Mark 10:45

Tag: Scriptural Reflection

  • The Heart of the Matter

    The Heart of the Matter

    Saturday of the 3rd Week of Lent

    Hosea 6:1-6; Luke 18:9-14

    When we hear the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector, we are rightly drawn to the differences between them. However, I think time is well spent thinking not only about the differences but also the similarities, and what both have to teach us about ourselves and our prayer life, which is the reason Jesus taught this parable to begin with.

    The fact is, the two men have some important things in common. First, they’re both truthful. The Pharisee is telling the truth when he says he isn’t greedy, dishonest, or adulterous; so is the tax collector when he calls himself a sinner. Second, their actions are pious. The Pharisee tithes and fasts, while the tax collector stands at a distance, keeps his eyes lowered, and beats his breast as he prays. Third, both are men of deep conviction; they speak to God straight from the heart.

    Speaking to God from the heart is key, for Scripture teaches us that prayer is a work of the heart. The heart is where we live, our inner Temple, the place to which we withdraw (CCC 2563). At the same time, it is the place God knows best; he looks at the heart and knows its secrets (1 Samuel 16:7; Psalm 44:21). If we are righteous in God’s eyes, our prayers are fruitful (James 5:16); if not, our prayers are in vain (CCC 2562).

    This brings us back to the Pharisee. Although he seems to be speaking to God, his words betray a heart turned inward. Our Lord may be hinting as much when he says the man spoke this prayer to himself (18:11), but even if not, one thing is clear: God is the audience of his prayer, not the object. It’s tempting to think that we never do this, but my guess is that in the quiet of our own inner Temple, we can all recall times when we’ve focused a little too much on ourselves, have resisted what God is asking, acted as if the good things we’ve done we did on our own, or that in some way God likes us just a little bit more than he does some other people – especially people we don’t like.

    That’s the real problem. The Pharisee is right to say that he is not like the rest of humanity, but wrong because he’s comparing his behavior with what other people do, not with what God expects. The same is true for us; our standard is not other people, it is Christ. Given that, we can understand why God would say through Hosea, Your piety is like a morning cloud, like the dew that early passes away (6:5). Fasting, tithing, coming to the Temple: All are false piety if they don’t come from a truly humble heart.

    Humility, the foundation of all prayer, helps us to recognize our dependence on God and to appreciate our place in His plan. It is the virtuous balance between the extremes of pride on the one side and self-abjection on the other, which happens when we fail to recognize and use the gifts God has given us.

    As our Lord pointed out, humility was the great virtue of the tax collector. We know it from his posture and his words: Be merciful to me a sinner. What we do not know is what happened next. Did he live that humility out in his daily life by doing what the Baptist advised, Stop collecting more than what is prescribed (John 3:13)? While we must not push the parable beyond its limits, we must remember that humility not only orients us to God, but to each other as well. As with the Pharisee, it’s tempting think that we already live humbly in the world, but we must ask ourselves: Do we ever dwell on other peoples’ faults, gossip about them, seek their admiration, or return insult for insult?

    Like the Pharisee, this is the problem. True humility urges us to remember that God’s loving plan extends to all of humanity. We cannot live equitably with other people unless we treat them like equals, and we certainly cannot pray, no matter how humbly, “O God, be merciful to me a sinner,” if we refuse to be merciful to those who sin against us.

    Through the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector, our Lord teaches us two lessons about prayer: First, the foundation of prayer is not our honesty, piety, or sincerity, but a contrite and humbled heart (Psalm 51:19). Second, the fruit of righteous prayer is a life of virtue most perfectly found in the life of Jesus, who took the form of a slave, humbled himself, becoming obedient to death, even death on a cross (Philippians 2:7-9). Indeed, no man so humbled was ever so greatly exalted.

  • Being Who We Were Made to Be

    Being Who We Were Made to Be

    Solemnity of St. Joseph, husband of the Blessed Virgin Mary

    Matthew 1:16, 18-21, 24a

    A theologian once said that “great occasions do not make heroes or cowards; they simply unveil them to our eyes. Silently and imperceptibly, as we wake or sleep, we grow strong or weak; and at last some crisis shows what we have become.”1 When I read that, I wondered if he was thinking of St. Joseph. It fits him so beautifully.

