Mark 10:45

Tag: Catholic Spirituality

  • Doing What the King Would Not

    Doing What the King Would Not

    Solemnity of the Annunciation of the Lord

    Isaiah 7:10-14,8:10; Psalm 40:8-9; Hebrews 10:4-10; Luke 1:26-38

    In her wisdom and guided by the Holy Spirit, the Church has chosen each day’s readings to make a certain point. Often, the central theme of the readings is found in the psalm. Today is a good example; the psalm is quoted by the author of the Letter to the Hebrews, who puts on the lips of Christ the words, I come to do your will, O God (Psalm 40:9). The Church puts them on our lips too, for they are much more than a mere literary theme; it is the goal of every Christian to imitate Christ.

    The first reading and the gospel are also intended to go together. Some days, like today, that might seem a little less clear, but we do find some points of contact when we look at their two prominent figures, Ahaz and the Blessed Virgin Mary.

    Ahaz was king of Judah; just 20 years old when he gained power. As we see him here, he is worried about Jerusalem being invaded by hostile kings from the north. Although God has already assured him this will not happen, Ahaz doesn’t trust God; he prefers to trust in himself and his own plans. Thus, when he refuses God’s invitation to ask for a sign, it isn’t a display of piety, but of his own arrogance and lack of faith.

    Mary stands in stark contrast to this, apart from also being young and receiving an invitation from God. The king is concerned purely with earthly power; the virgin, with powerlessness. He trusts in his own plans; she in God’s. Ahaz, in false piety, will not ask God for a sign; Mary, truly pious, asks, how can this be? The pretentious king will not respond to God’s invitation, even when the sign of a virgin with child is given; the humble maiden not only responds, but consents to be the virgin mother of that child.

    This brings us to the heart of the readings: The child. Ultimately, today isn’t about the refusal of Ahaz or the fiat of Mary; it’s about the Annunciation of the Lord. The Church has chosen these readings to remind us that all of us, no matter who, are invited to bring God to the world in some way. Sometimes, this comes as an invitation to joy, healing, and unity; others, an invitation to suffering, rejection, and loss. Either way, submission to God’s will requires us to be as Mary was: Living each day as part of the plan without knowing the plan, trusting God and not our own understanding, and placing no restrictions on what faith in Him makes possible, for as the angel said, nothing will be impossible for God (Luke 1:37).

    We may catch ourselves thinking that when the angel said that, he wasn’t thinking of us. As our Lord and his Blessed Mother lived it, discipleship is a total commitment, body and soul. Mary couldn’t be a little pregnant; Jesus couldn’t be partly divine, or almost die on the cross. When Jesus and Mary said, I come to do your will, they meant it to the death and beyond. Not that we don’t mean it, but we know how easy those words are to say and how very difficult to live. Given enough of even the little disappointments or failures of life, our resolve can be sorely tested. Which of us is never tempted to put the cross down, to think of ourselves, and to ask, “But what about me and what I want?”

    This isn’t meant as an indictment but an acknowledgment of reality. But so is this: There was only one perfect disciple: the Blessed Virgin Mary, perfected in grace from all eternity by her Son and Redeemer. The rest of us are works in progress; destined to be like her, perfected in grace, but not there yet. For us, growing as a disciple means examining ourselves, seeing where our weaknesses lie, and looking for the times, places, or events in our lives that trigger them. Even more importantly, we must remember that we don’t do this alone. Christ wants us to come to him; he has all the grace we will ever need. But we also must remember that when those who needed to be healed came to him, he still made them ask.

    So then, let us pray for the humility to do what the servant would do, but the king would not: Ask. And not only ask, but accept every invitation to announce the Lord by the witness of our lives. Only in this way, as today’s opening prayer said, can we, “who confess our Redeemer to be God and man… merit to become partakers even in his divine nature” (cf 2 Peter 1:4).

  • The Two Wells

    The Two Wells

    The 3rd Sunday of Lent, Cycle A

    Exodus 17:3-7; Romans 5:1-2, 5-8; John 4:5-42

    Not long ago, I came across a very interesting survey. What got my attention was how brief and unusual it was, given its audience. The author asked hundreds of business men and women a single question, and wanted a single-word answer: “If you could say in one word what you want more of in life, what would that be?”

    As we think about our own answer, let me just say that “money” did not come in first (not that any of us was thinking that). No, first place went to “happiness.” Some of the other top answers were freedom, peace, joy, and fulfillment. All these from business people, many of whom are no doubt wealthy or at least holding their own financially.

