Author: DVO

Perspective is everything. When it’s lost, headaches and heartaches set in, take root and begin to dominate our lives. When we lose perspective, everything is reduced: the vast horizon, the depth of our minds, the compassion of our hearts, and the enjoyment of our lives. When perspective is lost, the world turns upside down: contentment gives way to restlessness, humility to ambition, and patience to a hopeless pursuit of a consummation, renown, and immortality that this life can never provide. Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, the French scientist/priest/mystic/philosopher, was like the rest of us, living a life with its share of hurts, ambitions, cold, lonely seasons, and obsessions. He spent most of his life unsure that anyone really understood him. But, and this is where he is rare, he invariably was able to put things into perspective, to regain the vast horizon, and to see things, no matter how bad they appeared on the surface, as making sense in Christ. A chip of rock in the desert or an opera in Paris or New York held equal potential for delight. The simple pleasures of life, the elementary act of looking at the world and feeling its elements- the weather, the soil, the sun, and the very dust- could give him joy that borders on ecstasy. It didn’t matter whether he was with his loved ones, at home in France, or away from his loved ones and loved land, in exile in China; every kind of everyday experience could leave him feeling deeply grateful just for the fact of living. He could love deeply, and he could also let go, and this letting go was what saved him from the always-present fear, ambition, and loneliness that so often asphyxiates so many. At age thirty-five, he found himself on the front lines of the First World War. Before a particular battle, fearing that he might be killed, he wrote: “I shall go into this engagement in a religious spirit, with all my soul, borne on by a single great impetus in which I am unable to distinguish where human emotions end, and adoration begins. And if I am destined not to return from those heights, I would like my body to remain there, molded into the clay of the fortifications, like a living cement thrown by God into the stonework of the New City.” Humbling words, noble words, from a rare person with a rare faith. We all need to read and write words like this, and then, perhaps, we won’t live in restlessness and ambition, waiting for that special something that never comes. [Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s “Christian Perspective”]

In our humanness, we are often plagued by what seems to be an inherited procrastination. We keep pushing things off into a yet-to-be-seen future. These are usually things that we know we must change in our own lives, but we choose to fool ourselves by saying, “I know I need to do this, but I’m not ready yet. I want more time. Sometime in the future, I’ll do this.” Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that this is a near-universal sentiment, and for good reason. The tension we experience between our desire to grow up and our perennial procrastination and infinite stalling in doing that reflects, in fact, a tension that lies at the heart of Jesus’ message, a tension between God’s promises as being already here and God’s promises as still coming. Everything Jesus promised is already here, and everything Jesus promised is still coming. We’re already living the new, resurrected life, even as we’re still waiting for it. What lies inside this paradox? Everything Jesus came to bring us (the Reign of God, the Kingdom of God, the New Age, the Final Age, the reign of justice on this earth, new life, the resurrection, eternal life, heaven) is already here, except that it’s also still coming. When Jesus says that he has come to bring us new life, he is not talking simply about our future our lives in heaven; he is also talking about our lives here, already now. The new life is already here, he assures us. Heaven has already begun. Why is there a failure to accept this and change? Having God become concrete in our lives is far too threatening. We’re like the guests in the Gospel parable invited to the wedding banquet. We, too, want to go to the feast and intend to go to the feast, but first, we need to attend to our marriages, our businesses, and our ambitions. We can get serious later. There’s time. We fully intend to take Jesus seriously; we just want a little more time before we do that. But let us not forget the Lord’s own words in Matthew’s Gospel: “Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.” The time to change is now.

