The Holiest of Nights

The apostles found the Easter story just a bit hard to believe.  The women come rushing back from the tomb and the apostles think their story is nonsense.  Peter goes to the tomb to find it empty, but he is simply amazed, not suddenly filled with belief in the resurrected Lord.

Now, I know in my heart that God has graced me with faith, but I also know there are times when doubt creeps into my mind, when I, like the apostles, think the whole story is nonsense.  For while our Catholic beliefs have internal logic, the premises seem incredible.  In some fantastical way, God becomes a human being, who, while completely human, remains completely one and completely God, and who, in his human nature, dies an ugly death so that our sins can be forgiven?  Why?  That same person rises from the dead a few days later?  How?  And somehow, some way, His very body and very blood become present to us again at each and every Mass, even though it looks like, tastes like, feels like, simple bread and wine.  Really?

While this is hard enough to believe in itself, the sin that surrounds us every day, particularly the scandalous sin of those who we trust most, the pain and suffering we see and experience every day, can make my doubts grow stronger.  Am I headed to hell, if, in fact, there is any such thing?

While belief is hard, it’s important to note that, quite surprisingly, Jesus rarely talks to his disciples about belief.  Oh, sure, he talks plenty about faith: “if you have faith the size of a mustard seed…;”  “oh, ye or little faith…:”, “your faith has saved you…;”  “When the Son of Man comes again, will he find any faith on earth?”  We could cite dozens more.

However, the evangelists invariably use a Greek word for faith that does not connote what we call “belief” – an intellectual assent that some particular idea is true.  When Jesus refers to faith, he means faithfulness or loyalty, as being faithful to your word, or loyal to a friend.  St. Jerome certainly understood this, for when he translated the biblical Greek to Latin, he used “fidele,” the root for our English work “fidelity.”  

On the one hand, this consoles to me when my doubts cause me to think as the disciples did on the first news of the resurrection – could this simply be nonsense?   In those times of doubt in mind, I can still strive to be faithful in my heart to what Jesus teaches me!  That’s a relief!

But on the other hand, this may be even scarier than doubt.   I’m afraid – much as the women at the tomb were afraid, that my heart often falls far short of fidelity to Jesus.  I think of the times when I felt that my hatred of others was justified by their evil deeds or their evil intents towards me.  How can I reconcile those feelings with Jesus telling me to love my enemies?  I remember times when I eagerly sought and exacted retaliation for even the most minor insult or slight.  How can I reconcile this with Jesus teaching me to turn the other cheek?  Then there are the times when I worry about, even obsess about, financial security.  How does that reconcile with Jesus urging me to trust in God and be like the sparrows in the sky or the flowers in the field.  And finally, how do my many day-to-day failings, forgetfulness in thanking God for all of his gifts to me, lack of charity, simply being buried in the mundane minutiae of life, match up against Jesus’ injunction to be “perfect as your heavenly father is perfect.”

Certainly, one of my favorite hymns has it right: the grace of faith has caused my heart to fear.  Lucky for me, the resurrection story shows that while I may not always be faithful to Jesus, Jesus is always faithful to me.  The young men in the tomb remind the women that Jesus has told them this would happen, and it has.  He has risen, as he promised.  He will go before us, as he promised.  And he promises to be with us until the end of time.  The grace of Jesus’ faithfulness relieves my fears when I allow his grace fill my heart.

When we are in doubt, follow Jesus.  When we fall short, remember that Jesus is always faithful, always forgiving, always loving and leading us to eternal life.

This holy night, we celebrate with great joy the precious gift of Jesus’ faithfulness to each one of us. 

He has risen, as he said.  Alleluia.  Alleluia.  Alleluia.

Good Friday

We live in a culture obsessed by self-help.  I searched Amazon.com for self-help books.  I got over 301,000 hits!  Assuming that, on average, each is one inch thick, that’s a stack about five miles high!  We can find books to help us get physically fit, to stretch our minds, to build better relationships, become a more productive member of society, and even to enhance our spirituality. 

Throughout his Gospel, culminating in the Passion story we read today, John makes it clear that all of these efforts at self-improvement must fall short of what we truly need, for we are all in slavery, all in a prison from we which cannot escape by our own means. 

For example, in chapter 8, Jesus says, “Amen, Amen, I say to you, everyone who commits sin is a slave to sin.”  We listen harder when we hear that “Amen, Amen” introduction, for it always introduces a key truth from Jesus.  Of course, when Jesus says “everyone who commits sin,” he means everyone – you, me, the people sitting on either side of you, even Fr. Bob – all of us!  Jesus’ religious opponents understood this truth, for earlier in this chapter, Jesus tells them that “whoever is without sin” could cast the first stone at the woman caught in adultery.  We know how that ends.  Therefore, according to Jesus, we are all in slavery because we all sin.  Our sins imprison us.

Like all prisons, there are walls, limits to how much you or I can do.  I can read and follow all 301,000 of those books – first step, get the speed-reading books – but I cannot get out of the prison.   Oh sure, I can find a more comfortable place in the prison hierarchy, a place which affords me more physical comfort, maybe more friends to help me, perhaps even a bit more freedom to afford or to do whatever I wish.  I may even find a place where I don’t sense the walls around me that much, but that does not mean the walls do not exist.  I am still in prison; I am still in slavery; I am not free.