    Joseph was certainly not a man accustomed to great occasions. The ordinary ones were enough: Learn a trade, get married, bring up a family. By the time we meet him in Matthew’s gospel, Joseph had already checked two of those boxes. It was the third that brought about the crisis.

    We know the basic story well: Learning that Mary is pregnant and unwilling to expose her to shame, Joseph intends to divorce her quietly. What we may not know are a couple of details. First, in that time and culture, “expose her to shame” meant the legal right to “make a show” or public mockery of her. That Joseph would not do this speaks of his love for Mary and sensitivity toward her. This brings us to the second point: his intention to divorce her quietly. Where we read “intention,” Matthew’s original word implies a decision made in angst, in the heat of a deep and inner passion. It might even go so far as to mean that Joseph was tempted to feelings of anger, shame, or indignation.

    Who can blame him? How would we feel? Joseph had plans for his life and had worked, maybe even suffered, to achieve them. Now, on the verge of actually realizing them, he found his plans shattered to pieces. Even more, Joseph loved Mary; he knew that divorce meant disgrace for her and the child, not to mention very dim prospects for their future. This was the heart of the crisis. He had to make a decision, to do something, but what could he do? Mary was pregnant, he was not the father, and the law was clear. His decision for a quiet divorce was the best he could think of. Even if it meant pain or distress for the woman he loved so much, the law came from God, who Joseph loved above all.

    This I think is the key. Remember the theologian’s words: “Silently and imperceptibly, as we wake or sleep, we grow strong or weak.” Joseph came to this crisis with a strong moral center; born into the faith of his fathers, he was raised in it, steeped in it, and guided by it. He wasn’t going to abandon it now or ever. No matter the cost to his own or to anyone’s honor, Joseph would honor his heavenly Father first.

    In its section on the 4th commandment, the Catechism lists two qualities of a respectful child: docility and obedience. As they apply to our role as children of God, docility is our readiness to follow God’s will rather than our own, and obedience is our willingness to do whatever God asks of us.

    Joseph had both of these gifts in abundance, and in time God would ask him to use them to their fullest measure. For now, though, what He asked was more than enough: First, that Joseph set aside his plan of being husband of Mary of Nazareth and instead be the husband of Mary, the Mother of God; second, that he set aside any plan he might have of raising his own children and instead raise the Son of God as his own.

    This is a lot to ask, but as we know, God is never outdone in generosity. In return for all Joseph was willing to do, God bestowed many honors on him: Joseph, called ‘son of David’ by God himself, would see the Son of God; Joseph, whose family line had held the God’s promise in their hearts for so long was now chosen to hold His fulfillment in his arms; and he, Joseph, was now the only one ever asked to give that Promise a name: Jesus, or “God Saves.” Ultimately, Joseph would be honored as the greatest saint of all time next to Mary, for as Blessed William Chaminade has reminded us, “To give life to someone is the greatest of all gifts. To save a life is the next. Who gave life to Jesus? It was Mary. Who saved his life? It was Joseph.”

    Let us pray that we become like St. Joseph; that every day, in the silence he modeled so well, we too grow stronger in our love for God, our faith in him, and our willingness to do whatever He asks. Then, like St. Joseph, when our own crises come, as they always do, we too can show God exactly what Joseph showed Him: The person He has called us from all eternity to be.

    St. Joseph, pray for us.

    1 The 19th-century Anglican bishop and theologian, Brooke Foss Westcott.

  • To See and Understand

    To See and Understand

    Saturday of the 6th Week in Ordinary Time

    Mark 9:2-13

    As we read the gospel of Mark, we might catch ourselves wondering about the Apostles. They never seem to get it! No matter what they see Jesus do – healing after healing, miracle after miracle – they end up asking the same question: “Who is this?”

    Although Mark probably intended us to wonder, and for good reason, we shouldn’t take it too far. We have the benefit of hindsight, not to mention an evangelist who tells us everything we need to know in his first line: the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God (Mark 1:1). The Apostles had to figure it out as it was happening. They did have some success; Mark tells us that Peter recognized Jesus as the Messiah (8:29). However, he also says that they didn’t understand the cross (8:32; 9:32; 10:35ff). That’s probably because they pictured the Messiah as the son of David, not the Son of God; a conquering king, not a suffering servant; someone who would free them from emperors and tyrants, not from sin and death.

