Mark 10:45

Tag: Discipleship

  • 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

  • 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?”

  • Expect the Unexpected

    Expect the Unexpected

    Friday of the 4th Week of Advent

    Malachi 3:1-4, 23-24; Luke 1:57-66

    Today’s story from St. Luke is like a parable: On the surface, it tells the story of the birth and naming of John the Baptist. But there is a deeper level, which teaches us about the action of God in the lives of his people, including us.

    Like most parables, it works best if we put ourselves into the story. Since Luke gives such a prominent role to the relatives and neighbors of Zechariah and Elizabeth, let’s look at it from their point of view. When we do that, we see some pretty big surprises.

    The first is that Elizabeth was even pregnant. No one seemed to know! Note how Luke is careful of the order: First she gives birth, then the relatives and neighbors hear about the baby. Of course, they rejoice, and we sympathize; we all know how it feels to hear good news of a prayer being answered in the way we hoped – especially such a big way!

    Then comes the surprise that starts an argument. Without asking, the relatives and neighbors assume the baby will have his father’s name. When Elizabeth objects, they get argumentative, almost dismissive, and appeal to Zechariah. When he confirms the name “John,” they give in but are clearly perplexed about this unexpected break with tradition.

    Finally, the biggest surprise: Zechariah is healed. While Luke describes their reaction as “fear,” the implication in the original language is that it has begun to dawn on the friends and relatives that God is behind all this.

    It is this realization that brings us to the deeper meanings of the story. I see at least three.

    First, God works in unexpected ways. A woman beyond childbearing age, bearing a child; the obvious name for the baby not chosen; his father, after confirming the name, suddenly able to hear and speak again. All unexpected, but at the same time, not surprising. As we see throughout Scripture, God works in ways we don’t expect and through those who appear least likely. The lesson is clear: God has a plan in need of no revision, chooses who he wills to accomplish it, and provides the grace necessary. All he asks is that we do our part. So, the question is: Do I submit my will totally to God and his plan for me, no matter how difficult or humbling, and do I ask for the grace to do it?

    Second, if divine revelation seems sudden, that’s because we haven’t been paying close attention. Scripture tells us time and again that God is always close, always active, and intimately involved in every aspect of our existence. The problem is, as the relatives and neighbors demonstrate, we tend to drift into uninvolvement. They didn’t even know that Elizabeth was pregnant, let alone that she had the baby. Why? Perhaps for the same reason that we lose touch with people: Neglect, either intentional or unintentional. Again, we need to ask ourselves: Have we allowed relationships to drift, carried grudges and allowed them to persist, or wait for others to make the first move?

    Then there is the story’s most important lesson: That everything in life, expected or not, points to Christ. This is summarized most perfectly in John’s own name, chosen for him by the Holy Spirit, for “John” means, “God is gracious.” To John, Christ Jesus, the source of all grace, was everything. He knew, as St. Therese of Lisieux once said, that “everything is a grace, everything is the direct effect of our Father’s love – difficulties, contradictions, humiliations, all the soul’s miseries, her burdens, her needs – everything, because through them, she learns humility, realizes her weakness. Everything is a grace because everything is God’s gift. Whatever be the character of life or its unexpected events – to the heart that loves, all is well.”

  • Read the Label

    Read the Label

    Saturday of the 2nd Week of Advent

    Sirach48:1-4, 9-11; Luke 3:6; Matthew 17:9a, 10-13

    I came across a product I needed at the store and grabbed it. I paid no attention to the label, but when I got home, wondered how I missed it. It was large, bright red, and warned in bold letters: “Failure! This product is only effective if you read the instructions thoroughly. Failure to do so will result in you moaning and groaning that the product doesn’t work and generally being a pain in the bottom. Make a positive change in your life will you, and read the instructions.” The thing is, I didn’t read them. I started using the product, complained to myself that it wasn’t working right, then realized: Oh yeah… the LABEL. Reading the instructions fixed the problem.

    If our Lord was the product, John the Baptist was certainly the big, red label. How could you miss him? Wearing camel hair, baptizing, preaching, eating locusts… not the kind of man you’re going to miss. As we know, they didn’t; to the contrary, people went out in droves. Yet, our Lord refers to John as Elijah who had come but was not recognized (Matthew 17:12). How could a prophet who was so clearly seen and heard go unrecognized, and what does that tell us about ourselves? A couple of things, I think.

    For one thing, it says that appearances matter; maybe too much for our own good. Like I did with the label, people may have focused on John’s appearance rather than his message; were amused, offended, or entertained, where they were supposed to be challenged and enlightened. Or, perhaps John didn’t conform to their expectations of what a prophet should look like. The last anyone had seen him, Elijah was riding a fiery chariot to heaven (Sirach 48:9). John, standing in the river, baptizing, preaching, and snacking on locusts – this was how the awesome prophet Elijah returned?

