For the first few decades of my life, I didn’t try too hard to live like a Christian. Although I went to Mass, attended Catholic school, and even sang in the choir as an adult, to me the faith was more something I had to do, not something I wanted to do.
It wasn’t until my late 30’s that I began asking myself a version of the question we heard the priests and Levites ask the Baptist in the gospel: Who are you (John 1:19)? For me the question was, “Who are you – the man who attends Mass every Sunday or the man who lives the rest of the week as if he never heard of God?” and perfectly summarized in 1 John with that simple but fateful question, Who is the liar (1 John 2:24)?
I am. I, the man who bowed to God but knelt to the world; who taught his children the virtues but rarely practiced them; who had no trouble looking in the mirror but couldn’t face himself; who never thought of himself as denying Christ or the Father but, with every sin, was doing exactly that.
Yet this faith I barely knew had taught me the virtue of hope and that hope is personified in the one the Baptist spoke of when he said, there is one among you whom you do not recognize… whose sandal strap I am not worthy to untie (John 1:26-27).
No, I didn’t recognize him; I was lost. Thank God he found me, led me to the Confessional, and gave me the grace to listen as John said: Let what you heard from the beginning remain in you. If what you heard from the beginning remains in you,then you will remain in the Son and in the Father (1 John 2:24).
Vestiges of the old me are hard to shed but with the continued grace of God I remain in him, for I have to come to realize the incomparable worth of the promise that he made us: eternal life (1 John 2:25).
As a teenager, one of my sons began to have difficulty sleeping. One night I found him tossing and turning in bed and he told me about some of the stress he was feeling. I asked him to set that aside for a moment and focus instead on the best day he could remember. He settled down and after a minute began to smile. When I asked him where he was, he said we were on vacation; it was a warm summer day and he was walking on the shore of his favorite lake with his Godfather and me. I encouraged him to relax and savor every minute. It worked like a charm; he drifted peacefully off to sleep.
Psychologists have long known that recalling happy memories can do a lot more than reduce stress. There is a relationship between memories and happiness. Specifically, people tend to get a deeper sense of happiness from memories of positive experiences they’ve had than of things they’ve bought. That resonates with me; my happiest memories aren’t about things I’ve bought but about experiences and relationships I’ve had, particularly with my family.
The Blessed Mother is no different. The evangelist tells us that as the shepherds spoke of all they had heard and seen, Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart (Luke 2:19). That prompts us to think of all the memories she herself would have: the visit from the angel; the conception of Christ in her womb; her journeys to Elizabeth and to Bethlehem; her divine Son’s birth in a stable; just to name a few. We call her blessed for a reason! These, her deepest memories of family, demonstrate to her and to the world how close God can be, if we let him.
Although to Mary and Mary alone was given the great privilege of calling these experiences her own, we too are given many opportunities to seek out and experience God in ways not too unlike hers. Here are just three:
First, although we may not be visited by the archangel Gabriel, we do have our own guardian angel who always looks upon the face of God (Matthew 18:10). Throughout Scripture we see that angels move our will toward what is good (Luke 2:10-12), offer our prayers and works to God (Tobit 12:12), and protect us in times of trouble (Daniel 6:22; Psalm 90:10). Make it a habit to ask the intercession of your guardian angel.
Second, keep in mind what St. Augustine said: The Virgin conceived in her heart before her womb. Of course we can never experience the joy Mary did as the mother of Christ; however, by the gift of faith we do conceive him in our own hearts. What’s more, we can bring Christ to birth in the hearts of others, perhaps by teaching but mostly by living as he wants us to; as he did. As Jesus himself said, whoever does the will of my heavenly Father is my brother, and sister, and mother (Matthew 12:50).
Finally, while Mary was honored above all women to be the ark that held our Lord for 9 months, we can be honored to receive him Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity in holy Communion almost every day of the year. Of course, Mary was uniquely prepared for that by God from the moment of her conception; nevertheless, we have access to the necessary state of grace through the Sacrament of Penance given to us by her Son. For as St. Paul said, Christ’s will for us is to present to himself the church in splendor, without spot or wrinkle or any such thing, that she might be holy and without blemish (Ephesians 5:27). Holy and immaculate, like his Mother. Her destiny is ours.