    So, the question really isn’t why the Apostles never got it. They did, as Mark well knew, especially if his gospel came from Peter himself. The question is what moved a man like Peter to go from a terrified disciple asking if he should set up tents on a mountain to a faithful shepherd of the Church who, nearing his martyrdom, wrote with such conviction of that same unforgettable, mystical experience (2 Peter 1:16-18).

    I think the answer lies in the gifts given to him by the Holy Spirit, particularly the gift of understanding. It has been called a “penetrating” or “permanent” intuition of divine truth,1 and it certainly was for St. Peter; who could intuit any truth greater than Jesus, who is the way, the truth, and the life? Indeed, given his experience – seeing Moses, Elijah, and the glorified Christ, and hearing the voice of the Father – Peter must have devoted many hours to contemplating what the Transfiguration of our Lord meant for him and for the Church.

    So should we, for the gift of understanding is given to us, too. It works in many ways. First, it helps us find the hidden meanings of Scripture. Certainly it was used by the Apostles and Fathers of the Church as they read and discovered the many Old Testament references to Christ. The pages of our bibles have much of the fruits of their labor. I urge you to find the notes and footnotes for today’s gospel passage (two are Exodus and 1 Kings) and see how they inform and enrich your understanding of the Transfiguration. Second, the gift of understanding helps us see the relationships between symbols and what they point to. One example is the cloud that surrounded the Apostles on the mountain; that is a symbol of the Lord’s presence, just as it was in the time of Moses. Third, the gift of understanding shows us how God works in our own lives. Think of your own “mountaintop” experiences or consolations; the times during Mass or other prayer when you felt especially close to God, or moved by his presence and power. Finally, the gift of understanding strengthens our appreciation for the Sacraments. For example, when the bread and wine are consecrated, we are led to a deeper, more profound awareness of Jesus Christ, most truly present. It is as St. Thomas Aquinas once said: “When the eye of the spirit is purified by the gift of understanding, one can in a certain way see God.”

    Let us pray today and every day for an increase in the gift of understanding, that we may more and more clearly see the face of God in Scripture, the Church, the Sacraments, and perhaps most especially in our own lives.

    1 Aumann, Fr. Jordan, OP. The Gift of Understanding. Available online at http://www.domcentral.org/study/aumann/st/st10.htm#tgou.

    https://catholicstraightanswers.com/gifts-understanding-wisdom/

  • Don’t Mess with Perfection: Saturday of the 5th Week in Ordinary Time

    Don’t Mess with Perfection: Saturday of the 5th Week in Ordinary Time

    1 Kings 12:26-32; 13:33-34; Matthew 4:4; Mark 8:1-10

    In the first reading we hear of Jeroboam, the first in a series of problematic kings, and the huge changes he made in the way the people of Israel worshipped. We’ll get to the reason why but it’s important to note that this tendency to mess with perfection isn’t limited to him. We have only to go back to the time just after the Second Vatican Council to see something very similar. I’ll mention just a few things I myself witnessed.

    First, the music changed. That’s no big deal in and of itself; music always changes. But the words changed, and words matter. For example, now we sang about eating “bread” and drinking “wine” at Communion. This was followed in my parish by a nun wearing an alb, assisting the priest at Mass, and preaching what sounded like homilies. Next, the words of the readings began to change. I remember going up to the ambo and seeing that, throughout the lectionary, words were crossed out and others pencilled in. Awhile later, I moved to a new parish that had been remodeled so that the Tabernacle was moved to another room, the altar was where the pews used to be, and the pews were replaced by chairs. No kneeling. Finally came the Sacraments. Baptisms were “in the name of the Creator, the Redeemer, and the Sanctifier.” At Confession, the priest said to me, “Jesus absolves you of your sins.” The worst cut of all came on a road trip to the parish of an old personal friend, a priest. At Mass he changed the words of consecration. Even with what little education I had at the time, I knew you couldn’t just do that.

