Today, when the Church calls us to focus our prayerful gaze on the manifestation of the raising of the son of the widow of Nain...
Today, when the Church calls us to focus our prayerful gaze on the manifestation of the raising of the son of the widow of Nain, one wants, as if looking into this text as into an icon, to pause over the words: "...and [Jesus] gave him to his mother." It would seem to be a completely insignificant detail, one that does not substantially affect the narrative component of the text, in other words, something almost self-evident and therefore not something that holds our attention. And yet it is precisely this detail that is worth closer attention, because the deepest meaning is placed in it; it may be the most important thing in the whole text, despite, and maybe because of, its inconspicuousness. For in the word of God there is not one extra or unnecessary comma; everything is concentrated to the utmost, joined together, and empty of nothing.
So, "and [Jesus] gave him to his mother." In these words is the whole meaning of resurrection. Atheists often reproach us for believing in "fairy tales" simply because we are afraid of death. And they, they say, though they too are afraid like everyone else, courageously overcome this fear within themselves. They are strong and brave, while we are weak and helplessly clutching at illusions. But in fact we somehow need to convey to them a very simple thing: what is precious to us is not our own immortality, not at all. Something entirely different is important to us, something holy and imperishable: love. A mother's love for her son, a son's love for his mother, a grandson's love for his grandmother and grandfather, and a grandmother's and grandfather's love for their grandchild, love for one's husband or wife, love for friends, for teachers, love for a living, concrete human person. This is the meaning of resurrection.
Once a priest serving in a hospital church, where children small and grown were dying of cancer, told about a boy who was also dying and, before his death, said in confession that he was terribly afraid he was a bad Christian because he did not very much believe in existence after death. And the priest answered him that, just the opposite, this showed that he was a real, honest Christian. It is not personal immortality that is dear to us, not paradise life waiting for us as a reward for earthly torments, not fantasies about otherworldly beauties that stir our mind, but something born in the very fabric of this earthly life: love for dear mama, who gave birth to you into this world, for dear papa, for brother, for sister. This is what we focus our mind's gaze on when we think about the end of our existence. And this is what the Gospel tells us so clearly today, if we do not pass by words that seem so understandable.