We can try to fight our way out of prison – it will do no good.  Peter thinks that the sword will win Jesus’ freedom.  It is as futile as Moses’ attempt to win justice for the Hebrew slaves by striking down an Egyptian taskmaster.  Jesus will have none of it.

We can try to use our positions of power to wheedle our way out of prison.  Pilate claims that he has the power to save Jesus.  Jesus points out that whatever power we claim to have, only comes from those above us, from those with more power.  And those above us are in prison, too.  How can they help us escape from the walls that also imprison them?

From the beginning, John tells us that Jesus is our only source of freedom.  He is the “light that shines in the darkness, and the darkness shall not overcome it.”  John the Baptist sees the human Jesus for the first time and shouts out, “Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.”  Jesus has come to give us much more than mere tips on living more comfortably in a prison of sin.  He has come to tear down the walls of the prison.  He has come to give us true freedom, not bounded by physical, finite limits, but awash in the infinite love of God.

Unlike the other evangelists, John emphasizes Jesus’ role as the Lamb of God with the timing of the Crucifixion.  The other evangelists show Jesus celebrating the Passover meal, the Seder, with his disciples on the night before he died.  Thus, Jesus dies on the first day of Passover.

If we read John carefully, we notice that the Last Supper occurs on the night before Passover begins.   The Last Supper scene begins with Chapter 13:  “Before the feast of the Passover, Jesus knew the hour had come…”  On the morning of Jesus’ death, we heard that the Jewish leaders did not want to enter the praetorium “in order not to be defiled so that they could eat the Passover.”  Thus, John places Jesus’ crucifixion not on the first day of Passover, but on the day when the Jews were getting ready for the Passover to begin, the day of preparation.

And what was the chief order of business on this preparation day?  Killing the ritual lamb, recalling that first Passover when the lamb’s blood anointed the doorposts and lintels of the Hebrews, that the angel of death might pass over their homes.  So, on the same day that devout Jews are killing lambs through Jerusalem, Jesus, the Lamb of God, is dying his death, pouring out his blood, nailed to the cross for all of our sins.  As we will hear tomorrow night in the Exultet, his blood will consecrate the homes of all believers.

Our witness, our standing here together today at the foot of the cross, reminds us that our help in not buried in the millions of pages in those self-improvement books, but our help is in the name of the Lord who died and is buried for us.  It reminds us that true freedom is not rooted in the Declaration of Independence, is not rooted in our Constitution or our laws, is not defended by our armed forces, but is rooted in the cross of Christ and is defended by the power of God’s infinite, eternal, and unconditional love.

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son so that everyone who believes in him might not perish, but might have eternal life.

Come, let us worship.

Double-edged humility

There are times when I need two lessons before I really get it.  Okay, if you ask Mary, that would be most times, and usually I need even more than two cracks to really get it.  So the story of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples is good for me – I get two cracks at learning humility.

The first lesson is pretty obvious.  John does not include many parables in his Gospel, yet here Jesus acts out a parable.  While in the other gospels, we hear Jesus saying “the greatest among you will be the slave to all,” here Jesus demonstrates this teaching.  He literally “takes the form of a slave” – that was the purpose of the towel around the waist, typical dress for a slave in Jesus’ day – and washes the feet of his disciples.  He then tells us to do the same.

Okay, I get this.  In humility, we are to serve one another.  We should never be so proud to think some service is beneath us.  Washing another’s feet was something even the lowliest Jewish slave would not be required to do, yet Jesus stoops from heaven itself to wash his disciples’ feet. 

I try to remember this, and I hope I live this out more times than not, but I know that I’ll never match Jesus.  This act is not simply a model for us, but is also a prophetic action pointing to the unique role of Jesus – the word made flesh – dying on the cross to save us from sin.  As Paul writes to the Philippians:

“…though he was in the form of God, Jesus did not deem equality with God something to be grasped.  Rather, he emptied himself, and took the form of a slave, coming in human likeness and found in human appearance.  He humbled himself and was obedient to death, even death on a cross.” (Phil 2:6-8)

I am not God.  It is not my job to save all of us from sin – Jesus already did that and it doesn’t need done again.  In some sense, this lets me off the hook, right?  Ah, but that’s why I need a second lesson.

Peter wasn’t God, either.  He’s a mere mortal – my kind of guy.  And Peter shows me that even when I find the courage to humble myself and serve others, pride can still be my downfall.

A few years ago, I read about a survey of what people fear most.  You would think that perhaps pain and death top the list, but they do not.  At least here in the United States, the number one fear was getting old and becoming dependent on others for the simplest acts of life.  After all, we live in a society that takes pride in self-reliance, founded on the principles of independence and self-determination.  We teach our children to study hard at school to get a good education; get a good job and work hard so that you can be whatever you want to be and do whatever you want to do.  You will not have to depend on anyone or be a burden on anyone.  Independence is the goal, dependence is failure.  So it makes sense that the fear of helplessness is our greatest fear.

