"It's just one thing after another!" Had it ever occurred to you that the first disciples of Jesus the Lord probably said this or thought this or something similar in the course of their two years, maybe three, with the Lord?

We, who at this safe distance know the full story, cannot really know what it must have been like. First of all, to come into contact with the Man, to be called by Him, to be enthralled with Him as a person. Then struck by His teaching -- new and dramatic and with power. And how could they have coped with His miracles? Not one, but many; perhaps, many more than the many we know of. And in some ways, miracles growing even more astounding, like the raising of Lazarus from the dead toward the end. Then there was, for three of them at least, the Transfiguration -- His moment of glory on the mount that so overwhelmed the three that they lost consciousness.

Who can imagine how the disciples first sensed trouble, suspected all was not well, heard His ominous words about the coming death? They could not have believed what they heard. And subsequent actions reveal that one betrayed Him, the rest retreated into sleep, all eventually fled, save John.

The ghastly death on the Cross ruined all, ended all. If it was "one thing after another," that was the limit. He had led them forward in bold steps into ever-new country, challenging them to move on, move forward, press on into the new and unknown.

To cap all this with the Resurrection is to expect a great deal. Judas did not get that far, but collapsed under the overwhelming experience of this Man of God. It is no wonder the disciples did not believe. It would be a natural, human response to what they simply could not deal with.

His leave-taking and the sending of the Holy spirit was the climax, even that extraordinary event, one that forever changed life on earth. All this within two, possibly three years makes it easy to believe that the disciples might well have said, "It's just one thing after another."

Is it that way with you? And if it is, what is the relationship which you have with Christ and the work He came to do? Such concerns may very well raise more problems than we can manage, but will at least direct attention to what may be central to our lives.

We are called to life, death, resurrection in the most real way. And in union with Christ. And we deal in a most genuine way with the redemptive work of Christ, the salvation of the world. Our share in all of that drama, whatever we may assess it, is in Christ's eyes most significant. We are deeply involved in the world's redemption. Like the disciples we may be tempted not to see, not to hear, not to believe. We may sleep in an unconsciousness that never lets on any awareness of what we are dealing with.

Told that the world's salvation, sanctification, may depend on us may seem a bit much. One should not presume. If life is one thing after another, it is no great comfort to know that it is all part of a program, a scenario we did not design in a drama we were not aware of being cast for. We may be more like the disciples than we reckon. May I suggest it would be no surprise if we were?

Even so, it might do us well to consider the matter: how real is this notion of our Christian significance in the world of things and persons? The mystical aura that pervades all reality is no mere icing, a prettiness added: it is rather the reality hidden in the appearance. And we tend to make much of appearance.

Gil Gross told Sophy Burnham this story in an interview on WOR New York radio. A young couple had one little girl and a new baby boy. The little girl wanted to be left alone with the baby, but the parents were afraid. They had heard of jealous children hitting new siblings, and they didn't want the baby hurt. "No, no," they said, "not yet. Why do you want to be with him? What are you going to do?" "I just want to be alone with him."  She begged for days. The parents finally agreed. There was an intercom in the baby's room. They decided they could listen, and if the baby cried, if the little girl hit the baby, they could rush in. So the little girl went in and approached the crib. Alone, she came to the newborn boy, and over the intercom they heard her whisper, "Tell me about God. I'm forgetting." ( * )

It would seem it is so for us all, from the first days. We are forgetting God in a land of forgetfulness.

If one thing after another in life with Christ was for the first disciples an ultimately enormous challenge to their spirit as a call to faith in a context of demand, ours is no less. Forgetting God in our context is as easy for us as it was for the disciples and just as likely. It is easy to forget. Easier to forget God than to remember Him, easy to sleep. The more so when it is one thing after another. But we are called to wake.

( * ) Sophy Burnham, A Book of Angels, New York, Ballantine Books, 1990.