    It’s not all that different in our own time. We sometimes judge our liturgies – their words or music – by how much they divert or entertain us, rather than how much they challenge us or help us to contemplate the divine mysteries. We also tend to ignore or discount anyone or anything that doesn’t fit our preconceived notions about what divine revelation is “supposed” to look like. We do well to remember that God often reveals himself in ways we least expect. Consider: Was it the earthquake, fire, or strong, driving wind that spoke to Elijah, or the still, small voice? Was it the son of Herod or the Son of Mary who opened the gates of Heaven?

    A second problem happens when we get the message but find it hard to accept. Herod is a good example. Scripture says that John both intrigued and troubled him (Mark 6:20); the truth drew him in, but it also made him look at himself in a way he didn’t want to. In the end, his pride won out; it was easier to silence the voice than to heed it. Again, are we all that different? The truths of Scripture and the teachings of the Church speak to us, but they can also cut right to the heart and make us very uncomfortable. It’s tempting to want to take those truths and, like Herod with John, do to them whatever we please.

    Therein lies the real problem, as Jesus points out in the gospel: What we do to the prophets, we do to him. It is true, as the acclamation said, that all flesh shall see the salvation of God (Luke 3:6), but it is also true that seeing and recognizing are two very different things. Every time we see revelation only where and how we want to see it, we limit the ability of the Holy Spirit to work within us, for it is He who helps us recognize the truth about God and ourselves. That is the ultimate failure. Eternal life is the product, God has written the way to it through his Church, and prophets like John the Baptist are the label, telling us as loudly and as clearly as they can: Make a positive change in your life, will you, and read the instructions.

  • Small Matters Matter

    Small Matters Matter

    Saturday of the 31st Week in Ordinary Time

    Philippians 4:10-19; Luke 16:9-15

    Of all the people St. Paul dealt with over the years, the Christians at Philippi were among the most dear to him. As we look at the letter he wrote to them, we understand why; they took care of him, did things to let him know how much they appreciated him.

    What kind of things? First, they prayed for him. This meant so much to St. Paul that he began his letter by thanking them for it. He knew its power, and was grateful for every prayer he could get. Second, they visited him. He referred to one man by name who came to see him, Epaphroditus. Third, they sent him whatever financial gifts they could, not just once but repeatedly (4:16), in part to try and relieve his suffering in prison. In their great love for him, the Philippians probably looked at all these things as small matters, regardless how difficult. That we cannot know. What we do know is that they were trustworthy, and that made them great matters to St. Paul.

    It makes them great to God as well. We heard Jesus speak of such trustworthiness in the gospel. Twice he said it: If we can’t be trusted with very small matters, then we can’t be trusted with greater. In other words, small matters matter.

    Take prayer, for example. Saying a prayer for someone may seem like a small matter. It isn’t small to God; he is constantly exhorting us to pray. It isn’t small to the one asking for the prayers, either; to them, it’s one of the greatest things we can do. Maybe they’re having surgery, or their child is sick, or they’ve lost their job and can’t find another. Whatever the reason, taking a moment to lift them up in prayer isn’t much to ask, but its effects are life-changing.

    As you are very well aware, it’s no small matter to do what Epaphroditus did – visit someone in prison. If that’s not for you, remember that there are all kinds prisons. Think of the people in nursing homes, hospitals, or confined to their home due to illness. How much it would mean to them to see your face and receive Holy Communion! There are also people who need someone to talk to, someone who will listen, like the Philippians did when they shared in St. Paul’s distress (4:14). These kinds of outreach are a small matter in terms of time, but what greater thing is there than to bring Christ, or be Christ, to those who otherwise would go without?

    As for charity, we may not have much more money to give, but remember the dishonest steward we heard about yesterday. Jesus didn’t commend the steward because he was honest; he commended him because he was bright and used his wits to secure his future. God asks us to do the same. If charity doesn’t mean more money, then we have to use our ingenuity and find other ways to give. Consider, for example, the corporal works of mercy. We already mentioned visiting the sick and those in prison, but there is feeding the hungry; that could be anything from actually making meals to helping at a food pantry. Giving drink to the thirsty could be donating bottled water to family shelters or conserving water in our home; sheltering the homeless, anything from making warm blankets for shelters to actually opening your home to provide shelter; and burying the dead, anything from praying for those who have died to being a compassionate listener in the bereavement ministry.

    Whatever ways you find to give, remember these three things:

    1. God is asking us to put our minds to work, then find ways to put ourselves behind it;
    2. God is not asking for great things, but for little things done with great love; and
    3. Even though we already give, sometimes it seems to the breaking point, we have St. Paul’s words to the Philippians, I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me (Philippians 4:13).