    Too often, religious changes are made for political reasons. The book of 1 Kings is clear: Jeroboam wasn’t concerned at all about the hearts of the people, only what losing them meant for him. Similarly, in the local Church, those making changes to the Mass and Sacraments saw an opportunity to express their ideologies or advance political agendas.

    Of course, that isn’t what religion is all about. As our faith teaches us, religion is an exercise of the virtue of justice; through it, we try to give God what we owe him, which is everything. If we make it about what we think is important rather than what God knows is important, then we risk reaping the rewards of Jeroboam’s pride and arrogance: Alienating God and losing the hearts of his people. That is why St. John Paul II and Benedict XVI went to such great lengths to speak about liturgical reform; they wanted us to remember that the Sacraments belong to Jesus Christ. Treating them as if they are our own personal property results only in confusion, disunity and spiritual hunger.

    This is the same kind of hunger so obviously felt by the people flocking around our Lord in the gospel reading. Mark tells us that they had chosen to be with him for three days (8:2), even at the expense of not eating. He rewards their bodily and spiritual hunger by giving them a foretaste of the Holy Mass; having already fed them with the word that comes forth from the mouth of God (Matthew 4:4), he then took the seven loaves, gave thanks, broke them, and gave them to his disciples to distribute (8:6). Mark concludes by telling us everything we need to know: They ate and were satisfied (8:8).

    The lesson is clear: Don’t mess with perfection. Every time we approach our Lord with a humble, contrite heart that asks him only to remember us, he answers by giving us perfectly, in word and Sacrament, everything we need to be with him for eternity.

    Who would want to change that?

  • Heat and Light: Feast of the Presentation of the Lord

    Malachi 3:1-4; Hebrews 2:14-18; Luke 2:22-40

    Today, 40 days after Christmas, is by tradition the day the Church sets aside to bless the candles she will use throughout the year. Their flame reminds us of God the Father, who said, Let there be light (Genesis 1:3), God the Son, who said, I am the Light of the World (John 8:12), and God the Holy Spirit, who appeared as tongues of fire (Acts 2:3). It’s no coincidence that the two key components of fire – heat and light – are mentioned in our readings.

    First, heat. We heard Malachi prophesy: But who will endure the day of his coming? And who can stand when he appears? For he is like the refiner’s fire (3:2). Hearing this took me back many years to when I was a printer and worked on a machine that used molten metal to set the type. After printing, we would drop the type into a pot of hot, liquefied metal. As it melted and the ink burned off, we would collect and discard the “dross,” or impurities floating in it, then skim off the film covering its surface. Only when we could look into that pot and see our own reflection did we know that the metal was ready.

    The prophet used fire in a similar way to remind us that, although we are made in the image and likeness of God, sin works like those impurities; it keeps God from seeing his reflection in us. We may well dread the pain of that divine burn but we need it, for his is the fire that heals; we need that purification to become what we most want: a mirror of God to the world. This is why St. Peter says, In this you rejoice, although now for a little while you may have to suffer through various trials, so that the genuineness of your faith, more precious than gold that is perishable even though tested by fire, may prove to be for praise, glory, and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ (1 Peter 1:6-7).

    This brings us to the second aspect of fire: Light; specifically, Christ, who Simeon calls a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and glory for your people Israel (Luke 2:32). It’s no coincidence that during these darkest days of the year, mother Church has established a Feast to worship Christ the light of nations, who came to open the eyes of the blind, to bring out prisoners from confinement, and from the dungeon, those who live in darkness (Isaiah 42:6-7).

    This is the blindness, the prison, the darkness of sin. From your own experience, think how easy it is for us to get used to the dark; after awhile, our vision adjusts and we learn to make our way around. The longer we remain there, the more comfortable we become with it and the more jarring, painful even, it is to find ourselves thrust suddenly into the light. Yet that is exactly how the prophet Malachi said that Christ would come to the temple: suddenly (Malachi 3:1).

