Never forgotten by Jesus

You're acquainted with the old saw that, practically speaking, echoes the lives of most human beings. The progression is as right as rain and can be counted on as confidently as death and taxes.

To wit:

• Who is John Doe?
• Get me John Doe!
• Get me a John Doe-type!
• Who is John Doe?

We bloom, we grow, we glide, we decline, we die. And along the way, gradually, we are usually forgotten -- except to relatives and, even within the family unit, we are usually a footnote by the advent of the fourth generation.

By the time great-grandchildren come, we generally are secluded in a care facility. We are not seen. We have lost the ability to participate.

To family, we become a tale told at holidays and reunions.

There is nothing truly depressing here; it's just the way life inexorably is.

An image from a largely-ignored independent film, "Shelter" (2014), comes to mind. Hannah, a middle-aged homeless woman, is begging on the streets of Manhattan, holding up a hand-drawn placard reading: "I used to be someone."

The film doesn't detail how Hannah fell into destitution, but the path is not hard to imagine. Hannah probably remembers a better life. A life with friends. A life with family, a job, a mortgage that gets paid every month. She remembers being pretty, as the world defines attractiveness.

We don't often pause to appreciate the imperfect foundation on which our lives are built.

The house looks solid from the outside; it appears it will stand for decades to come. What we don't see can cripple this outwardly perfect scene.

We don't see that the pipes have corroded. We don't see that termites have burrowed their way into the home's undercarriage. A hundred problems may lie beneath.

Hannah never expected to be in this position. A belle of the ball at 20, forgotten and walking the streets by 45. Much more often than we realize, life takes unexpected turns -- and a person may feel compelled to say, "I used to be someone."

A friend and former parishioner offers the story of his father, a notable financial contributor to a major political party. His dad was invited to many party functions. A Christmas card arrived each year from the White House. A local congressman was a frequent guest in his office. He received occasional phone calls from both U.S. senators.

As happens to all men, the father eventually passed away.

The family expected many party luminaries to attend the funeral. Not a one attended, nor did they send representatives. The son, wise beyond his years, remarked, "They forgot Dad the moment he lost the ability to write a check."

If any of the aforementioned in this column has any ring of truth for you, then where's the hope this Resurrection Sunday?

The hope, friends, is the gospel, which reaches its salvific apex in Good Friday and Easter. Jesus went to the cross for people he knew, people he didn't and people who had not yet been born.

To him, everybody is someone, whether young, middle-aged or elderly, whether living on the street or in a mansion, whether handsome/pretty or something less than physical beauty.

His death took away the pain of our sin. Resurrection took away the utter desolation when death eventually finds each of us.

On Easter, we ought to repeat a refrain that used to be a mantra at public rallies years ago:

I am ... somebody.

I believe ... that I am ... somebody.

Jesus makes each of us somebody. And we are never, not for a moment, forgotten.