When he had received the drink, Jesus said, “It is finished.” With that, he
bowed his head and gave up his spirit. (John 19: 30)
The Gospel of John is not so much an account of the deeds of the life of Jesus as a meditation on his life and death. His words, “It is finished” (tetélestai) are meant to convey that he has fulfilled that for which he was born. Having come from God, as the Prologue says, he now consciously states that he has fulfilled his destiny and can therefore die. We know this because the Gospel clearly states that he realized that everything had been accomplished (John 19:28 – panta tetélestai), and therefore it was his decision to end. Paul implied the same when he said that he had “finished the race” (2 Timothy 4: 7 – tetéleka) and therefore was ready to depart from his life. John Stuart Mill told his stepdaughter as he died, “You know that I have done my work.”
But I am aware of the fact that there is an act of acceptance here: Jesus accepts his life as he has lived it, all of it, with its vicissitudes, rejections, acknowledgments, and humiliations. This was his life, and he is now ready to take possession of the whole of it, and to relinquish it. I sense a certain satisfaction in this. One cannot truly give what one does not possess. Oedipus, blind and despised by all, arriving at Colonnus, concludes, almost with joy, that “All is well!” And I ask myself, “Am I ready to look upon the whole of my life and rejoice in it? Am I ready to acknowledge it, to conclude that all is well? Am I ready to confess with Paul that I have played the game, and it’s now over”?
Many years ago I wrote how I wanted to be a goalkeeper, and what this meant:
That's what it meant to be a goalkeeper. Wasn't the goal, everybody's goal, to merge, sooner or later, with the spirit of the universe? And why not sooner? Because it took some daring to let go the names and the distinctions, the forms that were imposed on ordinary existence. It took some daring to delve into formlessness and to revel in it. But that was the only way to be! Existence was formless! To exist was to be - formless! That was the goal. And the thing to do was to stick to this goal, to keep this merging as the goal; to be a keeper of the goal - the goalkeeper! That's what he had always wanted to be, and he was finally realizing it now. He was the goalkeeper! The sound of the referee's whistle merged with the tumbling thoughts of his reverie. The game was over. They had won. The stadium resounded with deafening screams and applause. That, too, merged with the flow.
The game was over. But this game was never over, this game of existing. How could he explain it? Yet that was the truth, only it had taken him so long to realize it. And he could never explain it to anyone. Some things you just couldn't explain; and this wasn't even a thing!
He was a player. He was a goalkeeper. That was all there was to it. That's what he had always wanted to be. And that's what he would always remain.
And have I been a goalkeeper? Can I grapple with the losses as well as the successes? And can I say now, “It is finished”?
Oh God of the universe, release me from the blindness that still prevents me from seeing that both life and death are grounded in you.
Ignacio Gotz
The Gospel of John is not so much an account of the deeds of the life of Jesus as a meditation on his life and death. His words, “It is finished” (tetélestai) are meant to convey that he has fulfilled that for which he was born. Having come from God, as the Prologue says, he now consciously states that he has fulfilled his destiny and can therefore die. We know this because the Gospel clearly states that he realized that everything had been accomplished (John 19:28 – panta tetélestai), and therefore it was his decision to end. Paul implied the same when he said that he had “finished the race” (2 Timothy 4: 7 – tetéleka) and therefore was ready to depart from his life. John Stuart Mill told his stepdaughter as he died, “You know that I have done my work.”
But I am aware of the fact that there is an act of acceptance here: Jesus accepts his life as he has lived it, all of it, with its vicissitudes, rejections, acknowledgments, and humiliations. This was his life, and he is now ready to take possession of the whole of it, and to relinquish it. I sense a certain satisfaction in this. One cannot truly give what one does not possess. Oedipus, blind and despised by all, arriving at Colonnus, concludes, almost with joy, that “All is well!” And I ask myself, “Am I ready to look upon the whole of my life and rejoice in it? Am I ready to acknowledge it, to conclude that all is well? Am I ready to confess with Paul that I have played the game, and it’s now over”?
Many years ago I wrote how I wanted to be a goalkeeper, and what this meant:
That's what it meant to be a goalkeeper. Wasn't the goal, everybody's goal, to merge, sooner or later, with the spirit of the universe? And why not sooner? Because it took some daring to let go the names and the distinctions, the forms that were imposed on ordinary existence. It took some daring to delve into formlessness and to revel in it. But that was the only way to be! Existence was formless! To exist was to be - formless! That was the goal. And the thing to do was to stick to this goal, to keep this merging as the goal; to be a keeper of the goal - the goalkeeper! That's what he had always wanted to be, and he was finally realizing it now. He was the goalkeeper! The sound of the referee's whistle merged with the tumbling thoughts of his reverie. The game was over. They had won. The stadium resounded with deafening screams and applause. That, too, merged with the flow.
The game was over. But this game was never over, this game of existing. How could he explain it? Yet that was the truth, only it had taken him so long to realize it. And he could never explain it to anyone. Some things you just couldn't explain; and this wasn't even a thing!
He was a player. He was a goalkeeper. That was all there was to it. That's what he had always wanted to be. And that's what he would always remain.
And have I been a goalkeeper? Can I grapple with the losses as well as the successes? And can I say now, “It is finished”?
Oh God of the universe, release me from the blindness that still prevents me from seeing that both life and death are grounded in you.
Ignacio Gotz
No comments:
Post a Comment