    This got me to wondering about the Samaritan woman in today’s gospel, and what she would have said. We don’t know a lot about her, but from the little we do know, I would guess that she, like the people in the survey, wasn’t too happy, didn’t feel very free, was not at peace, and probably felt unfulfilled. For that matter, what about us? My guess is that we, like many people across the ages, have felt pretty much the same.

    So, how do we get that way? To borrow a concept from the gospel, by looking for the right water in the wrong well. What’s the right water? The things we most want, deep down: Happiness, peace, freedom, fulfillment. What’s the wrong well? Anything that can never supply them. We think, “If I have this food, those clothes, that home, I’ll be happy!” But after we get them, what happens? We tire of them and thirst all over again. “OK, maybe THIS food, THOSE clothes, THAT home…” It’s a cycle; the more we drink the wrong water, the thirstier we become, and the more we drink. The irony is that we will risk losing sight of everything, even God, in our relentless pursuit of what it turns out that only God can give! This is why, centuries earlier, the Lord said through the prophet Jeremiah, Two evils my people have done: they have forsaken me, the source of living waters; They have dug themselves cisterns, broken cisterns that cannot hold water (Jeremiah 2:13).

    Jacob’s well was no broken cistern but the Samaritan woman certainly was, and Jesus really wanted to see her. We know that because John says, Jesus had to pass through Samaria (John 4:4). There were well-known routes around that country, to the east and west. No, he went to see her, just like he comes to see us. Why? What does he offer people drinking from the wrong well? A way out. Remember his words to her at the start: If you knew the gift of God and who is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him and he would have given you living water. (John 4:10). He’s challenging her, challenging all of us: Know me, and ask for the life that only I can give.

    At first, she resisted; made light of it, stayed with the water she understood. We all do that, for at least a couple of reasons. First, habits are hard to break, even harder when they’re habits we like. Second, it’s a lot easier to run from problems than it is to face them. But there is no running from Christ. He knows exactly how to get our attention; he hits very close to home. For the woman, it was when he said, Go call your husband and come back (John 4:16). Imagine the shock, not only of how he could know the truth, but having to look the truth straight in the eye. This is the encounter with Christ, who is the Truth; he not only shows us who he is, he shows us who we are. As the scholar William Barclay once said, “We never really see ourselves until we see ourselves in the presence of Christ; and then we are appalled at the sight.”

    Christ is the truth, but he is the way and the life as well. Although he does show us who we are, he also shows us who we are made to be. We saw this in the readings for the first two weeks of Lent; yes, sin entered the world, and through sin our thirst for dead water, but Christ also entered the world, and by his passion, death, and resurrection has opened the way to eternal life. Now, in the 3rd week of Lent, our Lord teaches us that the choice is ours: Are we going to keep taking water from the wrong well, or are going to turn to Christ, and take the living water of his infinite grace?

    That was the question before the Samaritan woman. We know what she did, John tells us: She left her water jar and went into the town and said to the people, ‘Come see a man who told me everything I have done. Could he possibly be the Christ’ (John 4:28-29)? She became an evangelizer. For the first time in a long time, maybe the first time ever, this woman knew happiness, peace, and fulfillment like she had never known.

    That leaves us. The choice is ours: There, the same old well, the same dead water; here, Christ, the Living Water. He comes to this well today, and every day, in the Blessed Sacrament, just to see us. All he asks is that we do what the Samaritan woman did: Have the courage to face ourselves as we are, the honesty to call the truth the truth, and the humility to put the old water jar down and seek the infinite grace of forgiveness that he is so eager to give. After that, the only question is, how much of the Living Water do you want?

  • Who is the Prodigal?

    Who is the Prodigal?

    Saturday of the 2nd Week of Lent

    Micah 7:14-15, 18-20; Luke 15:1-3, 11-32

    I think one of the reasons why today’s parable is such a masterpiece is that we see reflections of ourselves in its characters. Perhaps in our youth, we too have been reckless or impulsive, like the prodigal son; certainly all of us try to be faithful and hard-working like the older son. And perhaps many of us, like the father, know what it’s like to wait for someone we love to return to the path they have wandered away from.