Jesus tells us that he is the “Good Shepherd.” How do we discern the shepherd’s voice from the many voices we encounter every day? Some voices invite us in, promising us life if we do this or that or buy a particular product or idea; others threaten us. Some voices beckon us towards hate, bitterness, and anger, while others challenge us towards love, graciousness, and forgiveness. Some voices tell us that they are playful and humorous, not to be taken seriously, even as others trumpet that they are urgent and weighty, the voice of non-negotiable truth, God’s voice. Fr. Ron Rolheiser asks us, “Within all of these, which is the voice of God?” He tells us there’s no easy answer; sometimes, the best we can do is trust our gut feeling about right and wrong. However, we have a number of principles that come to us from Jesus, scripture, and the deep wells of our Christian tradition that can help us. What follows is a series of principles to help us discern God’s voice among the multitude of voices that beckon us:
The voice of God is recognized in whispers and soft tones, as well as in thunder and lightning.
The voice of God is recognized wherever one sees life, joy, health, color, and humor, even as it is recognized wherever one sees dying, suffering, conscripted poverty, and a beaten-down spirit.
The voice of God is recognized in what calls us to what’s higher, sets us apart, and invites us to holiness, even as it is recognized in what calls us to humility, submergence into humanity, and in that which refuses to denigrate our humanity.
The voice of God is recognized in what appears in our lives as “foreign,” as other, as “stranger,” even as it is recognized in the voice that beckons us home.
The voice of God is the one that most challenges and stretches us, yet it is also the only voice that ultimately soothes and comforts us.
The voice of God enters our lives as the greatest of all powers, even as it forever lies in vulnerability, like a helpless baby in the straw.
The voice of God is always heard in a privileged way in the poor, even as it beckons us through the voice of the artist and the intellectual.
The voice of God always invites us to live beyond all fear, even as it inspires holy fear.
The voice of God is heard inside the gifts of the Holy Spirit, even as it invites us never to deny the complexities of our world and our own lives.
The voice of God is always heard wherever there is genuine enjoyment and gratitude, even as it asks us to deny ourselves, die to ourselves, and freely relativize all the things of this world.
The voice of God, it would seem, is forever found in paradox.

Doesn’t Scripture itself say that the road that leads to life is narrow…and few find it! So, doesn’t this mean that not everyone is going to heaven? Underneath this fear of many of not going to heaven is the fact that the Lord has told us that we make choices in life, and some of those choices are serious. Sin is real and the passage to eternal life is not easily found. Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that we can lose heaven and that hell is a real option. But if God is love, and he is, doesn’t he want all to be one with him for eternity? The drama of the incarnation has as its central point the revelation of the heart of God…a heart of infinite love which can, even given human sin, bring about the salvation of most, perhaps of all, persons. What does this mean? First, it means that God loves us unconditionally and that there is nothing we can do, sin included, that even for one second can change that. Hence we live under the law of mercy, not of justice. There is no great book or great law within which all sins are recorded and where a pound of retribution is demanded for a pound of sin. Salvation, going to heaven, is nothing other than accepting we are loved unconditionally and forever. Of course, we can, and in this life, we often do reject this. That is why here, in this life, most of us have not yet found the road that leads to life. Few of us are really happy, actually redeemed by love. It is easy to go to hell in this life. Hence, in this life, we are often in hell, miserable, biting so as not to be bitten, sinning so as to compensate for being outside of love. However, God’s love can, as we see in Christ’s death and resurrection, descend into hell and embrace and bring to peace tortured and paranoid hearts. Our moral choices in this life are crucial. We can and frequently do make choices that make it harder for us to accept unconditional love. Moreover, there is a real danger of not sinning honestly, of rationalizing, and of warping ourselves so that a permanent hell becomes a real possibility. But this is, I submit, rare. Few people will, when confronted by an unconditional embrace, resist. That is why most people will go to heaven. [Excerpt from Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s “Living Under a Merciful God.”]