While I didn’t participate in this survey, I would be with the majority here.  To think that I would be so helpless that others would have to feed me, wash me, read to me, remember for me, even help me go to the bathroom – it makes me shudder. 

It made Peter shudder, too.  He couldn’t imagine that he would need Jesus to wash his feet.  He could take care of that himself.  In a sense, Peter was too proud to be served, even to be served by God himself.

When I fear dependence, and work hard to avoid dependence, am I not denying my human nature as one who sins, one who must depend on God’s mercy?  Is my dependence on others fundamentally different from my dependence on Jesus’ death on the cross?   Not really.

When my pride keeps me from accepting the service of others, it also keeps me from fully accepting Jesus as my savior.   I must not fear dependence, for I am completely dependent on God – and sometimes God serves me through other people.  

It took two tries, but now I get it – with the humility of Jesus, I strive to serve whenever possible and I gratefully accept being served whenever necessary.

Betrayal

Betrayal always cuts us to the quick.  We may be initially puzzled as it is always surprises us, but our confusion quickly turns to grief, indignation, bitterness and anger.

Judas puts all these emotions in play with his decision to betray Jesus.  His very name becomes an epithet for all betrayers.   We assume that this is the end for Judas.  He betrays love for hate; betrays life for death; betrays salvation for damnation.  We know that he no longer deserves Jesus.  We turn our faces away from Judas as surely as he turns his away from Jesus.  Good riddance to him.

Judas’ betrayal resonates so deeply in us because nobody deserves Jesus; not one of us can possibly measure up to the faithfulness of Jesus.  And even when we are not conscious of this truth, we know it in our soul of souls.  I must hold Judas close to me because he shows me how easily I let my own immediate pleasures, my own immediate needs, keep me from loving Jesus and keep me from loving others as Jesus loves me.

And without recognizing my own weakness, without recognizing the bedeviling betrayal of Judas in me, I lose sight of Jesus’ unfailing faithfulness.  After all, if I do not believe that I am as weak and disloyal as Judas; if I, instead, I see myself as always faithful, always good, then why do I need Jesus?  Just give me my thirty pieces of silver and I’ll be on my way.

The good news is that, despite our weakness, despite our sins and betrayals, Jesus is always faithful to us – and that unfailing faithfulness transforms our weakness into our strength, allowing us to realize the salvation that only Jesus can bring.   

As doff the penitential purple of Lent to don the celebratory white of Easter, we first embrace Judas, embrace our weakness, and seek to reconcile ourselves with Jesus, the one who is mercy and love; the one who is strength and salvation.

A Holy Week

The Palm Sunday liturgy takes us from Jesus’ triumphant procession into Jerusalem to his ignominious burial.   In less than a week, the crowd has turned.  Jesus, proclaimed the prophet and the son of David on Sunday, is humiliated, scourged, crucified and buried on Friday.  We shake our heads and wonder how the tide could turn so quickly.

Yet, in our own lives, we can re-live this transformation most every week.  We gather on Sunday at Mass to sing joyful songs, to pray together, to celebrate and remember Jesus’ passion for us, and, most of important of all, to be strengthened by Jesus himself in the Eucharist.

Then we leave the assembly and fall back into our busy, daily routines.  We forget.  Oh, perhaps we don’t forget as much as we become distracted.  We depend on our own hard work to accomplish our many duties.  We pride ourselves on our own efforts.  We may become frustrated when we fail, but we’re determined to work harder to overcome the failure.

And in our busyness, we push Jesus out of our lives, just as surely as the unfaithful ones plotted to eliminate Jesus from their lives by having him crucified.  But He waits for us still.  The tomb is but a temporary stop, He rises again to enter our lives, if only we remember to make room.

The Holy Week liturgies are an opportunity to break out of routine, to go on a retreat of sorts that lets us dwell on the true source of peace in our world today – the salvation that Jesus won for us on the cross.

Our retreat can begin on Tuesday evening, where, at each parish in the diocese, the sacrament of Reconciliation is available.  As we reflect on God’s great love for us, we accept his merciful forgiveness in this sacrament and are welcomed into his arms as the Prodigal Son was welcomed by his father.

On Spy Wednesday, we gather at Mass and listen as Judas sets those fateful days in motion with his nefarious deal.  Perhaps we are reminded of times we traded our devotion to Jesus for what seemed more important and valuable, but which turned out to be mere dross.

No morning Mass on Thursday, but we gather at our normal Mass times and pray the Liturgy of the Hours with the universal Church.  On Holy Thursday night, we gather for the Mass of the Last Supper, re-creating Jesus’ call for us to be servants to all, followed by our own Garden of Gethsemane as we pray before and with Jesus himself in the consecrated host.

On Good Friday, Morning Prayer at 6:45 or 9:00, the Stations of the Cross at noon and the and the Veneration of the Cross at 3:00 allow us to meditate deeply on the Jesus’ death, suffering the betrayal of his friends in silence, courageously accepting the judgment of death against him, and loving his enemies to the end as he prays for them on the cross.  Finally, we walk again with Jesus along the Via Dolorosa, the Way of Tears, as we pray the Stations of the Cross at 7:30.