    While the crowd listening that day was surely no different, the gospel tells us that our Lord aimed the parable at one group in particular – the scribes and Pharisees, who had just complained that Jesus welcomed sinners and ate with them. If these men were to see themselves as anyone in the parable, surely it was the older brother, for these were men zealous for the Law, dedicating themselves to it, urging everyone to imitate the piety and traditions of the priests and Levites.

    To some degree, their zeal was understandable. The Pharisee party rose up in reaction to the brutal occupations Israel had suffered, most recently the Romans. They believed that these were God’s punishment for their infidelity; the idea was that, if they could show God that they were zealously and piously following his Law, He would deliver them from this oppression.

    Unfortunately, when we let our passions rule, ideas can become obsessions and lead us into sin. We see this in the younger son in the parable: the deadly sins of greed, lust, and gluttony. But what about the older son? As we consider him, we also find three deadly sins: Anger, envy, and pride. There is anger in every word he says, envy of the rings, the robes, the fatted calf, and behind it all, the first sin, pride: he had earned these things, proven himself. It wasn’t about divine justice or his father’s feelings, it was about him and him alone.

    In the end, the righteousness of the older brother was no more than self-righteousness. And what did it get him? Nothing but the chance to lose everything. As the theologian Hugh of St. Victor once said1, “Pride takes God away from a person; envy takes his neighbor from him; anger takes himself from him.” Blinded by pride, he lost his way to God; consumed by envy, he broke with his brother; overcome by anger, he lost sight of what should have been most important at that moment – mercy. Perhaps it should be called the parable of the unloving brothers, for as the prodigal son had come to measure love by having, he had come to measure it by earning.

    This goes right to the heart of the lesson our Lord is teaching. True love isn’t about earning or having, it’s about being. Remember what the father said to his older son: Everything I have is yours (Luke 15:31). All those years of faithfulness, obedience, and good work were never going to earn his father’s love because it was never about that; it was about being his son. The same for the younger brother; it was never about having whatever and whoever he wanted, it was about being his father’s son.

    Today, and every day, is a day to rejoice, for we too are children of our Heavenly Father, who, as the prophet Micah said, removes guilt and pardons sin (Micah 7:18). And he doesn’t discriminate; his love is beyond all our sinfulness, whether it’s the greed, gluttony, and lust of the one, or the anger, envy, and pride of the other. Perhaps, then, it should be called the parable of the Prodigal Father! Truly, God is prodigal, to love us with such overflowing, reckless abandon.

    1On the Five Sevens. Available at https://scholarlyediting.org/2016/editions/de-quinque-septenis-trans.dunning.html.type=diplomatic.html

  • Looking into the Eyes of Love

    Looking into the Eyes of Love

    Memorial of Our Lady of Lourdes

    Isaiah 66:10-14c; John 2:1-11

    In the first reading Isaiah called to mind the tender image of a mother comforting a baby carried in her arms… fondled in her lap (Isaiah 66:12-13). At such times, mothers might speak, but they know that words are unnecessary. They prefer the other senses: Touch, smell, and especially, sight. Many of us know this from experience; while we like to hold babies and smell them (there’s nothing like that “new baby” smell), we especially love to look into their eyes.

    In fact, scientists have recently discovered that when infants and parents lock eyes, their brain waves synchronize; that is, the child’s brain activity mirrors their parent’s. That’s not all; this phenomenon seems to continue throughout life. No wonder my mother was so good at reading my mind every time she asked me to look her in the eyes!

    I believe the same is true of the Blessed Mother and Jesus, and I think today’s gospel story is a good case in point. After Mary tells Jesus that the wine has run short, he’s not disrespectful but he does make it clear that he’s not particularly interested. Nevertheless, just a moment later, he miraculously creates about 120 gallons of fine wine. What could possibly have so moved him?

    I think only one thing could do that: Looking his Mother in the eyes.

    She had gazed into those eyes from the time she first carried him in her arms, and many times since over those thirty hidden years in Nazareth. In a very real way and beyond anything either science or St. Paul could have imagined, Mary had the mind of Christ. So, whatever was behind her eyes at that moment in Cana, he knew that it could only be motivated by the purest love of him, her Son, her Savior, and her Lord.

    And, in ways known only to Christ, Mary’s eyes were much more than a window to her immaculate soul. Hers were the eyes that beheld the angelic revelation in Nazareth; that searched for a place to give him birth; that watched and guarded him as he grew; that wept as he walked out the door for the last time. Hers were the eyes that constantly looked for ways to be the disciple she had been called from all eternity to be; the eyes now gazing at him, pleading in their own quiet way for him to save the honor of this bride and bridegroom; to show them and the world the merciful and loving Savior she had gazed upon for ten thousand wondrous days in Nazareth.

