The One Who Stays

A rush-hour train packs more people into a square meter than almost anywhere on earth. You stand close enough to hear a stranger breathe, and no one in the carriage knows your name. You can have hundreds of followers and no one to call at 2 a.m. Loneliness, it turns out, was never about the number of people nearby. It is the ache of being unknown, of moving through a full city as an anonymous body. That loneliness is now discussed in Japan as a national issue is its own quiet admission: crowds do not cure it.

The last sentence of Matthew's Gospel was spoken at a farewell. Jesus is about to leave his friends, and everything about the scene says goodbye, except the words. 'Behold, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.' It is the exact opposite of a farewell. And Matthew had been building toward it from his first chapter, where Jesus is named Immanuel, 'God with us.' The whole Gospel is bracketed by presence: it opens with God-with-us and closes with I-am-with-you. As if to say: whatever else this story is about, it is about that.

Look at who received the promise. Eleven men who, weeks earlier, had abandoned him at his arrest. And Matthew adds, with disarming honesty, that even on this mountain 'some doubted.' Jesus does not wait for them to become impressive, more loyal, more certain, better with people. The promise lands on deserters and doubters, mid-doubt. Which tells you its terms: 'I am with you' was never a reward for getting your life together.

That matters, because most human belonging carries quiet entry requirements. Be cheerful. Be useful. Don't be too heavy. So we edit ourselves to stay welcome, and editing is exhausting, and it is lonely in its own way, because the unedited you stays home alone even on the nights you go out. The presence Jesus promises has no such conditions. It rides the same train home. It sits in the one-room apartment. It stays with the version of you that didn't perform well today, especially that one.

So what do you do with a promise like this? Presence, unlike company, doesn't need scheduling. Tonight, in the quiet room, try speaking as if someone is there, not a polished prayer, just one plain sentence. 'Today was hard.' 'I'm lonely.' The promise doesn't guarantee you will feel a presence instantly, like a light switching on. It states a fact you can lean on: he is there, and he stays. Being known by the one who stays, that may be where loneliness begins, slowly, to lose its grip.

Questions about what you just read?