Holy Saturday is quiet time, a time for prayer, with more time for Reconciliation if we missed it earlier in Lent.   But at sundown, our celebration of Easter begins in earnest with the Vigil Mass.  We celebrate the light of the world coming into our lives, we rejoice in Jesus’ resurrection that breaks the chains of death, and we welcome into our family those who now share our faith in the Risen Lord.

At the break of dawn on Sunday, we celebrate Mass at sunrise – 6:00 for us here at St. Rose.  We remember the wonder and awe those first women felt when they approached the tomb that first Easter morning,   Like those first disciples, we feel a chill up our spine not only by the cool of the early morning but by the sense that the divine has broken into our mundane lives and transformed the world into something new.

I invite each of you to break from the daily routines that can so insidiously draw us away from the source or our salvation.  Come celebrate together as we enter into the Passion, the death, and the glorious resurrection of our Lord and Savior.

Have a most holy week!

Happy Are You

A year ago, on the Saturday before Palm Sunday, my dad passed from this life to the next.  A few days later, it was my privilege to preach at the celebration of his funeral Mass.  In memory of my dad, the following is the homily I used.

As a young boy, I thought it would be great to be a lawyer when I grew up.  There was no deep thinking behind this hope.  It first entered my mind early as one of Dad’s favorite television shows was Perry Mason.  Now, Perry Mason came on at 9:00 so I rarely got see the show.  You see, the rule in our house – Dad’s rule – was that 9:00 was bedtime.  And, as you might imagine, we considered Dad’s commandments to rank only slightly below the Ten Commandments themselves.  Thus, no Perry Mason for me.

However, during summer, the rules must have been relaxed a bit, for occasionally I was allowed to watch and I was fascinated.  Perry was a hero.  Through his ingenuity, he triumphed over evil and justice prevailed, week after week.

My desire to become a lawyer was heightened on our many trips back to Pittsburgh, when we typically stayed with the only real-life lawyer I ever knew as a young boy, my Uncle Ivan.  Once – I must have been eight or ten – he took a few or us kids to work with him at his office downtown.  He treated us to lunch.  But it wasn’t just lunch at McDonald's or some sidewalk hot dog stand.  We went to a real restaurant – linen tablecloths, well-dressed waiters, fancy menus, the whole bit.  Wow, if this is how lawyers ate lunch every day, what could I think but that this was a life of true happiness – indeed, heaven could hardly be better.  Perry Mason and Uncle Ivan, here I come.

It never happened.  My joy, nerd that I am, was numbers.  I majored in math at college, not pre-law.  That worked until I figured out that the real world of numbers was finance and business, and I pursued that vocation as my path to happiness and joy.  I joined IBM – just like Dad – and this seemed to be right.

But I wasn't so much like Dad after all.  If I had paid any attention to Scripture back then, I might have been a bit mystified by today’s Gospel.  I’m pretty sure Dad was not so puzzled.

For Jesus tells us that the one who is truly happy – for the word we typically translate as “blessed” in the beatitudes can also be translated as “happy” – is poor, meek, mournful, even persecuted.  It seems oxymoronic – makes no sense at all.  How is it that this happiness that marks Jesus’ disciples, this joy that is characteristic of all Christians, is consistent with being poor, powerless, sad, and afflicted?  It’s a particularly important question for us at times like this, when we rightly mourn the seemingly permanent loss of a loved one’s presence with us.  Where is the joy in this?

St. Paul gives us a clue.  We heard him tell the Romans, “…while we were still sinners, he died for us.”  God did not wait for us to show any signs of desire for our salvation, to demonstrate our worthiness by our good works, to do anything at all that showed we deserved what he was willing to offer.  While we were still sinners, he died for us.  And, at least as some indication of how far we were from deserving this salvation, Jesus dies in a particularly inhuman way, tortured pitilessly, stripped naked, and nailed to a cross to slowly suffocate in a literally excruciating death.

Yet, while we were still sinners – and great sinners at that – he died for us.  Paul is describing the unconditional love of God.  It is unconditional since we have done and can do nothing to deserve it.  It is unconditional as God loves us whether or not we recognize, accept, or completely ignore it.  It is the perfection of the love that we, as parents, strive, as best we can in our limited, human ways, to give to our own children.

It perfects our finite, human love because it comes from the one who is perfect; who has no physical limits; who is beyond even time itself.  In just a few short days, we will celebrate the reality of this infinite God, the one who loves us not only unconditionally, but by his nature, infinitely, as we joyfully proclaim Jesus’ resurrection, Jesus’ triumph over death.  The death we may, in our weakness, see a final end is actually a transition, for even death is not a condition which can end the unconditional love of God.

And when we accept the reality of this unconditional, infinite love, our lives are transformed.  Released from the need to struggle for earthly love and recognition, knowing that God’s infinite love for us will provide us all that we need, we look past the finite limitations of this world, we are freed to share God’s love and bounty with those around us, for giving of that love does not cost us as we are simply giving from an endless, infinite supply.  We are freed from fear and anxiety and filled with peace, for our hope is in the Lord, who created the heavens and the earth, and who loves all of his creation. While the world may see us as poor, we cannot be richer.  While the world may see us as meek and powerless, we have the greatest power supporting us.  While the world may see us as persecuted, we know that the one that is above all these travails will continue to love us.  And even as we rightly mourn the losses in our lives, we recognize that beyond that mourning, the comfort and peace of our ever-loving God is present to us.