So, when the stresses and strains of life threaten to overwhelm you, take a moment, relax, and recall how like the Blessed Mother you have been created to be: To praise God through and with his angels; to conceive him in faith and bring him to birth in the world; to receive him in holy Communion; and to return to him holy and immaculate at the end of time. These will be the memories that matter into Eternity; your own near experiences of God. Then rejoice, not only that you have such memories to bring you closer to God but that, at all times and just like our Mother Mary, God is ever close to you.
Among the most important things we ever say, our last words probably rank pretty high. That is certainly the time to say the one thing that is closest to our heart; the thing we want others to hear and perhaps even remember us by.
The last words of the man we remember today, St. Martin de Porres, are a perfect case in point. Brief yet the height of eloquence, they capture him as no other words could. As he lay near death, Martin continued to do what he so often did in life – he prayed. As he and his Dominican community recited the Creed, St. Martin breathed his last at the words of the Incarnation: “et homo factus est” (“And became man”).
It is fortuitous that the first reading today gives us those beautiful words of Philippians that sing of our Lord, Jesus Christ: though he was in the form of God, (he) did not regard equality with God something to be grasped. Rather, he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave… (Philippians 2:6-7). Since those words were first written, humanity has struggled to understand this depth of humility; how the all-powerful, indivisible, unseen God could so humble himself as to take up the fragile flesh of his own creation and, through the perfect oblation of his passion, death, and resurrection lift, redeem and exalt it to the glory of God the Father.
Imagine the mercy; imagine the kind of love that would do this.
This was the love that St. Martin de Porres poured himself out to imitate: To be himself that same model of charity; to plumb the depths of humility that would bring him closer and closer to Christ. Driven by this, Martin spent his life doing the things that Christ did – praying constantly, working incessantly, serving the servants, offering himself whenever and wherever he could. All this made his last words not only an affirmation of the Incarnation but the most eloquent and fitting summary of his life: Humility born of love, given completely to service, that others may live.
Although I am free in regard to all, I have made myself a slave to all so as to win over as many as possible.
1 Corinthians 9:19
Imagine being dragged aboard a ship, naked and chained in the darkness below deck, lying helpless for several weeks, through rough seas and stifling heat. There are over 500 of you; males here, females there. You are fed just enough to keep you alive. Starvation, disease, and death are rampant. No one knows where you’re going or what awaits you when the hatch finally opens. Over the centuries of the slave trade, millions of people saw that hatch open only to a lifetime of slavery in a strange New World.
Yet, like a drop of mercy from heaven, hundreds of thousands of these same people saw that hatch open to reveal the caring, concerned face of a gentle Spanish Jesuit. He would come below and find the newborns who were still alive, pour water over them, make the sign of the Cross and pray. He then ministered to the dying, and the dead he had respectfully removed. To the sick he brought medicine and bandaged their wounds. Those too sick to leave the ship on their own he helped carry above. When he got to you, he would clean you, give you food, clothing, and fresh water. He would speak warmly and gently through an interpreter, although no translation was needed for his touch. This was a man fluent in the language of love and by the time he had finished, he had restored a measure of the dignity so shamefully taken away. Every moment, this man acted as if he was your slave and happy to be nothing more.
That’s because he was.
The man was Peter Claver, a 17th century priest and Jesuit who devoted his life to ministering however he could to every slave shackled in the darkness aboard the hundreds of ships landing in the port city of Cartagena. Fr. Claver took to heart the words of St. Paul, who said, Although I am free in regard to all, I have made myself a slave to all so as to win over as many as possible (1 Corinthians 9:19).
Father’s devotion to the service of slaves sprang from his desire to imitate the service of his model, the Blessed Mother, to whom he was devoted. As a young novice he was so moved by a pilgrimage to one her shrines that he wrote, “I must dedicate myself to the service of God until death, on the understanding that I am like a slave, wholly occupied in the service of his master.” He traveled to the New World after hearing that millions of enslaved people died there knowing nothing of Christ. After his first few years serving them, Father signed the document of his final profession to the Society of Jesus with the words, “Peter Claver, slave of the slaves, forever.”
