I met God on the weekend. He had a kind face, a smile, and a great outlook on life and his future, even in the face of personal tragedy. Artur was his name.
He came my way through Caritas. His mother had sent us an email, reaching out for help in her desperation. Her son, a young Ukrainian, had come to Thailand.
A year ago, in Phuket, where he was living, he came near death after a taxi wiped him out on his motorbike at a roundabout. Seemingly, his life was at an end.
On hearing of her son’s accident, his mother raced from Germany, where she was living as a refugee from war. There followed much medical care, and a year later, Artur has been left paralyzed from the chest down.
I can only imagine his rising plight—uncertainties surrounding income and support, surviving in a foreign country from which he presently has no escape, his daily suffering—the list goes on.
After being with Artur for 30 minutes, I realized that I had just met God. Despite having faced death and all that has arisen since his fateful accident—or perhaps because of it—he now sat before me, smiling, strong, and hopeful.
What a hero! He talked about starting a new job online. He spoke realistically and with hope about what can be for him and where he can go in life. So much promise! So much life to be lived!
He has not become a victim of his plight. Rather, he has risen above it. He is a sign of hope in our world—hope unfailing. Hope does not disappoint. I truly did meet God.
Do we miss out on the many opportunities that come our way to meet God? Do we too easily deny ourselves this privilege, wiping it away, thinking it is only for others much greater, holier, or more special?
If we do, we miss out on so much in life, which can too easily become routine and hopeless and fall away before we know it.
In case you may think I am losing the plot or becoming overcome with pride, I would like to share someone else’s story. It is a story from Russia about the coming of Jesus.
At the beginning of Advent, Pyotr said to his children, “On Christmas Eve, Jesus will visit us.”
They asked, “What does he look like?”
And the reply came, “I do not know. But you might be blind and not recognize him. So pray without ceasing: Jesus, Son of David; Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me. Don’t let me be blind.”
On Christmas Eve, someone knocked at the door. Pyotr ran and opened it. A nasty smell poured into the room. There was a beggar in rags, full of sores.
Pyotr welcomed him with reverence, washed him, bound up his wounds and sores, and gave him a new suit of clothes. He set him down at the table and served him supper.
Then his children came and asked, “Papa, when is Jesus coming?” Papa started crying, “Children, are you still blind? Didn’t you pray rightly?”
May I, a sinner, be ever humble enough to meet God.
John Murray, an Australian priest and member of the Order of St. Augustine, was ordained in 1987. With academic studies in theology, politics, psychology, and social work in Australia and at London University, he has served in parishes and schools across Australia. His international experience includes missionary work in Ecuador, the Philippines, and currently in Thailand, focusing on development and migrant/refugee issues.