I am confident that Dad got this reality long before I did.  Gruff and growling though he may have seemed at times – at IBM, he was known as “Big Bear” – beneath all this was a life of joy, a life of love, a life of true care and concern for the welfare of the children placed in his charge.  This became apparent to me as his life became more limited.  His body – as all our finite bodies will inevitably do – began to limit what he could do.  But if he couldn’t see the ball well enough to play golf, as his lungs and heart would no longer allow him to walk as far as the mailbox without stopping for breath, he found joy in simply sitting out in his chair, enjoying a cup of coffee and a Klondike which I’m sure he could no longer taste, greeting and conversing with whoever came by.

For the past two months, it seemed as if the world had closed completely in around him.  On his best days, he needed the help of at least two people to simply move from a bed to a chair.  Yet he rarely complained or bemoaned his fate.  He found joy in the “sparkling conversation” provided by his many visitors.  He found joy in hearing how well my Kumon center was going, or how Mary liked her new class of kindergartners  or how Ellen and Robert’s move to their new house was going, or in the news and accomplishments of his grandchildren.

For the past few weeks, deprived of even the ability to speak, Dad knew, better that many of us, that his time here on earth was near an end.  When we insisted that he was on the road to recovery, he would shake his head.  The doctors and nurses would try to lift his spirits, but they didn’t realize the needlessness of their efforts.  Dad’s joy was profound despite his deteriorated physical condition.  His joy then, as I am certain beyond certain is true to this very moment and for all moments to come, was in the unconditional and everlasting love of his God, the God of his fathers, the God of each of us.

Happy are you, Norman Roos, child of God, the kingdom of heaven is yours. 

True Freedom

Back in my direct marketing days, we had a four-letter word that could magically transform the most mundane offer into a gold mine.  You didn’t just say the word; you shouted it – bold-faced, all caps, bright colors, multiple exclamation marks, the works.  The magic word is: FREE!!!!

It is perhaps the most attractive word in the English language.  Who doesn’t want something for free?  Who doesn’t want to be free?  Who doesn’t envy those of us who live in the land of free?  We are free to worship as we please, we are free to assemble, free to petition, free to speak, free to publish anything we want, free to bear arms, and free to vote for whomever or whatever we please.  If we put our minds to it, we could probably double or triple this list of the freedoms we enjoy.  What more could we ask?

Yet even these freedoms are not absolute.  Freedom of religion does not give me the right to practice human sacrifice.  Freedom of speech does not allow me to slander my neighbor or engage in hate speech.  Freedom of the press does not allow me to libel.  Freedom to bear arms does not allow me to own nuclear weapons, and our current angst is how much more limited that right should be.  We live in a finite, bounded world, where even freedom must have some limits.

Thus, despite these freedoms, I often feel trapped.  The mortgage, the credit cards, the car loan and never-ending list of bills need my attention, so I can’t really get everything I want.  Maybe if I won the lottery…but no sooner do I get one thing, then I need another.  Get that, and there is yet one more thing.

Despite the freedoms that I have, I can be filled with fear – fear that I may not measure up, fear that others will think me silly or stupid, fear that I may lose what little I have, fear for my family’s safety or my children’s futures. It’s just another never-ending list.

My life would be a grasping, groveling, cowering death but for one thing.  Jesus reminds me this morning that the truth will set me free.  The truth is that there is an all-powerful, all-gracious, eternal and infinite God who created me, who cares for me, who loves me, who has saves me not for what I have done or what I have earned, but simply for who I am – one created in the very image of this all-loving God.   And when I can set this truth firmly in my heart, I gain freedom that cannot come in a glossy piece of mail, is not available by 800-number, and cannot be guaranteed by any constitution or legislature on earth. 

It is not a freedom to do something; it is a freedom from something.  It is freedom from want, freedom from fear.

Who can want who already knows the infinite love of God?  Who can fear who sees in the crucifix the unconditional love of God?   Who can want or fear who places their trust in this all-merciful, all-powerful God?

So, I may still want and I may still fear, but only when I lose sight of Jesus.  For Jesus shows me the folly of earthly freedoms that can never guarantee my safety and earthly possessions that can never completely satisfy.  Jesus shields me from the fires of life and shepherds me to absolute safety.  Jesus saves me and opens for me the kingdom of God, the eternal land of plenty.  Jesus leads me from death to life.

Shepherd me, O God, beyond my wants, beyond my fears, from death into life. 

Walls

I build walls with the best of them.  Like many walls, my walls are meant to exclude people.  These people may be too old or too young, too liberal or too conservative, too rich or too poor.  They may look a bit odd, act a bit weird, or talk a bit funny.  They may not share my values, they may commit sins or crimes beyond my imagination, and they certainly don’t care about me or mine.  Basically, they’re just not me.  My walls keep them on the other side.

As a society, we like to build walls, too.  We live in gated communities, join private clubs, create zoning laws to restrict who might live near us, and pass restrictive immigration laws that to exclude, ironically enough, the tired and the poor.  If we could somehow manage it, we would build a wall around the entire country to that end.