    I came across a book by Fr. Raneiro Cantalamessa, Preacher to the Papal Household, entitled, Mary, Mirror of the Church. I look forward to reading it! By that title he surely must be thinking of the Blessed Mother as we now know her and as she once described herself to Bernadette Soubirous at Lourdes: “I am the Immaculate Conception.” The titles work wonderfully together, for as St. Paul once wrote, Christ has sanctified the Church that he might 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). It may have been the love of a young man for his mom that first moved Jesus to change water into wine at Cana, but it was the infinite love of the Son of Man for his holy and immaculate bride, the Church, that moved him to change bread and wine into his own Body and Blood at the Last Supper.

    Today we remember the one he called Woman, who we call Mary Immaculate, Mother and mirror of the Church. Let us take a moment today to thank God for giving us so loving a mother. May she continue to look tenderly upon all of us, her spiritual children, and plead that we too be made into the finest wine. She, who has for so long looked into the eyes of Infinite Love and perfectly conformed her mind to His.

    Mary Immaculate, pray for us.

  • The Lesson of the Right Tree

    The Lesson of the Right Tree

    Wednesday of the 5th Week in Ordinary Time

    Genesis 2:4b-9, 15-17; Mark 7:14-23

    Throughout the bible, certain phrases appear in pairs, one at the beginning and the other at the end of a section. Think of these phrases as bookends, and what appears in-between as an explanation of their meaning. Sometimes, the bookends appear close together, for example in the same biblical story, other times further apart, like the beginning and end of a book.

    Today we hear the first of two bookends that are separated by virtually the entire bible. We heard it when the author of the second Creation story spoke of the tree of life in the middle of the garden. The other bookend will not appear until the very last book of the bible, Revelation, whose author says, To the victor I will give the right to eat from the tree of life that is in the garden of God (Revelation 2:7).

    Seeing these two instances as bookends allows us to see the story of the bible in terms of the tree of life. It’s ironic that the other tree in the middle of the garden, the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, gets so much attention; then again, we humans often focus on where we’ve gone wrong, and how we got where we are. While there’s good reason for that, today is a day to focus on what has gone right, and how to get where we’re going.

    The reason for that positive outlook lies in today’s saint. She was a very positive person; her joy was infectious, and her perspective inspires people like me to this day. I’d like to call her by name, but we don’t know it. As a child in Sudan, she once did, but that was before slavery, which was so physically traumatic that she forgot her own name. In time, one of her masters nicknamed her “Bakhita,” Arabic for lucky.

    Bakhita was not raised a Christian, but the Spirit was quietly active in her life. While still a young woman and serving as nanny to a little girl, she was sent to a convent with the child. There, the sisters introduced her to Christ, and she fell so completely in love with him that she vowed never to love another. Once freed from slavery, she kept that vow; she became a Catholic, took the name Josephine, and served our Lord faithfully and joyfully as a Canossian sister until her death 42 years later.

    What should draw us to St. Josephine Bakhita isn’t the sympathy she so deserves; it is her unshakable, unwavering refusal to take her eyes off Jesus Christ, whom she rightly recognized as the Tree of Life. The superabundant graces he poured upon her were more transforming than any of the harsh treatment she endured; so powerful were they that she went to her grave thanking those who treated her so badly. As she said, she never would have met the true love of her life had she not trod the road, and endured the cross, that she did.

    The truth of Scripture from the perspective of this great saint is inescapable. All the evils Christ spoke of: theft, greed, malice, deceit, licentiousness, arrogance, folly – the ones suffered by Bakhita – spring not only from the hearts of slave traders and masters, but from our own hearts as well. And, although the bible wisely spends a lot of time on the lessons we can learn from our fascination with the wrong tree, the most powerful truth of all is found in the lesson of the right tree – the bookend from Revelation: To the victor I will give the right to eat from the tree of life that is in the garden of God. Who is the victor? We are; all of those who, like St. Josephine Bakhita, understand that Jesus Christ, the Tree of Life from whom we are invited to eat, is not only the center of the bible, but the center of our lives as well.

    St. Josephine Bakhita, pray for us.