Before the slaves were sent on, Father took whatever time was given him to teach them about Christ. He used pictures, rosaries, crucifixes, anything he could find. He concluded every session by teaching them to say, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, You are my Father. I am sorry for having offended You. I love You very much. I love You very much.” It is said that he personally baptized over 300,000 slaves.
Fr. Claver continued his ministry for 40 years. Finally, sick, frail and exhausted, he knelt and kissed the feet of his young Jesuit successor and on the day he predicted – the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, September 8th, 1654 – he died at the age of 73.
Although the slave trade of that era is thankfully no more, slavery still abounds. Who are the people in our own lives, chained in the darkness of sin, feeling helpless, uncertain and fearful of their destiny? Who are those with wounded or even dying spirits, on the brink of losing hope? Who are those starving for affection, for shelter, for safety, for dignity? Will you be the one to open the hatch to descend into their suffering and restore what dignity you can?
Let us pray that we, like St. Peter Claver, may be the slave of the slaves, forever.
It’s tempting on this Feast Day to turn to the 2nd century Protoevangelium of James and consider its many details on the birth and childhood of the Blessed Virgin Mary. After all, Scripture is silent about these things and it’s a good day to set aside some time to contemplate them. There is nothing wrong with that; it’s good, pious reading. However, it is not the mind of the Church to read the Protoevangelium at her sacred liturgies; it is not part of the canon of Sacred Scripture. So the question is, what does Sacred Scripture tell us today with regard to Mary?
Firstly, Scripture tells us something simply in the silence itself. In its own way, silence speaks volumes. Saints have gone into ecstasy contemplating the hidden years of our Lord; I think the hidden years of the Blessed Mother’s life are also fertile ground for contemplation. Consider one possible fruit: Humility. Christ himself labored for decades in the silence and obscurity of Nazareth; Mary was content to live her entire life that way. How much more can we benefit from laboring for God in quiet imitation of them! Growth in humility is death to our own pride and vainglory; as St. Paul said, Think of what is above, not of what is on earth. For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God (Colossians 3:3). Truly, Mary’s life was the epitome of what it means to be hidden with Christ in God.
Secondly, sometimes when Scripture speaks in reference to Mary it does so indirectly. A good example is the gospel today, which is one of my very favorites. There are a few remarkable things about it but in reference to the Blessed Mother two things in particular stand out.
First, God makes clear that women have a crucial role to play; sometimes predictable, sometimes not. We are familiar to some degree with the women prophets of Scripture such as Miriam, Deborah, Huldah, and the mysterious prophetess of Isaiah 8:3, but they don’t appear in the genealogy. Four women (apart from Mary) do: The first, Tamar, is twice-widowed of the sons of Judah and harshly treated by him, but cleverly tricks him into fathering her sons Perez and Zerah to get family support. Next comes Rahab, the Canaanite harlot who lied to help the Israelites conquer Jericho and thus preserved her family’s lives and freedom. Third is Ruth, the Moabite and widow who secured a bright future for herself and her mother-in-law by boldly lying next to the half-drunk Boaz in the fields and suggesting marriage. Finally, there is Bathsheba, wife of Uriah, whom the jealous, lustful King David had put to death that he might marry her. Bathsheba becomes mother of one of the great kings – Solomon.
But it’s not only the women. The entire genealogy is a wonderful example of how God can, as St. Paul said, make all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose (Romans 8:28). Our Lord’s family tree runs the gamut from the famous (Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, David, and Solomon), to the infamous (Manasseh), to the obscure (Achim, Eliud and Matthan). Each one, man or woman, Jew or Gentile, saint or sinner, cooperated with God, defied Him or both; regardless, his purpose was never frustrated but written with straight lines through all the crooked generations directly onto the immaculate heart of a young girl born of Anna, betrothed to Joseph, hailed by the angel as Full of Grace, and asked to be the Mother of the Only Son of God. If God can do all this with them, think what He can do with us.