    No wonder Simeon calls Jesus a sign that will be contradicted, or “spoken against.” It happens to this day, for each one of us is a walking contradiction. We ask God to come and free us from our sins, then hesitate when he does. Why? Hebrews provided us a clue when it said that Christ came to free those who through fear of death had been subject to slavery all their life (2:15). We are afraid to admit it but we’ve grown comfortable in our sins. Asking God for freedom is one thing; actually having to die to ourselves to get it is another. Yet, that is the price. Embracing Christ means embracing the cross; there is no life in him without dying to ourselves. The thought of leaving the darkness to live in the light that tests us and shows us who we really are, can be frightening.

    But the author of Hebrews doesn’t leave it there; he assures us that we have a merciful and faithful high priest… tested through what he suffered… who is able to help those who are being tested (Hebrews 2:17-18). This is the infinite love and mercy of Christ, who invites us to see him not as an avenging angel breathing a fire that consumes and destroys but as the God-man who bears the fire that heals and recreates. Yes, there is pain in the heat and the light for they melt the chains of sin and show us who we are but also great joy, for they liberate and show us who we are created to be. And, we do not walk alone; Christ is the light that walks right beside us.

    This is the heart of what we celebrate today; that the light of Christ carries something the darkness never can: The hope of new life to come – our own presentation – when our Lord brings us with him to the heavenly temple and presents us to his Father and ours. Forever.

  • Is the King Glad? Saturday of the 1st Week in Ordinary Time

    Is the King Glad? Saturday of the 1st Week in Ordinary Time

    1 Samuel 9:1-4; 17-19; 10:1; Psalm 21:2; Mark 2:13-17


    Guided and inspired by the Holy Spirit, the Church takes great care to choose readings for each day that highlight certain themes, most often represented by the psalm that comes between them. Today we hear a wonderful case in point, Psalm 21. On a purely human level, this is a joyful song of praise that God has endowed authority on an earthly king. On a divine level and as a messianic psalm it speaks of Christ, who indeed is glad and rejoices in the full authority given him by the Father. With good reason we repeat the second verse: Lord, in your strength the king is glad. But that doesn’t answer how the readings highlight that theme. As we will see, they do so in very different ways.


    As the story of Saul begins, it’s hard to know what he would have been glad about. It must have come as such a surprise! One minute he’s out looking for his father’s animals; the next, he is anointed as the first king of Israel. But although we can’t tell his mindset in the beginning, as the story unfolds it becomes clear: This king isn’t glad in the Lord at all. To the contrary, he has little regard for God’s authority; he has his own ideas and doesn’t want anyone, even God, to correct him. Worse, despite Samuel’s warnings, Saul never sees the problem; he remains blind to his own arrogance and self-exaltation until everything ends for him in complete disaster.


    By contrast, the story of Matthew doesn’t end with disaster but it does begin that way. Like Saul, Matthew is a man going about his business; unlike Saul, his business was what most Jews would have called a complete disaster: the customs post. Such men were among the worst of sinners; quislings who took money from their own people, gave it to their conquerors, and even kept some for themselves. Yet this is the kind of darkness where the light of Christ most brightly shines; passing by, the Divine Physician diagnoses Matthew, and in two words prescribes the remedy: Follow me.


    As with Saul, we have no idea what went through Matthew’s mind at that moment, but as always Mark invites us to put ourselves in the scene and contemplate. What would we do? Would we have doubts, fears, or misgivings? Did Matthew? Perhaps. All we know is what Matthew actually did, and here Mark couldn’t be clearer: He got up and followed Jesus. Again, this is only the beginning; the story unfolds in the fullness of time. Mark tells us that Jesus went to his house, ate with him and his friends, and told others that he came to call sinners. Though Mark then goes silent about it, that doesn’t mean we know nothing. We know that Matthew was glad in the strength of the Lord who called him out of his sinful life and offered him another, so glad that he followed Christ to the end and to the point that a gospel account would bear his name for all time.


    Two men, two calls, two responses, two completely different endings, yet the same theme: Lord, in your strength the king is glad. How does this apply to us? In two ways:


    First, we must understand that we, the baptized, are kings. At our baptism we were anointed kings and called as Christ was called – not to be served but to serve (Mark 10:45). And if we are kings, then we are glad in the strength of the Lord from the moment we decide to be a king less like Saul and more like Matthew; when we see every day as a call to live not on our own strength but on God’s, for it is he and he alone who points the way, who leads the way, who makes a way, and who is the way.