  • Upside Down

    Upside Down

    Tuesday of the 5th Week in Ordinary Time

    Genesis 1:20 – 2:4a; Psalm 8:6-7; Mark 7:1-13

    You probably noticed that three times Jesus used the word, “tradition.” What is he talking about? Is it the Tradition we refer to and rely on in the Church to this day?

    No.

    In the first century, the Pharisees believed that occupation by Rome was a sign that God was angry with Israel for her unholiness. They got the idea that, if all Jews would follow the purity rituals of the priests, God would free Israel from Roman oppression. These cleansing rituals are what Mark called the tradition of the elders, and Jesus referred to as human, or your tradition. Essentially, it was superstition; the belief that, if they correctly performed some rituals, God would answer their prayers the way they wanted.

    Sadly, temptations to superstitious thinking are still with us. Not long ago, I was in line at a local hardware store and happened to see bags labelled “Home-Selling Kits” on a rack. I picked one up. Inside was a plastic statue of St. Joseph, with instructions to bury him upside down outside the house you were selling. I didn’t think of the faithful and well-formed people who do such things with great piety, but of those who buy such kits without knowing, as the Catechism teaches, that our prayers are answered based on our interior disposition (Catechism, 2111), not because we performed a particular ritual.

    By calling the scribes and Pharisees out, our Lord reminded them and us of two things related to piety, the virtue by which we give God the worship and service he deserves. First, true piety is based on love, not fear; specifically, love returned for love given. Think of the Creation story we just heard, how we are made in the image of God; or the psalm, how we are made little less than the angels, crowned with glory and honor, and given rule over the works of his hands. This is the pure, eternal, selfless love of God’s providence; if for no other reason than sheer gratitude, how could we return anything less than love for such a priceless gift?

    Second, piety should motivate us not just to love and respect God, but also to obey his commandments, for they are expressions of his infinite love for us. Remember his first words to us in Genesis: Be fruitful and multiply, fill the earth, and subdue it. Be fruitful: Thank God for the gift of family, especially today, your own. Multiply: Ask God to help you continue to find ways for your good works to prosper, now and in the future. Fill the earth: Everywhere you go, everyone you encounter, be like Christ; let no one be the same after they have been with you. Subdue it: Let us ask God to help us first master ourselves, that we may be better disciples; then find ways to make our own corner of the world a more just and Godly place. And let us pray always for an increase in our own piety, that every act of worship or reverence shown to Almighty God is never seen as a task or a burden, but as an act of joyful love.

    Even when that means burying St. Joseph. Upside down.

  • Salt and Light

    Salt and Light

    Sunday of the 5th Week in Ordinary Time

    Isaiah 58:7-10; Matthew 5:13-16

    When I was an altar boy, the lady who watered the plants on the altar complained that the flowers were dying no matter what she did. Father asked if maybe she was over-watering them. She said no; in fact, over the last two weeks she had even started pouring holy water into the soil, but the flowers only got worse. Father looked at her and said, “Please don’t do that. When we bless the water, we put salt in it.”

    Of course, she wouldn’t have seen that. That’s kind of the point of salt; it disappears into other things, changes how they taste or act. As our Lord was implying, we don’t focus on the salt but on the things it’s used in. The same with light; we don’t think about the light itself, but on what it allows us to see or do.

    This brought up two questions in my mind. The first one I asked myself. Who in my life has been salt and light? That is, who has shown me what it means to be the person Jesus talked about last time when he spoke of the beatitudes?

    Several people: My father, who worked without complaint as many hours as he could, as many jobs as he needed, to provide his kids with the Catholic education he never had; blessed are the meek. My mother, who brought her own elderly mother and her disabled brother home to live with us; blessed are the merciful. My wife, who took in an abused, injured baby long after her own children were grown, cut her work hours, and poured her life into getting him the services and therapies he needed; blessed are the single-hearted. My best friend, now deceased, who received an early diagnosis of Alzheimer’s yet, when he grieved, did so not for himself but for his wife and children; blessed are those who mourn. And the nun who appeared at our house one day and fed my family with food and good cheer in a time of pain and crisis; blessed are those who hunger.

