You Are More Than What You Have Become

I thought that I was too old for The Lion King to teach me a lesson I had not already learned during the countless times I had parked myself in front of the TV to watch it on VHS as a child. A recent trip to New York City with my family proved me wrong.
 
Though I’m a New York State native, I had not been to the City since I was four years old and I couldn’t wait to experience its sights as an adult. Times Square’s reputation had preceded it both in the sheer magnitude of the concrete landscape and the colorful cast of characters that walk its streets.
 
So as we raced through Times Square on a last-minute decision to try to get tickets for The Lion King on Broadway, I was awestruck, but not surprised by the hundreds of lighted billboards that circled in a colorful kaleidoscope stories above my head. I thought it ill-fitted to the surroundings, but was not terribly surprised when I saw a woman dressed in an American-flag themed bikini walking the Square. But when I realized that that bikini was not made of fabric, but of paint, then I was surprised. Dumbfounded and quickly approaching horrified, really.
 
The next afternoon I felt the corners of my mouth spread swiftly wide, like curtains splitting to welcome the first shock of summer sun, as I watched the most fantastic collection of puppeteered animals process to the stage for “The Circle of Life” opening number of The Lion King. But my favorite scene, though quite a simple one in comparison, was the turning point of the musical. The likeness of the deceased king Mufasa gracefully assembled in a starry sky to gently chastise his son Simba from beyond the grave: “You have forgotten me. You have forgotten who you are and so have forgotten me.  Look inside yourself, Simba. You are more than what you have become.”
 
You are more than what you have become.
 
In that moment, my heart ached for that woman I had seen in Times Square the day before, that woman with a name and a history and a family and a past and a future and a story. She had forgotten who she was amidst a quest to be seen for the wrong reasons. But those words also prickled my own conscience: You are more than what you have become. I imagined God the Father compassionately speaking those words to me. I thought of the moments when I neglect Him; the moments when I prize worldly trifles above His love; the moments when I think of myself as anything less than His beloved daughter.
 
In those moments, I am the woman drawing water from a well at high noon; I am the greedy tax collector with downcast eyes that divert the Lord’s gaze; I am the rich young man who turns away sadly to attend to his many possessions. The Lord calls me to a greater destiny than I could possibly imagine, but I avert my eyes from the dignity He is all too willing to bestow.
 
Why?
 
I’m afraid He’ll see me. He’ll see me, all of me: the times I’ve forgotten Him; the dreams I think may be deprived of their dignity if spoken aloud; the insecurities that brush so nicely under a thick carpet when the doorbell rings; the securities in which I place too much credence. It’s my greatest fear and my heart’s deepest longing: to be seen for who I truly am.
 
In this innate human desire to be seen, I am not so terribly different from that woman in Times Square.
 
But when I raise my eyes to meet His gaze, I am not only seen for who I am and all that I am, but I am claimed, owned, branded as His. My breath catches in my throat and I cannot fathom it. But it’s true. It’s the gaze offered to me in even the sleepiest church, as long as that little light flickers fiercely against a small red glass cylinder, illuminating a silent gold box.
 
That evening in New York City, we attended the vigil Mass at St. Patrick Cathedral. As the priest ended his homily, he praised God that He uses our very weaknesses to draw us closer to Him. A quiet joy filled my heart as it echoed that praise.
 
 
-Theresa Sullivan