    Second, we must remember that good intentions aren’t enough; actions are required. How we act will depend on the gifts God has given us and the circumstances we find ourselves in. Whatever they are, the time is now and we will not be – we cannot be – glad in the Lord’s strength until we take what the Father has given us and, through the power and gifts of the Holy Spirit, put it at the service of the kingdom he gave us through his Son.

  • Of Prophets and Prophecy: The 6th Day of Christmas

    Of Prophets and Prophecy: The 6th Day of Christmas

    1 John 2:12-17; Luke 2:36-40

    When we hear the word “prophet,” we may think of men like Isaiah, Jeremiah, or Ezekiel, and “prophecy” as the word of God given to them concerning things that would happen in times to come. If so, Anna in today’s gospel is a good reminder that we have more thinking to do.

    First, she reminds us that prophets aren’t always men. Indeed, Anna is the first woman referred to in the New Testament as a prophet, but other women follow, namely Philip’s daughters (Acts 21:9) and the women of Acts 2:17-18 and 1 Corinthians 11:4-5. What’s more, she follows in the line of Old Testament prophetesses: Miriam, the sister of Moses and Aaron, Deborah, Huldah, and the mysterious woman in Isaiah (8:3), to name a few.

    These prophetesses, Anna included, also remind us that prophecy isn’t limited to oracles of future events. Miriam is noted for leading a beautiful song of thanksgiving for God’s deliverance of his people (Exodus 15:20), Deborah as one of the great Judges of Israel (Judges 4:4), and Huldah as the wise counselor who king Josiah relied on (2 Kings 22:14-20). Similarly, Anna speaks not of the future but of the here and now, giving thanks and proclaiming God’s long-awaited redemption.

    The Jewish scholar Abraham Heschel once said that the greatness of a prophet “lies not only in the ideas he expressed, but also in the moments he experienced. The prophet is a witness, and his words a testimony – to God’s power, to His justice and mercy.”1 What more sublime moment could any prophet experience than Anna’s encounter with the infant Christ? She, in whom the word of God remained (1 John 2:14) now gazed upon that Living Word; she who had long ago forsaken the world for love of the Father (1 John 2:15) now looked on Him who would offer the world His infinite love and mercy; and she who night and day devoted herself to the will of God (1 John 2:17) now adored Him who would see that same will done, to the Cross and far beyond.

    We don’t have Anna’s words; Luke says only that she gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to all who were awaiting the redemption of Jerusalem (2:38). But this is all we need to know, for as Heschel also said, “In speaking, the prophet reveals God. This is the marvel of the prophet’s work; in his words, the invisible God becomes audible. He does not prove or argue. The thought he has to convey is more than language can contain. Divine power bursts in the words.”2 Whatever Anna said on that glorious day in the Temple or any day thereafter, divine power burst from her words; nothing she said could contain the God-Man revealed to her. Still, her job was not to prove or argue; it was to reveal God to those who had not seen; to make Him audible and by so doing reach their hearts with His, in hopes of making them burn as hers surely must have.

    This is our task as well. By our baptism we too are anointed priest, prophet, and king and by His gift of the Holy Eucharist we have him here with us as surely as Anna did in the Temple. So, let us do as she did: Old or young, widowed or not, at every Mass let us come forward, receive him, give thanks to him, and then speak about him to all. Even after two thousand years, we have no better words than Anna did; nevertheless, we have all we need. We too have the testimony of our lives. We must make them speak.

    St. Anna the Prophetess, pray for us.

    1Abraham J. Heschel. The Prophets. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, p 27.

    2Ibid.

  • Minute Meditation: Thank God

    1 Thessalonians 1:1-5, 8b-10

    In the first reading today, St. Paul says,

    We give thanks to God always for all of you,
    remembering you in our prayers,
    unceasingly calling to mind your work of faith and labor of love
    and endurance in hope of our Lord Jesus Christ,
    before our God and Father,
    knowing, brothers and sisters loved by God, how you were chosen.
    For our Gospel did not come to you in word alone,
    but also in power and in the Holy Spirit and with much conviction.

    I don’t. Thank God, I mean. At least, not enough.