    If I had said to any of these people, “You know, you really have been the salt of the earth and light of the world for me,” they wouldn’t have known what I was talking about. In fact, I did write a letter to Sister and tell her. She wrote back to me that, if I wanted to see people who had really done something, I should meet the nuns she now lived with; they had built schools, raised money, founded orders. She said, “I have done almost nothing.” The others would’ve said something similar: “What do you think I am, some theologian? I don’t have any great words of wisdom to teach anybody. I’m still working it all out myself!” But God knows what they had forgotten, what we heard from St. Paul: My faith didn’t depend on their wisdom, but on the power of the Holy Spirit working through them. I didn’t need those people to be great theologians, spiritual counselors, or anything else that they weren’t; I needed them to be who God made them to be; to use the talents and abilities he’d already given them. Jesus didn’t say in the gospel that we will be the light of the world or the salt of the earth; he said that we are.

    That brings up the second question: Am I actually being salt and light? Wait; didn’t I just quote Jesus saying that we already are? Yes, but he also said that salt can lose its taste, and light can be hidden. In other words, salt and light don’t have a will or an agenda, they just do what they do. We, on the other hand, can be pretty easily tempted to look for ways to draw attention to ourselves, to show what great and holy people we are. Pretty soon – in fact, on Ash Wednesday, coming up – we’re going to hear Jesus talk about that, and it’s pretty much like dumping salt water into flower pots: He’s going to advise us, in his own way, don’t do that. We have to will to be salt and light for the world, and then do so for the benefit of others.

    OK, how? Well, that depends on our own situation, but in general the outline was given in the first reading. For example, Isaiah urged us to share our bread with the hungry. Is it really that simple – just hand out food to hungry people? Maybe; if you’ve ever been to the food pantry, you know there are a lot of hungry people. But remember too that there are all kinds of hunger: Some for food; others, for someone to listen to them; still others, someone to visit them. The same for shelter, clothing, and all the rest; the list goes on and on. It can be overwhelming, which leads to discouragement, so take the advice of St. Teresa of Calcutta: “If you can’t feed a hundred people, then feed just one.”

    In other words, start somewhere. But start; that’s the point. The salt isn’t getting any fresher, the light any brighter, until we put our will, our humility, and our back into it. Then, there is no limit to what salt and light can do; not for our benefit, but, as our Lord said, that others may may see our good deeds and glorify our heavenly Father.

  • Crowd or Disciple?

    Crowd or Disciple?

    The 4th Sunday in Ordinary Time

    Zephaniah 2:3; 3:12-13; 1 Corinthians 1:26-31; Matthew 5:1-12a

    The day finally arrived. After 21 years in school, I made it; the first day of the last class I’d ever have to take. I was excited, but also nervous. I heard this teacher was tough; my friends advised me to wait another year, hoping he’d retire, but I wanted it over with. What was one more tough teacher?

    It took just one class period to rethink that. The first thing this guy did on the first day was hand out the final exam, a series of questions due back in three months. Looking at them made me even more nervous. They didn’t look hard… they looked impossible.

    As always happens, some people dropped. We who decided to stick it out divided up the questions and worked on them. Although I made progress, it became clear that if I was going to give decent answers, I had to go to class and really engage with this teacher.

    That’s where my world lit up. From our first conversation, I could see that psychology wasn’t just a subject to this man; it was his life, his passion, and he wanted us to share it, to love it like he did. In the end, the real importance of giving us those questions was to draw us into conversations with him, to give the benefit of his experience and insight to us, the next generation of psychologists and teachers, so we could better understand and in turn pass on the most important issues in that field to our own future students.

    That is an example of the same purpose our Lord Jesus Christ had when he began his class, the Sermon on the Mount, with his own idea of a final: The beatitudes. Who could blame anyone for finding those hard to understand? We’re blessed to have nothing, to say nothing, and to mourn loved ones? Rejoice when we’re being persecuted? Those don’t seem hard, they seem impossible.

    Of course, they aren’t, but they do require effort. The worst thing we can do is look at them and rule them out as impossible. That’s what St. Paul meant when he mentioned being wise by human standards. No; real wisdom begins with the attitude spoken of by the prophet Zephaniah, the honesty and humility to say, “I don’t understand these,” and the perseverance to say, “But with help, I will.”

    It is virtues like these that set people apart, make them holy. In the first reading we heard about a remnant, a smaller group that emerges from a larger one; people distinguished by their humility and thirst for justice, and rewarded with peace. And we see a shade of it in the gospel, where Matthew begins: When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain, and… his disciples came to him. So, a large group sees Jesus, a smaller group follows him. The difference? The remnant makes an effort to do it. Each of us has to ask, which am I: Crowd or disciple? Am I satisfied simply hearing about him, or am I committed to following him? We only know that by looking inside ourselves. When and where do I already come to him? Are there circumstances where I will not come to him?

