Mark 10:45

Tag: inspiration

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • The Great Reversal

    The Great Reversal

    Saturday of the 30th Week in Ordinary Time

    Philippians 1:18b-26; Luke 14:1, 7-11

    The famous evangelist Billy Graham dreamed that he died and went to Heaven. As he was escorted in, saints and angels cheered, congratulated him, and said to each other, “At last! Here he is! Here he is!” When our Lord greeted him, He said, “Yes, here he is, the man we have all been waiting for: Ruth Graham’s husband!”

    Beyond the humor, Graham was touching on a theme that runs throughout the gospel of Luke. Theologians call it, “the Great Reversal.” We hear it in verses like, He has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty-handed (Luke 1:53); Blessed are you who are poor… woe to you who are rich (Luke 6:20,24); (Lazarus) is comforted here, whereas you are tormented (Luke 16:25); and today’s: everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted (Luke 14:11).

    If this sounds less like reversal and more like divine justice, it’s for good reason. There is an element of justice to it. In his merciful love, God gives abundantly to those who have been denied, and will deny those who, of their own free will, have refused to show that same kind of love and mercy to others.

    But there is more to it. The Great Reversal isn’t a reversal of fortunes, it’s a reversal of expectations. In his dream, Billy Graham ended up in heaven, just not for the reason he expected. Like him, we are tempted to look at “everything we’ve done for God” and, perhaps even unconsciously, expect something in return. Of course, the fact is that God owes us nothing, whereas we owe Him a debt we can never repay. The lesson is that, if we have any real expectation or hope at all, it should be the one St. Paul spoke of: thatChrist will be magnified in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me life is Christ, and death is gain (Philippians 1:20).

    We can’t get to that point without being like Christ, we can’t be like Christ without humility, and we don’t have humility until we take an honest look at the gifts we’ve been given, remember who gave them to us, and ask ourselves what we’re doing with them. What gifts? Well, think about riches. If we’re not rich in money, then what about time, talent, or knowledge? Whatever it is, Jesus wants us to ask ourselves, “Do I thank God for it?” and “What would the world look like if I gave some of it away?” Again, think of St. Paul. Rich in love for Christ, he wanted only to be with him; as we heard, he was ready to die to do it. Nevertheless, he saw the need to serve the Church, to preach the gospel and encourage her members in the faith. In his humility, he let his guiding concern be not how he could satisfy himself, but how he could be of benefit to others.

    Humility is a demanding gift, but a great one for that reason. It’s asking a lot to be given the riches of life but not become attached to them, to take pride in ourselves and our abilities without becoming proud, and to give all we can purely out of love for God, expecting nothing in return. But as we try more and more, we see more and more the reversal taking place in ourselves; that true poverty is having gifts but not sharing them, true torment is refusing the consolation of Truth, and that true pride is expecting God to honor us for whatever we’ve done.

    The irony is that God does honor us; indeed, He is never outdone in generosity. We are invited guests to the greatest wedding banquet ever prepared – the feast of Christ’s Body and Blood. All we need bring with us is the hope and eager expectation of hearing him say to us when we come to his table, ‘My friend, move up to a higher position’ (Luke 14:10).

  • God Moments

    God Moments

    Memorial of St. Thérèse of the Child Jesus, Virgin and Doctor of the Church

    Job 42:1-3, 5-6, 12-17; Luke 10:17-24

    The leader of a small group I once belonged to began each meeting by asking us, “Did you have any ‘God moments’ this week? What did you learn? How did they help you?” I never responded, although his questions did get me to reflect on times when I saw or felt God working in my life.

    If Job or the Apostles attended that small group this week, they would’ve had a lot to say. Job had just encountered God in a very profound way, and the Apostles actually witnessed God healing people through them. But today, on the Feast of St. Thérèse, let us share one of her ‘God moments.’ It was this moment that she said changed her life.

    She was 12, going on 13, when she overheard an innocent but dismissive remark made about her by her tired and irritated father. Although it hurt at first, it caused Thérèse to look at herself and see that for years she had behaved like a spoiled, self-centered child. At the same time, she realized that her father, in imitation of the infinite love of God, had always looked beyond that; to him, she was a beautiful person capable of deep and authentic love.

    This God moment, which Thérèse called “grace emerging from childhood,” was not far from the experience of Job and the Apostles in the readings. In fact, I think all ‘God moments’ share these three aspects: A call by God, a response of repentance and amendment, and the blessings of growth in holiness.

    First, the call. To Job, it might have sounded more like a “wake-up” call. Just moments earlier, God had sternly reminded him who is God and who is not. In the gospel, it was the gentle rebuke of Jesus, reminding the Apostles not to rejoice that evil was conquered, but that their names were written in heaven. For Thérèse, it was her father’s remark, hinting at her self-centeredness. For us, it could be many things: a Scripture verse; a thought from a book we’re reading or talk we heard; something said to us by a friend or relative; a whisper of the Holy Spirit.

    Whatever it is, the call awakens us to the fact that we need to make a change and stick to it. This takes plenty of humility and perseverance. Job had it; he disowned what he said and repented in dust and ashes (Job 42:6). The Apostles had it, too; after receiving the Holy Spirit, they rejoiced that they had been found worthy to suffer dishonor for the sake of the name (Acts 5:41). So did Thérèse; she faced the fact that her father was right, and changed her behavior. That leaves us with the challenge: What is God calling us to own up to and commit to change, and will we do it?

    We all know how hard that is, but the readings show us that good things await those who try. After his repentance, Job was blessed far more than before (Job 42:12); long after the Apostles fled from the Passion, God poured out the Spirit upon them and set them over the whole Church (Matthew 19:28; Acts 4:34-35; 16:4). Thérèse also bears witness; she left her life as a spoiled brat to became one of the greatest saints in recent memory.

    Now we can see how God moments help us. Through them, we come face to face with the deepest parts of ourselves; not just our limitations but also our potential. They are opportunities for conversion, a chance to return, to begin again, to grow more deeply in virtue. They are reminders not just that God is present and acting in the world, but that He acts in us and through us; we are a part of His plan. What an awesome thought, that there are things only we can do, and that God has given us the grace we need to do them! Above all, they are signs of God’s infinite and merciful love for us. As St. Thérèse showed so well, God measures us not by the greatness of our deeds, but by the love with which we do them.

    St. Thérèse, pray for us.