreats I have made, there is one I remember vividly, although I made it over thirty years ago. It happened during my third year of theology.
I was in no mood for a retreat. In fact, I was angry with God about a number of things, confused about my life-decisions—should I go ahead and become a priest, or leave and be a lay professional?—and upset over several things. I told all this to the retreat director. He, a counsellor by training, replied, “So, you are angry with God. Good! Tell Him that. Let’s see what happens.”
What happened that night was something I never, never expected.
My father appeared to me in a dream. That dream changed me. How?
My father was not someone I was close to. I was the youngest son, and, when I was growing up, my father was a retired and sickly person who had to be looked after. So, I did not experience him as someone who looked after me. I leaned mostly on my mother. In fact—I am ashamed to admit this—I was somewhat embarrassed about having a father who was sickly, aged and powerless. I had heard that he had been a big man—a capable lawyer, a planter (estate owner), and a public figure who dealt with the viceroy of India and the diwan of our state, and who had got thousands of acres of land released for the poor. But my memories of him were of a dependent aging man in poor health. I did not cry when he died, nor miss him afterwards. In fact, I hardly ever thought of my father.
And now, thirteen years after his death, during my third year of theology, he meets me in a dream.
He called me in English and my mother tongue, both of which we spoke at home. “My son!” That is what he said, very clearly and tenderly. I started weeping.
Now, crying is not something I ever did as a grown-up. Classmates would tell me, “You live in the head. You hardly show any feelings.”
And here I was, crying my heart out. I cried in my sleep, and woke up crying. I got up, sat up on the steps of the retreat house, and wept. I cried for hours. I had never sobbed that much in all my adult years.
There was someone who called me tenderly, “My son!”
The next day, I told the retreat director, “I feel different.” “You LOOK different,” he said. I shared my dream. “I wish I had such an experience,” he added. He had a poor relationship with his father, and wished it were different.
From that day, the Bible became REAL for me. The Word of God spoke to my heart. We had good professors of Scripture, and I had scored high marks, but the Bible had not become food for me, alive in my life. This started to happen in that retreat.
Words like the following started becoming real (the Living Bible translation):
Isaiah, chapters 43 to 55: “I love you. You are mine. You are precious to me. When you go through deep waters, you will not drown. When you go through fire, you will not be burnt. Even if your mother were to forget you, I won’t. Even if someone could push the hills around, my love will not change.” Or, from Psalm 139, “You know what I am going to say before I say it. I can never be lost to your spirit. I can’t even count how many times a day your thoughts turn towards me.”
Or David’s prayer as he is aging, “Why have you showered your blessings on such an insignificant person as I am? Such generosity is far beyond any human standard.”
The retreat was getting over on the 24th of that month, and I was concerned about how I would face things afterwards. I open the Bible, get a passage I was not at all familiar with—the book of Haggai. Strong words hit me again: “You were living with selfish attitudes. So, everything you did went wrong…From today, the 24th day of the month, I will bless you. I am giving you this promise now before you have even begun to rebuild the temple…I will take you, and honour you like a signet ring upon my finger; for I have specially chosen you.”
A close friend who knew me well told me after the retreat: “It is evident you have found something.” Yes, I had. By God’s tender mercy, I had found my earthly father again, and been shown how tenderly God loves, in spite of my indifference and foolish way of living.
I am convinced that all the answers we need are found in the Bible. God knows us better than we do, and He knows what we need, and where we need to be healed—and how. God waited for me in that retreat, and healed me where I needed to be healed. Not by my plans, but by His mercy.
I had gone into the retreat uninterested, angry, confused. The answers came, not through clever discussions, but through a healing experience of the tender love of my two fathers—a tender, upright, caring but limited earthly father, and a supremely tender, infinitely caring unseen Father.
My father has moved from being a forgotten relative I hardly thought about to the person I remember most warmly. In fact, when I die, I look forward most to meeting him again. Every night, before going to sleep, I kneel down and seek the blessing of my father and mother.
And, through this inner healing, and many other assurances of divine love after that, as well as the presence of other good people in my life, God and His tender love have become very, very real for me. At the core of reality is a heart of tenderness, where each of us is held with complete love, a love that will never, never push us out.
This is the greatest certainty of my life. It sheds a warm and gentle glow on my life. May it shed the same glow on your life, too. Isn’t it the best gift we could wish for?
– Fr Jason Martis XYZ (Writer’s name and congregation initials changed.)
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