    And what does that mean, to come to him? If I ask God questions, will he answer them? Yes! It is said that when we pray, we talk to God; when we read Scripture, God talks to us. The answers may not be clear, we might have to make an effort to understand, but we have centuries’ worth of resources: Notes on every page of the bible, books by such brilliant thinkers as Benedict XVI. In our own parish, we have priests and deacons who have been trained to help you understand where and how God is moving and speaking in your life.

    This is where your world can light up, too. Studying the beatitudes this way leads us to contemplation, where we learn these aren’t just some nice, pious thoughts to live by; they are a portrait of Christ. Poverty of spirit; who is more humble than he who emptied himself and took the form of a slave? Who has mourned more than he, who wept over Jerusalem? Who is meeker or gentler than the Lamb of God, led to slaughter without a word? Who seeks righteousness more than he who looked upon mankind from the cross and said, “I thirst”? Who was ever more merciful than he who said, “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do,” or more pure of heart than he whose heart was pierced for love of us? These are the kind of meditations that bring us closer to the heart of Jesus, and lead us to see that even on that mount of the beatitudes, our Lord had another mountain in mind; the one he had come to climb for the salvation of the world.

    This is just one example. All of Scripture is open to you; God is there, waiting for you to come to him as the disciples did on that mountain, to be drawn into conversation, gain the insight he has in store, so that you can better understand and in turn pass on all that you have learned, so that others may come to know and love him as you do.

  • Lessons from Sickness

    Lessons from Sickness

    Saturday of the 1st Week in Ordinary Time

    Hebrews 4:12-16; Mark 2:13-17

    Like you, I’ve learned over the years that sickness can be a great teacher.

    The first thing sickness has taught me is that you don’t have to feel sick to be sick. I think Matthew would agree. My guess is that he felt just fine sitting at the customs post. It’s hard to say why; as a tax collector, Matthew was among the most notorious sinners. Maybe he had grown used to it. Sin can be that way; we might feel uncomfortable at first, but if we persist in sin we grow used to it, to the point that we are willing to rationalize it rather than see ourselves the way we really are.

    But no ordinary man was passing by that day; it was, as Hebrews said, the One from whom nothing is concealed, and to whom all must render an account. Of course, Matthew knowingly rendered nothing, and the encounter may not have seemed like much: A passing glance and the words, Follow me. But Jesus didn’t need many words, for from him they are sharper than any two-edged sword, able to discern reflections and thoughts of the heart. And they had an effect; as Scripture says, Matthew got up and followed Jesus. We shouldn’t pass too quickly over that, for the word Mark uses to describe Matthew rising from his post is a variation of the word he will use to describe Jesus rising from the dead. Matthew, spiritually as good as dead, experienced a very real kind of resurrection. He had a new lease on life that only God can give.

    That brings me to another thing sickness has taught me: There’s nothing like the joy of knowing that you are healed. Again, I think Matthew would agree. Look at his reaction; if he was worried that people would hold his past against him, or that he was leaving a really well-paying job for an uncertain future, he didn’t show it. All that seemed to matter to him was that he call his friends together and celebrate; share his joy. I think many of us can identify with him. Think of that moment in Confession when you’ve heard those words, “I absolve you…” It can feel like a sixteen-ton weight has been lifted from your shoulders! No wonder he wanted to celebrate. And consider the impact this healing had on him, the gospel that bears his name; the millions of people he has helped bring to Christ, the countless souls whose faith he has helped strengthen.

    Therein lies the lesson. Christ calls us to follow him not only that we may have life ourselves, but that we may give life to others. How do we do that? By using the gifts we’ve been given. Perhaps you are an exceptionally generous or welcoming person, a good teacher or organizer; maybe you’re good at helping people, consoling them, or encouraging them to stay strong in the faith. There are many gifts; I can provide you with lists if you’re interested. Whatever the gift, the important thing is not having it, but sharing it. When you do that, three things happen. First, you give glory to God who gave those gifts to you; second, you strengthen your own faith; third, you experience the joy of watching the faith of others come to life through you.

    That brings me to another thing sickness has taught me: We have to do what we can to stay well. The first thing, one I resisted for years, is making regular trips to the doctor. I know in Matthew’s case the doctor came to him, but remember that Christ comes to us, too; most perfectly here at holy Mass, but no less in any of the Sacraments, even those devoted to healing. So, meet him there. He’s waiting to heal us, we just have to let him. It can be frightening, but don’t let it; as the author of the Letter to the Hebrews reminds us, remember the sympathy and the mercy of Christ. He understands our weakness perfectly; he too has been tested.

