Are the final words of Jesus in John’s gospel. Consider them in reverse:

Me. Everything centers around Jesus. And anything that does not clearly center around Jesus, whether in our individual lives or in the world around us, is an opportunity for a little recalibration.

Follow. Not admire, not respect, not quote. Not even more religious sounding words like worship, or pray to, or obey. Not even other intimate options like trust, or accept, or love. No, the final invitation—perhaps the ultimate invitation—is to follow. Wherever he goes, by whatever means he travels, however long it takes to get there, and whatever he does once he arrives.

Is a thief. Yes, of joy, as the saying goes, but even more…

Comparison is a thief of presence. It requires time and energy that could be otherwise spent living. It lulls you into a day-dream-like state. It pulls you out of reality. It prevents you from living in the only time and place you have been given to live—here and now.

Comparison is a thief of identity. The more you gaze upon the beauty of another, the less you can appreciate your own beauty. The more you pine after the accomplishments of another, the less you can be proud of your own accomplishments. The more you wish you were someone else, the less yourself you become.

Comparison is a thief of calling. It tempts you to replace your gifts, passions, and strengths with those of someone else. It tempts you to rewrite your story in someone else’s handwriting. It tempts you to give your gift to the world wrapped in someone else’s skin.

All of which, I suppose, amounts to a lot of joyless living.

When you’re young, it’s quite easy to believe that life is in your hands. That you determine your destiny. That you choose your life’s path. After all, every day you get up, dress yourself, and head out into the world on your own two feet, with all your ambitions and passions and goals and dreams. You know where you’re headed, and you know how to get there.

Which is good. Part of being young is using that gift of enthusiastic energy to make yourself.

But then, as you get older, you begin to understand that life is also something that comes to you. Not something that you control. Life is what is handed to you, not what you chose from all of the myriad of options on the cosmic shopping store shelf. All of life is a gift, which requires humble and grateful acceptance rather than success-driven strong-arming.

If you love someone, and really want to show that love, then care for whatever matters most to them.

Check in on their sick spouse. Hold their baby while they eat dinner. Watch their kids when school is out for the day. Give their elderly mother a ride to the store. Play with their dog. Pet their cat. Feed their hamster. Wash their vehicle after a road trip. Help carry their plants in from the cold. Hand-wash their heirloom china after a holiday meal.

There are two fish meals in John’s gospel.

The first fish meal was a buffet with thousands of people. Five small barley loaves and two small fish miraculously multiplied, with twelve basketfuls of leftover bread at the end that Jesus had them gather up: “Let nothing be wasted.”

The second fish meal was an intimate fireside brunch with a few disciples. After a long night with not a single catch, they suddenly had more than they could hardly haul in. And when they arrived on the shore, there was Jesus by the fire, ready to clean some and cook them breakfast.

Doesn’t mean that there’s not still real work to be done.

Some people are too busy to simply be with Jesus. They live more like human doings rather than human beings. Productivity outweighs intimacy. Acting like a servant outweighs acting like a friend. If that’s you, do the hard work of clearing your calendar to make space for being Jesus.

Some people are too enraptured in Jesus’ presence to get anything done. They are, as the saying goes, too heavenly minded to be any earthly good. Being a good contemplative becomes an excuse to not be a good friend to others. If that’s you, do the hard work of getting your hands dirty alongside others.

There are two literal fires in John’s gospel.

The first fire was in the courtyard of the high priest. It was a cold night, so some of his servants and officials were huddled around, warming themselves. Then along came Peter, who had been brought along with the arrested Jesus, whom he denied knowing as he stood there, fearfully surrounded by the enemy.

The second fire was on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. Peter, who had grown tired of just sitting around, had announced that he was going fishing. After a long, fruitless night on the water, as dawn arrived, there was a small fire on the shore. Suddenly, realizing that it was Jesus by the fire, Peter swam to shore as fast as he could.

If there’s one thing that Peter couldn’t abide, it was being stuck on a boat when Jesus was suddenly nearby.

Once, when Jesus surprised them by walking out on the water, Peter accepted the dare to walk out to him, took a few steps, then sank.

Later, after Jesus had risen from the dead and appeared on the shore, Peter dropped his fishing net, dove in, left his friends to row the boat with the giant haul of fish, and swam to shore.

When he shows up on the shore of your life is easy to do:

When it’s too early in the morning. When it’s too late at night.

When you’re focused at work. When you’re numbed in entertainment.

When you’re surrounded by other people. When you’re all alone.

Might just be the most faithful thing you can do.

Spending time in the places where you feel most at home. Relating to those people that feel like your people. Doing the tasks that you are experienced in accomplishing. Simply being who you are.

As Thomas Merton puts it:

“A tree gives glory to God by being a tree. For in being what God means it to be it is obeying God. It ‘consents,’ so to speak, to God’s creative love… a tree imitates God by being a tree… The more a tree is like itself, the more it is like Him.”

New Seeds of Contemplation