We were recreating a trip through southern Germany and Austria, taken by my mom, dad, grandparents, aunt, and uncle when my parents were newlyweds. I’d heard about this trip, taken by car along the Romantic Road, at nearly every family gathering growing up. If we were all together long enough and the adults were on a second or third cocktail, the stories from this trip would bubble up with laughter and warmth. I’d dreamed of recreating this trip with my parents to hear their stories firsthand, to see where they’d lived as newlyweds while my dad was in the army. To share the sights, smells, sounds, and tastes of their adventure. My disconnected soul longed to connect with something of the past, to make my family story part of my story.
The scenic trip was magical and beautiful, a stepping back in time. We’d been in so many shops, churches, restaurants. We’d seen beautiful works of art, paintings, and wood carvings. Yet, this one stopped me, held me. I stood before a wood carving of the Last Supper that filled the altar space at the front of the little church in this picturesque medieval village. At the center of the image were John and Jesus, John’s head resting against Jesus’ chest. The intimacy of the friendship captured by the carver called to my soul. I drew breath in and held it, feeling an ache, a longing. I wanted that same space, my cheek pressing against his chest, hearing his heartbeat, to be held by the very heartbeat of God.
Jesus holds this same position with the Father. By John’s account, “No one has ever seen God, but the one and only Son, who is himself God and is in closest relationship with the Father, has made him known”. The word in Greek translated here “closest relationship” is the word for “bosom,” the chest of God. Jesus is in the very chest of God, one with the heartbeat of the Father.
John referred to himself in his gospel as “the one Jesus loved.” Clearly, he felt he was Jesus’ favorite. And so are we all. We all can hold this listening space with Jesus. Because we all are the one he loves. We are all held in the Father’s heart.
Sometimes when I pray now, I feel this closeness. I see myself leaning in against Jesus’ chest, my head tucked in under his chin. And I can sense his chest against my cheek, his arms around me. It is a place of deep rest. Peace. Quiet. Right up against the heartbeat of God. I’ve sought this place in prayer, and it has become with time a place I can return to. I think God has a place, even places, like this for all of us. Deeply personal places where we can meet and rest and listen.
John, known as the beloved disciple, began his first letter with these words: “That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked at and our hands have touched—this we proclaim concerning the Word of life”. He had heard Jesus, seen him, touched him, even rested against him. And this Jesus John calls the Word of life, God speaking to us in the form and voice of a man. John’s experience was tangible, real, alive. Ours can be, too. Because God, the Word of life, is still speaking. And when I draw close and quiet to listen, I can feel my cheek against his chest and hear the beat of the sacred presence. Because this presence is held within me as I am held within him. He is so close I can hear him.