The scribes and Pharisees in today’s Gospel were master wall builders.  They wanted to build the ultimate wall – the wall between life and death – to permanently exclude the woman caught in adultery.  Yet Jesus fulfills Isaiah’s prophecy by doing a new thing.  Jesus declares all the walls we try to build – all of our attempts to isolate ourselves from one another – are useless and irrelevant.  The woman, the scribes, and the Pharisees are all on the same side.  They are all fallible human beings.  They are all created by God in His image.  They are objects of God’s mercy and love.

Jesus shows me the mercy and love I must show to all other humans who are, like me, joined by a common bond of sin.  Bound by sin, yet we are also joined by a common bond of divine love.  As was true for the Pharisees, this discomforts me at first.  In my pride, did I suppose that Jesus loved me more than those on the other sides of my well-built walls?  Of course I did, how else could I justify my walls? 

But if I can put aside my pride and get past this discomfort, this becomes a truly joyous insight.  If Jesus came to save all sinners, and if every one of us is a sinner, then Jesus certainly came to save me!  If Jesus loves everyone with equal and unending fervor, and if Jesus’ unconditional love keeps him from condemning the unfortunate women, then He loves me with that same eternal and unconditional love!  

Jesus, help me break down the walls that keep me from loving others as you love me.                                                

Thy will be done

This morning, we hear Jesus describe the intimate connection that he has with his Father (Jn 5:17-30).  Their wills are one with each other, and the Son can only do – out of love – what the Father does and what the Father wills.

We all seek this intimate connection – and it is precisely what God desires for each of us when we become one with Him in heaven. 

It seems so simple and so desirable, yet in my seeking, I often get lost.  I wander far from God’s will, far from the promise that transforms death to life, anxiety to peace, distress to joy, and condemnation to mercy.

In my occasional moments of clarity, when I realize how far I have wandered, I often find that I have made one of two mistakes. 

The first, and most common, is simply forgetting that God, as my creator who loves me with a constant and infinite love, is my unfailing compass and guide.  Rather, I decide that I can set my own direction, follow my own desires and goals.  I assume that my own intelligence, hard work and disciplined dedication to my goals and desires will somehow win for me the eternal happiness that only God can offer. 

While I am often successful in achieving my goals, my victories are short-lived.  It is never enough, and, as St. Augustine found so many years ago, it is a restless life, always seeking, rarely finding; always struggling, rarely at peace.

The second mistake is more subtle, yet perhaps more deadly.  Here, I understand that I should be following God’s will, but I confuse God’s will for me with what is happening to me in the moment.  I assume that if things are going good for me, I must be doing the right things.  God must be rewarding me for the following Him so closely, for being such a good and loyal disciple.

But things don’t always go so well.  In fact, things go horribly awry.  At first, I think it’s me.  I have done something and God is justly punishing me for my sins.  But I can’t see it.  I have done what I have always done.  I have tried to be good, to be obedient, to ask forgiveness when I faltered, but horror and terror surround me.  Then, I become angry with God.  I lose faith that God is a loving, caring Father, for no loving father would subject his faithful child to such pain.

Only Jesus can bring me back from this brink.  For Jesus, the constant, the true, the Son of God, took on my life, my world, and my sins.  Jesus understood his Father’s will perfectly.  Jesus was to be constant as His Father was constant; to love all of creation as the Father loves all he created; to love in the face of hate; to live virtue in a world of violence; to offer divine mercy in place of self-righteous vengeance.

As a result, He suffered grievously – even to the point of gruesomely dying on the cross – not because of his sins, not because He deviated from his Father’s path, not because His Father did not love him, but because the world – including me and you and all humans, born with Adam’s sin – often rejects the selfless, unconditional, and undeserved love of God.  And by rejecting God’s love, by rejecting God who is love, evil, pain and suffering thrive.

My mistake is thinking that this is the end, there is no more.  I remember Good Friday, but I forget Easter morning.  I remember the agony, but not the triumph.  For God is so much greater than the evil.  God’s love conquers death itself.  I forget that the compass of God’s will didn’t lead me into the desert of sin and desolation in which I often find myself, but rather leads me through that desert to paradise, as it led Jesus through Good Friday to Easter morning.

I may often lose sight of God’s will, but Jesus opens my eyes.  I may often wander far from safety, but Jesus brings me back.  I may suffer the great pains of sin in this world, but Jesus has gone before me and has prepared a place for me in His father’s house.  I need only follow Him who is God’s Son; Him who is God’s love; Him who is God’s will.

Lost and Found

The fifteenth chapter of Luke is one of the most beloved and familiar chapters in all of the Gospels.  The joy of the shepherd finding the lost sheep, the woman finding the lost coin, the father finding his lost son, each story builds on the one before to warm us and teach us about the mercy of God.  Yet, familiarity can keep us from seeing the rest of the story.

Jesus, like other Jewish rabbis of his day, often used parallelism in his talks.  He would tell the same message in two of three similar ways.  This broadens its appeal as the stories reinforce each other.  But Jesus frequently twists our thinking, for he taught as no others did – with authority, we are told; as the Son of God, we believe. 