    And that’s the final thing sickness has taught me: No one gets better alone. Matthew was called alone, but he didn’t follow alone; there were many disciples. In fact, of all the evangelists, only in Matthew’s gospel does Jesus use the word, church. Thus, as Christ himself established it, our encounter with God must go through other people. This tells us at least two things. First, we need each other. Most particularly, the Church, this parish, these people, need you; they need the gifts that God has given you. And you need them, for they have gifts that make you stronger, too. Second, it tells us what the scribes in the gospel could never understand; that the mercy of God is so powerful that people can be called holy even though they are sinners, and can remain one body even though they are so often bitterly divided. As the old saying goes, the church isn’t a shrine for saints; it’s a hospital for sinners.

    Thank God.

  • Getting Out More Than We Put In

    Getting Out More Than We Put In

    The 7th Day in the Octave of Christmas

    1 John 2:18-21; John 1:1-18

    You don’t have to know the second law of thermodynamics to know that everything put together tends to fall apart. Anyone who has owned a house or car knows very well the time and effort it takes to keep them in good condition. The same is true for our relationships; we tend to get out of them just about what we put in.

    Thank God that isn’t true on the divine side; as John reminded us in today’s gospel, God has put everything into his relationship with us, to the point of taking flesh and dwelling among us. Not only that, as John also said, He pours grace upon grace on us, infinitely; for we never get a part of God, we always get everything.

    So, why is it, in the presence of this infinite grace, that even by the time John wrote his first letter, we are hearing about antichrists and disunity within the nascent Church?

    John gives us a clue to the answer when he says that to those who did accept him he gave power to become children of God (John 1:12). There it is: acceptance. Even infinite grace does no good unless it is accepted; the light of Christ must be chosen. And that is precisely the problem, as Christ himself says later in this same gospel: … this is the verdict, that the light came into the world, but people preferred darkness (John 3:19).

    But wait, we might think, I don’t prefer darkness. I love Christ; aren’t I in the light? This is exactly the question the Evangelist wants us to ask! Perhaps you’ve noticed that John uses terms that sound a lot like a court room: testimony; testify; witness; verdict. That’s because his gospel is a trial; only, Christ is the judge, we are the defendants, and the question before the court is: Do we love him and are we committed to following him?

    We might answer as before: Yes, I love Christ and am committed to following him. But then, God is the judge, commitment is what he says it is, and, as the gospel shows, he sees commitment as total. By entering our world, taking human flesh, lifting it up on the cross, and drawing all people to himself, he showed love and commitment to the death and beyond. Thankfully, our Lord in his infinite mercy knows this is a standard we can never reach, so he doesn’t ask that; he asks only that we accept the truth about him and remain in unity with him.

    That sounds easy, but as John knew in the early Church, it’s not. We know from our own experience, too: It’s far easier to accept what I understand, agree with, or what fits into my existing beliefs. But this attitude betrays a lack of faith; I don’t believe God, I believe myself. The result? What John saw: Lack of commitment, disunity, and discord.

    Let us use this last day of the calendar year to do two things. First, look back and make an honest assessment; ask yourself, “Have I put in the time and effort it takes to have a good, healthy relationship with Almighty God?” In those places where I’m lacking, let me use the example of Christ, who loved as God loves. How do I do that? First, by developing more empathy for people. What are their struggles? What does life look like through their eyes? Second, by being concerned about them. When I ask how they are, do I really mean it? Third, by caring for them. Their life matters to God, so it matters to me. What can I do to help them? Finally, by self-sacrifice; committing to do whatever it is that needs to be done. All these Jesus did; his actions are our model.

    Second, let us look forward and resolve to make sure that our commitment to Christ is total; to remember, as St. Therese once said, “You cannot be half a saint. You must be a whole saint or no saint at all.” While hearing this might tempt us to think that there are saints and then there are the rest of us, nothing could be further from the truth. Salvation for all humankind rests on the fact that God measures us not by our success but by our faithfulness. Commitment does not require perfection, it requires perseverance; therefore, let us ask the Holy Spirit to strengthen our resolve to answer by the witness of our lives the deepest question Christ asks: “Who did you say that I am?”