We who remember Mary on her birthday do well to remember the lessons from these Scriptures, for they teach not only how God works with us but how He comes to us: Not in the bluster of the mighty or those zealous for the limelight, but in the silence and obscurity of the hidden life; not in the mighty wind, the earthquake, or the fire, but in the still, small voice of a tiny baby born in a village too small to be among the clans of Judah yet big enough to hold the heart of infinite mercy and love. And we do better to ask the intercession of Mary’s Immaculate heart for the grace to say in our own lives what she said to the angel: Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. Be it done unto me according to thy word (Luke 1:38).
In the gospel we hear Jesus say to the Apostles, let the greatest among you be as the youngest, and the leader as the servant. Few people epitomize those words better than the successor of the Apostles we remember today, Pope St. Gregory I.
Born around the year 540 into a wealthy, aristocratic Roman family, Gregory received the best education of the day, designed to form him as an effective political and social leader. He was also deeply grounded in the faith; indeed, his family tree boasted two popes, several consecrated religious, and at least one saint: his mother, Sylvia. If not born great, Gregory was certainly bred for greatness.
Greatness was certainly needed, for Rome was in dire straits. No longer the capital of the empire, it was barely guarded; vandals regularly overran it. Plague, war, and famine decimated the population from a high of one million to about fifty thousand. Although Gregory wanted nothing more than to pursue his dream of life as a Benedictine monk, his sense of public service prevailed; at the age of 30 he became mayor and served for two years. When his father died Gregory resigned, turned the family palace into a monastery, and became a monk. He called these the happiest years of his life.
They didn’t last long. Knowing of Gregory’s talent, Pope Pelagius summoned him, ordained him a deacon, briefly put him in charge of social assistance to Rome and then sent him to Constantinople, where for 6 years he served as ambassador, learning the workings of the imperial court. When he returned to Rome he was delighted to learn that he had been made abbot; however, that too didn’t last long; when Pope Pelagius died, Gregory was unanimously elected pope. He appealed to the emperor to reject the election but he refused. Against his will, Gregory served as pope for 14 years.
It is difficult to summarize briefly everything Gregory did to merit the title “Great,” but let me focus on two particular areas.
First was his great love of the missions. Gregory was the first pope to send missionaries to a distant land, dispatching 40 monks to England led by the man who would become St. Augustine of Canterbury. No less important was his acumen and sense of balance; Gregory advised Augustine to bring Christ in His fullness to the Anglo-Saxons but at the same time to adapt the faith where he could to the customs and ways of the people. This bore great fruit; the subsequent centuries saw England and Ireland send out missionaries of their own whose evangelization forever changed the face of Europe. But Gregory’s care and concern for the missions didn’t stop there. Hundreds of his letters still remain, and reveal the pope’s involvement in and knowledge of the missions in places as far away as Africa, Spain and Greece.
Second, Gregory was a great shepherd to his local flock. For bishops he wrote a book called Pastoral Care, really a treatise on preaching that became popular for centuries, as well as a book on St. Benedict. His own homilies are read to this day; in fact, it is for them that he was made Doctor of the Church. He also transformed Rome into a real diocese, organized under a bishop and seven regional deacons assisted by seven sub-deacons. Using this structure, Gregory systematized outreach to the poor, orphans, and widows. Charity burned so greatly within this man that for years he fed Rome’s poor with money out of his own pocket.
That’s not to say that the pope never used Church money. To the contrary, he used it whenever he could but did so to protect Rome from invaders. He was a good diplomat and a brilliant negotiator, doing whatever he could to keep the people safe, whether that meant paying imperial troops or bribing vandals to keep away. He was so effective that eventually the city put him in complete charge of the military.
We could say much more but let us close with St. Paul’s words: God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to bring to light the knowledge of the glory of God on the face of Jesus Christ (2 Corinthians 4:6). Pope St. Gregory was the lamp God set on Vatican Hill to shine in a very dark time and that light still shines today. In summary and in essence, Gregory’s greatness is the man himself. From him we learn these life lessons: First, we must be aware not only of our power and ability but also our weakness and fragility; this teaches us humility. Second, no matter how much we know or plan, not all decisions or circumstances will work out in our favor; this teaches us patience, perseverance, and fortitude. Finally, although we may want a certain life for ourselves, the love of Christ impels us to put that aside for the greater good of service to God and the world in which we find ourselves. From this we learn the greatest gift of all: Charity. In the end Gregory teaches us that those who are most truly leader most truly serve.