Parallelism is pretty obvious in Luke 15.  Someone loses something, searches diligently for it, finds it, and a joyous celebration ensues.  The lost sheep, the lost coin, and the lost son all teach God’s unconditional love and desire for us.  We are comforted that no matter how desperate our straits, God stands ready to run to us – imagine God running to us! – and welcome us with open arms.  No matter how far we stray, no matter how bad we’ve been, God will not love us any less, for His love has always been and will always be – infinite, universal, and unconditional.

We are comforted by these thoughts, yet we usually live as if we don’t really believe it, for we pay little attention to the rest of the story.  The parable of the lost, or prodigal, son is not simply a restatement of the lost sheep and lost coin.  To understand why, we look at the context of this chapter, for many of the parables in Luke’s gospel can only be fully appreciated in the context of the narrative.

The chapter opens with the following scene:  “The tax collectors and the sinners were all gathering around Jesus to hear him, at which the Pharisees and the scribes were murmuring, ‘This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.’  Then Jesus addressed this parable to them.”

Taking the parables out of this context, we hear them as if Jesus is consoling the taxpayers and the sinners, giving them – and us – the consolation that they are always sought by God; that God always rejoices in finding them.  But Jesus is not addressing the tax collectors and sinners; he is speaking to the Pharisees and the scribes.  Certainly, they did not consider themselves lost in any sense.  They were already the obedient ones, the holy ones.  They were where they were supposed to be.  And thus the final story, “the parable” that Jesus addresses to the Pharisees – not the parable of a lost son – but a story that begins:  “A man had two sons.”

Seen with the eyes of those who thought they were already there, the elder son becomes the true parallel of the lost sheep, the lost coin.  He is lost and he doesn’t know it.  He sees no need to return for he has always been there – working hard for his father, obeying his father’s every command.  But it gets worse.  Because he feels his own actions have justified his position – the Bible calls that “self-righteous” – he cannot share his father’s joy.  He cannot believe Jesus’ message of love.

  

He becomes angry, indignant, that his father does not love him more than his wastrel brother.  He limits God’s infinite love, put conditions on God’s unconditional mercy.  For him, God’s mercy is not a grace or a gift, but something which must be earned, a reward for those who have worked hard to deserve it.

But Jesus insists that deserving has nothing to do with.  God does not love us for what we do; we are loved simply for who we are – God’s children created in God’s own image. The lost sheep and the lost coin did nothing to deserve being found.  The younger son knew he was undeserving, and never expected to be received as a son again, yet his father’s love embraced and overwhelmed him beyond any mere human expectation. 

We cannot mar or enhance that image in which we are made – it is God’s image, God’s work, God’s gift.  We cannot subtract from or add to the love that God has for us – it is already greater than we can possibly imagine or deserve.  And this is true of everyone, not just those who attend church every Sunday, not just those who faithfully follow the commandments.  God seeks the return of every single person, whether our fallible, limited, human eyes see and judge them as the holiest of saints or the most debased of sinners.

In many ways, I find myself sharing in the older son’s consternation.  I become angry when I don’t get what I know I deserved by my hard work.  I look for reasons why others don’t deserve my love, or even God’s love.  Certainly, I should exclude these people from my life and even my prayers.  Perhaps they have done such great harm to me or mine, that I believe they deserve nothing but death.   And then I am as lost as older son, as lost as the scribes and the Pharisees who rejected Jesus. 

Luke leaves the story open-ended.  The father pleads with his son to put aside his indignation, his anger, and his bitterness.  He pleads with his son to realize, to accept, to share in and to spread the joy of God’s undeserved, yet everlasting love. 

The father is left waiting for the son’s answer.  He still waits today.  He’s waiting for my answer.  He’s waiting for yours.

Rules Redux

As an oldest son, following the rules seemed part of my DNA.  Obedience came naturally to me.  I was – and largely still am, almost without exception, the “good boy.”

I understand – and rightly so – that rules generally have a sound purpose.  That’s why they are rules.  They work!  Running a red light might save a few seconds here and there, but it’s a sure recipe for disaster in the long run.  Rules are the practical and necessary means to live in society with others.  Without rules, chaos reigns.

Rules also have a spiritual purpose.  Obedience to the rules can be a sign of humility.  Those consecrated to religious life take vows of obedience to their superiors.  When ordained, deacons and priests vow obedience to their bishop.  Pope Benedict, in his final address to the cardinals last week, vowed his obedience to whoever would be his successor.

 

The Hebrew people understood well this spiritual component to obedience.  As Moses reminds the people in this morning’s reading, their “statutes and decrees” came from God.  Obeying these laws not only ensured civility, but led them to the source of all happiness and peace.  This morning, we hear Jesus affirm the value of the Law in the Sermon on the Mount. (Mt 5:17-19).

 

Yet, Jesus also understands that, somewhat ironically, obedience can become not a sign of humility, but a source of pride.  This happens when we consider the law in simply a human, natural sense.  We lapse into subjective judgments about relative obedience to the laws.  For example, I often find myself quite proud of my rule-following, of being the “good boy.”  I convince myself that in being good, I am somehow better.  No humility there, only pride – pride that separates me from others, keeping me from loving others as God loves me. 