    I know the ACTS of prayer – Adoration, Contrition, Thanksgiving, and Supplication – but tend to get stuck on the letter “S,” asking God for things. Of course I need to ask, but if that’s all I do then I risk treating God as little more than a divine vending machine. I also want to show God that I adore him, am sincerely sorry for my sins, and am grateful for all he has given.

    Which is where you come in. For as St. Paul reminded me this morning, God has given me you: People practicing the faith in your daily life, working to love all you meet, and enduring in great hope of the promises of Jesus Christ. I do thank God for you.

    But I can’t properly do that unless I also thank God for how you were chosen. Being self-centered and self-conscious, I get in the habit of behaving as if it all depends on me, that I must be eloquent enough, loving enough, patient enough. Those things are important but your faith doesn’t depend on them. No; as St. Paul reminded us, the Gospel comes to us not in word alone, but also in power and in the Holy Spirit and with much conviction. There is a power to the process far beyond any of us, working in ways we cannot understand, reaching us in depths no human being can go, touching and moving us in ways that nothing and no one else can.

    If that’s not worthy of thanksgiving, then what is?

  • The Paradox of Love: Friday of the 19th Week in Ordinary Time

    Joshua 24:1-13; Psalm 136:1; Matthew 19:3-12

    Today’s readings remind me of that famous scene in the musical Fiddler on the Roof when Tevye asks Golde, his wife of 25 years, do you love me? She replies, “Do I love you? For 25 years I’ve washed your clothes, cooked your meals, cleaned your house, given you children, milked the cow, after 25 years, why talk about love right now?” He repeats, do you love me? “I’m your wife.” I know… But do you love me? She thinks out loud, “Do I love him? For 25 years I’ve lived with him, fought him, starved with him, 25 years my bed is his, if that’s not love, what is?” Then you love me? Finally, she replies, “I suppose I do…”

    Why does this scene remind me of the readings? Because today Scripture focuses on what love is in its essence, and that scene highlights three key aspects of it.

    First, love is a verb. We love not in what we say but in what we do. Through Joshua, God speaks to people who, from the time of Abraham, through the oppression in Egypt, the fleeing, struggling, and starving in the desert, might well have asked, “God, do you love us?” Today we hear God reply: “Do I love you? Remember all the things I’ve done for you, and look what lies before you: You’ve made it to the Promised Land!”

    That reply echoes through the ages to today, to every one of us. We each have our own struggles, physical and spiritual. Through all of them, God isn’t sitting silently in the background; he is in every moment, working in ways beyond our understanding. His work may be unknown to us this moment, this month, or this year, but like the Promised Land, its fruit lies waiting. We must never mistake silence for inaction or indifference; God is eternally vigilant, eternally loving, always acting for our good.

    This brings up the second point: Love is timeless. How fitting that we hear Psalm 136 today, especially the antiphon, His mercy endures forever. The Hebrew word translated as “mercy” is hesed, which includes mercy but implies action, things we do when we are motivated by love and loyalty to someone else. In the scene from Fiddler on the Roof, remember that Golde replied, “After 25 years, why talk about love right now?” To her, the amount of time was not the point; she had committed her life to her marriage.

    Jesus speaks of this kind of commitment in the gospel when he quotes the passage from Genesis that a man is joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh (Genesis 2:24). Again to go back to the ancient language, the word for “joined” literally means, “glued.” Imagine gluing two pieces of paper, allowing them to dry, then trying to tear them apart. We know what will happen; the kind of pain and suffering that only such tearing can bring.

    This leads us to a third aspect of love, which in the words of venerable Fulton Sheen is that love is the soul of sacrifice. Recall how Golde replied when Tevye asked if she loved him: all the sacrifices she had made, the things she had endured, for him. But not just for him, for herself as well. Only those willing to make the greatest sacrifice for love’s sake can know the deepest joys that love brings. When it comes to love, joy and sacrifice can never be separated; in married life, in ministry, in whatever kind of service we are called, only those who are most fully open, who risk the greatest vulnerability, can know the deepest, most fulfilling joy: to know and to be known, to accept and be accepted; to love and to be loved.