In the early 1950’s a young girl dreaming of a glorious acting career packed her bags, left Chicago, and set out for Hollywood. She changed her name to Dolores Hart. A fine actress who reminded many people of Grace Kelly, she achieved almost instant success. By age 18 she landed the part of Elvis Presley’s love interest in the movie “Loving You,” and over the next few years appeared in 9 more films with such stars as Montgomery Clift, George Hamilton and Robert Wagner. After falling in love with a young architect, Dolores got engaged and set their wedding date for the following February, 1963.
Then something happened. At the age of 24, after visiting a Benedictine abbey of Regina Laudis for a rest, Dolores left Hollywood to become a nun. Shocked, her fans and friends wrote angry letters, accusing her of throwing her life away. Her response was simple: “If you heard what I hear, you would come, too.”
We might wonder how she heard anything but the fact is that she had been listening for a long time. Since the age of 10 when she converted from Protestantism, Dolores was a devout, practicing Catholic. Even at the height of her career she attended holy Mass every day. Such devotion our Lord surely repays; undoubtedly over the years the Holy Spirit moved within her, stirring her to a deeper relationship with Christ. What a splendid example of St. Paul’s words in the first reading: We have not received the spirit of the world but the Spirit who is from God, so that we may understand the things freely given us by God.
Like her fans and friends, we may wonder what was so wrong with the path she was already on, but if so consider how St. Paul continued: And we speak about them not with words taught by human wisdom, but with words taught by the Spirit, describing spiritual realities in spiritual terms. Dolores may herself not have been able to put these realities into words; indeed, she was probably unaware of what was happening. By her own account she wasn’t unhappy with either her success or her plans for marriage and family life; the call for change within her came as much as a surprise to her as it did to everyone else. Ultimately however, what mattered was not her plans or awareness but her docility; she remained in conversation with our Lord and in close relationship with him. So it is with all of us; like Dolores, all of us are called to docility in our spiritual life; ideally, to dialog with God and discern his plans for us and our openness to them.
I say “ideally” because in the gospel we are reminded that the spiritual realities spoken of by St. Paul include another voice, one that is not interested in honest dialog but in interjecting, demanding to know what there is between us and our Lord. This is the voice of the enemy and although we tend to think in terms of extraordinary manifestations such as demonic possession, its ordinary activity is much more pervasive and comes in four ways: deception, accusation, doubt, and enticement. First, deception: The voice that whispers, “Everyone does it! Everyone looks at their phone while driving; everyone watches violent or degrading movies,” etc. Second, accusation: “You’re hopeless; don’t even bother trying to be good; God will never forgive you; you aren’t good enough for religious life.” Third, doubt: “Is that really a sin? Aren’t you just being scrupulous?” Finally, he entices us: “Look, that food you gave up for Lent! Come on, just this one time, just a little bit. Indulge! You deserve it!”
Yet, just as Jesus expelled the demon in the gospel, so His grace counters the enemy within us. Against deception he gives the truth that his power is made perfect in our weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9); against the accusation of our worthlessness he assures us of our dignity as sons and daughters of God (2 Corinthians 6:18); against doubt he gives the certainty of God’s infinite mercy and love (John 3:16); and against enticements to weaken and commit evil he gives the strength of the promise that those who endure to the end will be saved (Matthew 24:13).
In his promise is our hope and we will only hear it if we like Mother Dolores take the advice of St. Benedict and listen with the ear of the heart.
An excerpt from the Sermon on the Transfiguration of our Lord and God and Saviour, Jesus Christ by St. Ephraim, Deacon of Edessa:
The facts themselves bear witness and his divine acts of power teach those who doubt that he is true God, and his sufferings show that he is true man. And if those who are feeble in understanding are not fully assured, they will pay the penalty on his dread day.
If he was not flesh, why was Mary introduced at all? And if he was not God, whom was Gabriel calling Lord?
If he was not flesh, who was lying in the manger? And if he was not God, whom did the Angels come down and glorify?