Hence, Jesus states that he comes not to abolish the law, but to fulfill it.  He does this by elevating the law – and our obedience to the law – beyond its mere natural, civil purpose to its super-natural, spiritual, God-given purpose.  For example, he continues in the Sermon by telling us – “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’  But I say to you, offer no resistance to one who is evil.  When someone strikes you on your right cheek, turn the other one to him as well.”  (Mt 5:38-39) 

The original law – eye for eye, tooth for tooth – makes sense in a society which seeks natural justice by trying to assure that any retaliation is commensurate with the original injury.  But this law presumes that we can accurately assess the original injury and properly ration out proportionate retaliation.  Based on our fallible human nature, it is subject to the inherent weakness of human nature.

Jesus’ fulfillment of the law – turn the other cheek – teaches us to forego retaliation completely, eliminating our subjective, natural human judgment, and leaving judgment to the only One who can judge perfectly, for He is above nature. 

Obeying the rules may lead to a more civil society.  Obeying the rules may even earn us the respect and esteem of our fellow human beings.  If we’re willing to settle for that – as I often am more than willing to do – then we have already received our reward.  But Jesus wants so much more for me; he wants so much more for you.

Only by seeking and following the fulfilled Law – the Law embodied by Jesus who humbled himself to become one of us that we might know Him who gives the Law; the Law Jesus lived throughout his life on earth; the Law for which Jesus laid down his life and rose from the dead to affirm – only by humbling ourselves to submit to this super-natural Law, can we hope to be, as Jesus urges us to be, “perfect, just as your Heavenly Father is perfect.” (Mt 5:48).

A Burning Bush

Fortunately for the Hebrew slaves in Egypt – and fortunately for us – Moses took time to discern the extraordinary from the mere ordinary.  Living in such a hot, dry area, Moses would not be surprised to see a bush on fire.  But Moses looked closely – and saw that this was no ordinary brushfire, the fire was not consuming the bush.  Moses’ sight became insight – and the rest is history.

Today, like Moses, it’s not unusual to see burning bushes.  And, like Moses, these are generally normal bushes on fire, bushes that simply burn away to nothing.  Our culture demands activity, demands success, demands our time and energy.  The boss needs this done right away, the children need to be at their appointed games, the bills need paid, we need to run faster, we need to work harder.  In our accomplishment-driven culture, we accept these challenges with great gusto.  But the days keep getting longer, the sleep get shorter, and, for many, this “fire in the belly” eventually consumes; we physically or mentally break down.

We think we can put off this end if we just stay in shape, watch what we eat, etc. etc.  This must be a popular thought because the shelves are filled with books describing diets and workout regimens that will help us succeed.  But eventually, this becomes one more thing on the list of things that must be done, one more thing to fit into our schedules, one more thing to consume us.

Perhaps wealth or a good job is the answer.  If only I had the money to let other people do the mundane, I could focus on the important things.  If only I had money to buy what the family needed, I wouldn’t feel the pressure to constantly earn more.  Yet as I work to earn more, I find that I spend more.  My “needs” – easily confused with my “wants” – seem to increase even faster than my ability to pay for them.  When I think I have enough, I see something that requires more.  The faster I run, the behinder I get.  I am consumed again.

Thomas Merton teaches us that our first command as Christians is not to love, but to believe.  Unless we believe in God’s unconditional love for us – an infinite, divine love that we cannot possibly deserve – we cannot love at all.  Without complete faith and trust in God’s love, I become so concerned with protecting myself, with trying to earn love which cannot be earned, with working to gain more love when I am already loved infinitely and can’t be loved any more, that I turn in to myself and away from others, away from God.  By cutting myself off from God’s infinite love, the meager, finite amount of fuel that I can muster is eventually consumed – I burn up and burn out.

But when we “get it,” when we believe in our hearts and feel in our guts this infinite and unconditional love, we have fuel that burns forever without being consumed. 

For example, Dorothy Day was a burning bush that was never consumed.  Nobody could have been busier than she is her work for the poor of New York and the poor of America.  Yet she was always serene, always composed, always at peace.  Of course, she expected that all those around “got it” like she “got it.”  Her granddaughter, Margaret Hennessey, said, “To have known Dorothy meant spending the rest of your life wondering what hit you.”  Hers was a contagious fire.

This faith not only calms in the midst of the unrelenting busy-ness that often accompanies Jesus’ call to love everyone, even our enemies, it also encourages us to love through the infernal fires of sin and evil that are so present to us in today’s world.  For the past couple months, we’ve been surrounded by burning, yet unconsumed bushes – extraordinary burning bushes – right here is Newtown.  When I see the parents and families of the December 14 victims seeking not retribution for their loss, but simply witnessing in love for some way to keep such evil from happening to others, I, like Moses, know that I am standing on holy ground.  When I see the constant reminders around town to choose love, I, like those who have known Dorothy Day, know that I will spend the rest of my life wondering what hit me.

M prayer this for you this Lent is the same as my prayer for me.

May we know God’s infinite and unconditional love deeply and richly.  For when the fire of God’s love burns in our hearts, we will not be consumed, but strengthened; we will not be destroyed, but purified. 

And when we look in a mirror, may we see a burning bush.