    As in all things, the best model for all these aspects of love is our Lord, Jesus Christ. Who performed greater works of love than he? Whose love is more timeless? Who is the soul of sacrifice more than he who was willing to empty himself into his own creation to show us that those who risk the ultimate sacrifice of themselves are given the ultimate joy of resurrection to eternal life? Only Christ could most perfectly show us all this, the great paradox of love: that giving is receiving; that most fully knowing means to be most fully known; and that only by dying to ourselves can we reach the promised land of eternal life.

  • Change in His Native Place: Friday of the 17th Week in Ordinary Time

    Matthew 13:54-58

    For me, social media is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it’s been the best way to find out what my kids are doing; you know, things they hadn’t gotten around to telling me yet, like if they were pregnant or had a new job. Dads really are last to know. But social media can also be problematic. I decided to reconnect with people I knew over 50 years ago at St. Peter’s school. I found one of the kids I hung out with and sent him a note saying, “Hey, it’s me! Do you remember me?” He responded, “Yeah, I remember you. Those poor nuns and priests.” And that was that.

    I wanted to write back and say, “No, no, I’ve changed! I’m not the same kid,” but I let it go. I’ve done the same thing he was doing, maybe we all do – tending to paint people with a broad brush, stereotype them, see them as unchanging. I don’t like it when people do that to me, but I do it to them all the time. Maybe it’s human nature.

    This is similar to what I think happened to Jesus when he went back home. To them, he was just the carpenter’s kid, Mary’s son, who they remembered from the neighborhood. They couldn’t believe that he is or was anything else. And we know the result; Matthew tells us that Jesus did not work many mighty deeds there because of their lack of faith.

    Of course, the irony is that Jesus hadn’t changed. As Scripture says, he is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Hebrews 13:8). We can’t blame the people for not seeing that; his years in Nazareth are called “hidden” for a reason. The problem was not the peoples’ failure to learn about Jesus in the past but their failure to learn from him in the present. They were right to believe he hadn’t changed; they were wrong to believe that their knowledge of him didn’t need to change, either. Like my old classmate, like me, they failed to realize they didn’t know everything they needed to know about him. As Jesus showed them, for the sake of their own salvation they needed to change their minds.

    Change of mind and its relationship to faith is clearly important to Christ. It was among the first words he spoke in Mark’s gospel: Repent, and believe (Mark 1:15). Repent is a translation of a Greek compound word that means “change your mind.” As I’ve said before, it’s one thing to hear Jesus tell tax collectors or prostitutes to change their mind; we expect that. What we don’t expect, whether it’s people in ancient Nazareth or us in the modern day, is for him to tell us to change our mind when we think we’re already doing exactly what God wants!

    But he does say that to every one of us, and I think I know why. Remember the reaction Jesus got after the Sermon on the Mount; Matthew tells us the crowds were astonished at his teaching (Matthew 7:28). In both cases, astonishment. But at the Mount he was the new sensation; here in Nazareth, just the same, familiar Jesus. We must ask ourselves which Jesus we follow. Is his teaching still challenging us, or have his words become too familiar to us? Do we find new ways to apply them, or have they acquired a sameness? Are we continuing to grow in our knowledge and love of God, or do we think we know and love him as well as we need to?

    Regardless how well we think we know him or his message, Jesus challenges us because he’s looking for a reaction. He wants us to challenge him and to challenge ourselves. Although the questions he got in Nazareth were tinged in irony, they lie at the heart of all the gospels and the heart of our faith: Is he not the carpenter’s son? Where did this man get all this? These are just another way of asking the question that also appears in every gospel, Who do you say that I am?

    One final point. Matthew tells us that when Jesus heard these questions, he was in his native place (Matthew 13:54). We could say that the Church is our Lord’s native place, but it is also true that his native place is within each of us, where God has written his image. Certainly as we receive Jesus in Holy Communion he takes up residence in the most special way inside us. That is where he meets us, counsels us, urges us constantly to change our mind, to know him more deeply, and to contemplate that crucial question, Is he not the carpenter’s son? We do well to remember that every one of us, every day of our life, is challenged to answer those questions, and that everything we do from the time we wake up until the time we go to bed is our answer to them. Let us make it our most fervent hope and prayer that Christ is most truly honored there, in his native place.