If he was not flesh, who was wrapped in swaddling clothes? And if he was not God, whom did the shepherds worship?
If he was not flesh, whom did Joseph circumcise? And if he was not God, in whose honour did the star speed through the heavens?
If he was not flesh, whom did Mary suckle? And if he was not God, to whom did the Magi offer gifts?
If he was not flesh, whom did Symeon carry in his arms? And if he was not God, to whom did he say, “Let me depart in peace”?
If he was not flesh, whom did Joseph take and flee into Egypt? And if he was not God, in whom were words “Out of Egypt I have called my Son” fulfilled?
If he was not flesh, whom did John baptise? And if he was not God, to whom did the Father from heaven say, “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well-pleased”?
If he was not flesh, who fasted and hungered in the desert? And if he was not God, whom did the Angels come down and serve?
If he was not flesh, who was invited to the wedding in Cana of Galilee? And if he was not God, who turned the water into wine?
If he was not flesh, in whose hands were the loaves? And if he was not God, who satisfied crowds and thousands in the desert, not counting women and children, from five loaves and two fishes?
If he was not flesh, who fell asleep in the boat? And if he was not God, who rebuked the winds and the sea?
If he was not flesh, with whom did Simon the Pharisee eat? And if he was not God, who pardoned the offences of the sinful woman?
If he was not flesh, who sat by the well, worn out by the journey? And if he was not God, who gave living water to the woman of Samaria and reprehended her because she had had five husbands?
If he was not flesh, who wore human garments? And if he was not God, who did acts of power and wonders?
If he was not flesh, who spat on the ground and made clay? And if he was not God, who through the clay compelled the eyes to see?
If he was not flesh, who wept at Lazarus’ grave? And if he was not God, who by his command brought out one four days dead?
If he was not flesh, who sat on the foal? And if he was not God, whom did the crowds go out to meet with glory?
If he was not flesh, whom did the Jews arrest? And if he was not God, who gave an order to the earth and threw them onto their faces.
If he was not flesh, who was struck with a blow? And if he was not God, who cured the ear that had been cut off by Peter and restored it to its place?
If he was not flesh, who received spittings on his face? And if he was not God, who breathed the Holy Spirit into the faces of his Apostles?
If he was not flesh, who stood before Pilate at the judgement seat? And if he was not God, who made Pilate’s wife afraid by a dream?
If he was not flesh, whose garments did the soldiers strip off and divide? And if he was not God, how was the sun darkened at the cross?
If he was not flesh, who was hung on the cross? And if he was not God, who shook the earth from its foundations?
If he was not flesh, whose hands and feet were transfixed by nails? And if he was not God, how was the veil of the temple rent, the rocks broken and the graves opened?
If he was not flesh, who cried out, “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me”? And if he was not God, who said “Father, forgive them”?
If he was not flesh, who was hung on a cross with the thieves? And if he was not God, how did he say to the thief, “Today you will be with me in Paradise”?
If he was not flesh, to whom did they offer vinegar and gall? And if he was not God, on hearing whose voice did Hades tremble?
If he was not flesh, whose side did the lance pierce, and blood and water came out?And if he was not God, who smashed to gates of Hades and tear apart it bonds? And at whose command did the imprisoned dead come out?
If he was not flesh, whom did the Apostles see in the upper room? And if he was not God, how did he enter when the doors were shut?
If he was not flesh, the marks of the nails and the lance in whose hands and side did Thomas handle? And if he was not God, to whom did he cry out, “My Lord and my God”?
If he was not flesh, who ate by the sea of Tiberias? And if he was not God, at whose command was the net filled?
If he was not flesh, whom did the Apostles and Angels see being taken up into heaven? And if he was not God, to whom was heaven opened, whom did the Powers worship in fear and whom did the Father invite to “Sit at my right hand”. As David said, “The Lord said to my Lord, sit at my right hand…”
If he was not God and man, our salvation is a lie, and the words of the Prophets are lies. But the Prophets spoke the truth, and their testimonies were not lies. The Holy Spirit spoke through them what they had been commanded.
There are times in the gospel when Jesus says something that makes us ask, “Did he really just say that?” For example, his mother came to see him and what does he do but turn to his disciples and say, Who is my mother? (Matthew 12:48). Then there is the time he said, If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away (Matthew 5:29). Today is yet another, as he says to a woman pleading for help, It is not right to take the food of the children and throw it to the dogs (Matthew 15:26).
Did he really just say that?
Well, yes. The question is, what did he mean? To answer that, we have to know more about the context.
To begin with, Jesus withdrew to the region of Tyre and Sidon (Matthew 15:21), pagan lands. We might wonder why he went there but I think it was for two reasons: First, as the Catechism tells us, Christ comes to meet every human being (CCC 2560); he wants none lost but all brought to knowledge of him. Second, he has just sparred with the Pharisees about what truly defiles a person, teaching them that it is not what goes into the mouth that matters but what comes out of it (Matthew 15:1-20); that is, vice or virtue. Where better to demonstrate that than pagan territory for, by implication, the Gentiles are not defiled (as the Hebrews assumed) because of who they are; to the contrary, there may be great virtue among them. He has come to see.
The Canaanite woman does not disappoint. She too has come to see – to see Him – and on finding him shows the faith to call him Lord and the love to pray on behalf of her child: Have pity on me, Lord, Son of David! My daughter is tormented by a demon (Matthew 15:22). She doesn’t know it but the Holy Spirit is moving within her, making her as St. Augustine once said, “a beggar before God” (CCC 2559).
And a persistent beggar! Three times she is rebuffed. First when Jesus does not answer her (Matthew 15:23), again when he says, I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel (Matthew 15:24). Anyone less persevering might have gone away but the Holy Spirit prompts her to move closer, now to the piety of doing him homage and pleading, Lord, help me.(Matthew 15:25). If it is help that comes it is of a mysterious sort, coming in the third rebuff, the now brief but infamous parable, It is not right to take the food of the children and throw it to the dogs (Matthew 15:26).
Before we get to the term “dogs,” consider the word “food.” Its literal translation is “bread.” In reality, Jesus is the Living Bread; in the parable, he is referring to himself. As for “dogs,” it is true that Hebrews compared people to dogs or called them dogs to imply they were either of very low status (e.g., 2 Kings 8:13; Exodus 22:31; Deuteronomy 23:18; 2 Samuel 3:8; Proverbs 26:11; Ecclesiastes 9:4; 2 Samuel 9:8; 1 Samuel 24:14) or evil (Philemon 3:2; Revelation 22:15). And although Christ softened the term by changing it to puppy or house dog, it was still in no way complimentary. However, taken as a whole, Christ is challenging her by way of parable to ask herself, “Jesus is the bread, Israel are the children; where do I belong? How am I fed?”
Her answer is inspired: Please, Lord, for even the dogs eat the scraps that fall from the table of their masters (Matthew 15:27). Not only does she say nothing about the term ‘puppies,’ she humbly puts herself in the dog’s place yet proposes an ending to his parable that allows everyone to partake in Christ, Jew or Gentile, each in their own place. The Holy Spirit has enlightened her mind with the gift of understanding; she has begun to see that the answer to her prayer, to all prayer, means uniting her will with the will of Christ, which as we said above is that none be lost but all come to knowledge of God, who is love.
Thus, through this faithful woman’s inspired reply to his challenge, Christ has vindicated his argument to the Pharisees that the things that come out of the mouth come from the heart (Matthew 15:18), in her case humility, perseverance, love, and understanding. These are as he said the key to “great faith” (Matthew 15:28) and they only happen when we allow the Holy Spirit to work within us, slowly but surely uniting our will to the perfect will of God.
I once instructed a woman in the RCIA program who excelled in her studies of the faith. After receiving the sacraments she moved away and I lost track of her. Years later, I learned that she had stopped practicing the faith. She was now “spiritual but not religious.” I think that means she believes that while there is a spiritual dimension to the world, it isn’t what we understand as the faith most fully revealed to us in Christ.
The sticking point for her, as for many, may well have been the passion and death of our Lord. Indeed, the crucifixion was called by St. Paul a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles (1 Corinthians 1:23). But to one of the saints, St. Birgitta of Sweden, the crucifixion held a special place; it was the nexus of the physical and spiritual worlds.
Birgitta lived a life full of the joys and sorrows of family. Born in Sweden around the year 1303, the daughter of a governor, by age 42 she had already been a wife for 28 years and a widow for one. She had a wide and deep experience of motherhood; as mother of 4 boys and 4 girls, she saw one daughter run off to marry a troublemaker, one son die as a boy, one as a man, and another daughter grow up to become St. Catherine of Sweden.
She also knew the life of the working world. While raising her own children she served as lady-in-waiting to the queen of Sweden. Her kind, motherly way drew her into the confidence of the king and queen, both of whom tended to enjoy worldly life too much for their own good. Birgitta worked as hard as she could to keep their religious concerns before them; this became a frustrating and unfortunately futile struggle.
Finally, Birgitta knew the religious life as well. After becoming a widow and devoting herself to care of the poor, who greatly loved her, she dedicated buildings and land on family property to a new contemplative order. She wrote the rule for her order which became known as the Order of the Most Holy Savior.
At the same time, Birgitta lived a full life in the spiritual world. She was a mystic. At age seven, she had a vision of being crowned by the Blessed Mother. Three years later came her most profound mystical experience: The crucified Christ appeared to her and bid her gaze upon him. When she asked who had so cruelly treated him, he replied, “Those who despise me and spurn my love for them.” This was her own Damascus road moment; although she had many visions, dreams, and locutions afterwards, she devoted the rest of her life to the contemplation of Christ’s suffering.
After wisely consulting her spiritual advisor and obtaining his approval, Birgitta began to share her visions with the world. She met with Magnus, the king of Sweden, and advised him that Christ would visit a plague on the land if he and the queen did not change their ways. As usual, he laughed off her vision. The Black Death came two years later, wiping out half the population. Needless to say, the king stopped laughing.
Birgitta next focused her attention on the popes, who had long since deserted Rome in fear for their lives. Leaving Sweden with her daughter Catherine, she moved to Rome. In the midst of its crumbling churches and society, Birgitta ministered to the sick, fed the poor, housed pilgrims, and called on the pope to return. Her call took on a special intensity due to her dislike of pope Clement VI, who she called “a murderer of souls, more unjust than Pilate and more cruel than Judas.” During a thunderstorm on the night of December 3rd 1350, lightning struck the bells of St. Peter’s, melting them. Birgitta prophesied this as a sign that Clement’s life was coming to an end. He died a few days later. When the next pope fled to get away from her Birgitta literally chased him down, begged him to approve her order, which he did, and to return to Rome, which he did not do. After her death in 1373, her call for the popes to return was taken up by St. Catherine of Siena. Not long after, the papacy returned to Rome to stay. Birgitta was vindicated.
In the first reading, St. Paul wrote:
I have been crucified with Christ; yet I live, no longer I, but Christ lives in me; insofar as I now live in the flesh, I live by faith in the Son of God who has loved me and given himself up for me (Galatians 2:19-20).
Birgitta’s life is a testament to the triumph of St. Paul’s words. From the moment of that first overwhelming spiritual encounter with the suffering, crucified Christ when she was 10 years old, she began to internalize them; to sense as we all must, not only the pain of Christ’s passion but the passion behind his pain. The ultimate reality of the cross is love, a love so great it unites heaven and earth, the physical and spiritual. What else could it be but love that would cause God himself to take on our humanity, our sinfulness, and in the face of humanity’s rejection, nail it to the cross? Birgitta spent her life contemplating not the pain of futility but the pain which Oscar Wilde called the wounds of love. In her own way, St. Birgitta spent her life showing her family, her king, her people, and her pope that this is not only a love worth dying for; it is a love worth living for – eternally.
Although the slave trade of that era is thankfully no more, slavery still abounds. Who are the people in our own lives, chained in the darkness of sin, feeling helpless, uncertain and fearful of their destiny? Who are those with wounded or even dying spirits, on the brink of losing hope? Who are those starving for affection, for shelter, for safety, for dignity? Will you be the one to open the hatch to descend into their suffering and restore what dignity you can?
Mark 10:45 