A young priest wrote about the students he works at a university and noticed they have a zest for life and an energy and color that he could only envy. He writes: “But inside of all this zest and energy, I notice that they lack hope because they don’t have a meta-narrative. They don’t have a big story or vision that can give them perspective beyond the ups and downs of their everyday lives. When their health, relationships, and lives are going well, they feel happy and full of hope, but the reverse is also true. The bottom falls out of their world when things aren’t going well. They don’t have anything to give them a vision beyond the present moment.” Henri Nouwen wrote that there is a quality of sadness that pervades all the moments of our lives so that even in our most happy moments, there is something missing. In every satisfaction, there is an awareness of limitations. In every success, there is fear of jealousy. In every friendship, there is distance. In every embrace, there is loneliness. There is no such thing as clear-cut, pure joy in this life. Every bit of life is touched by a bit of death. The world can give us peace, except it never does this perfectly. Fr. Ron Rolheiser asks, “What is this peace?” At the last supper, and as he was dying, Jesus offered us his gift of peace. And what is this? It is the absolute assurance that we are connected to the source of life in such a way that nothing, absolutely nothing, can ever sever—not bad health, not betrayal by someone, indeed, not even our own sin. We are unconditionally loved and held by the source of life itself; nothing can change that. Nothing can change God’s unconditional love for us. That’s the meta-narrative we need to keep perspective during the ups and downs of our lives. We are being held unconditionally by God, the source of life itself. If that is true, and it is, then we have an assurance of life, wholeness, and happiness beyond the loss of youth, the loss of health, the loss of reputation, the betrayal of friends, the suicide of a loved one, and even beyond our own sin and betrayals. In the end, as Julian of Norwich says, all will be well, and all will be well, and every manner of being will be well. We need to more deeply appropriate Jesus’ farewell gift to us: “I leave you a peace that no one can take from you: Know that you are loved and held unconditionally.”

People are forever predicting the end of the world. However, as the years moved on and Jesus did not return, their understanding began to evolve so that by the time John’s Gospel was written, probably about seventy years after Jesus’ death, they had started to understand things differently, but that didn’t change their emphasis on vigilance, on staying awake, and on being ready for the end. But now, that invitation to stay awake and live in vigilance was related more to not knowing the hour of one’s death. But Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that our real worry should not be that the world might suddenly end or that we might unexpectedly die, but that we might live and then die asleep, that is, without really loving, without appropriately expressing our love, and without tasting deeply the real joy of living because we are so consumed by the business and busy pressures of living that we never quite get around to fully living. It is a question of having love and reconciliation as our chief concerns, of thanking, appreciating, affirming, forgiving, apologizing, and being more mindful of the joys of living in the human community and within the sure embrace of God. The end of the world shouldn’t concern us, nor should we worry excessively about when we will die. What we should worry about is in what state our dying will find us. As Kathleen Dowling Singh puts in her book, The Grace in Aging: “What a waste it would be to enter the time of dying with the same old petty and weary thoughts and reactions running through our mind.” Still, what about the question of when the world will end? Perhaps, given the infinity of God, it will never end. Because when do infinite creativity and love reach their limit? When do they say: “Enough! That’s all! These are the limits of our creativity and love!” Let us wait gratefully in love as we continue practicing that love as Christ our Lord did.

Today, our relationship with truth is fracturing to a degree that we no longer distinguish, morally or practically, between a lie and the truth. A lie, now, is simply another modality of truth. Its effects are everywhere. People no longer relate to reality in the same way. One person’s truth is the other person’s lie. It is becoming impossible to define what constitutes a lie. Fyodor Dostoevsky sums it up succinctly: “People who lie to themselves and listen to their own lie come to such a pass that they cannot distinguish the truth within them, or around them, and so lose all respect for themselves and for others. And having no respect, they cease to love.” Jordan Peterson would add this: If we lie long enough, “after that comes the arrogance and sense of superiority that inevitably accompanies the production of successful lies (hypothetically successful lies – and that is one of the greatest dangers: apparently everyone is fooled, so everyone is stupid, except me. Everyone is stupid and fooled by me – so I can get away with whatever I want). Living in a world that plays fast and easy with reality and truth also plays on our loneliness. George Eliot once asked: “What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?” So true. The loneliest loneliness of all is the loneliness of distrust. Welcome to our not-so-brave new world. [Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “God Cannot Tell a Lie.”]

No one, be that an individual or an institution controls access to God. Jesus makes this abundantly clear. We see this, for example, in the story of Jesus cleansing the temple by overturning the money tables. The cleansing of the temple needs to be understood in this context: Jesus is replacing a former religious practice with the Christian way of doing things, and he is revealing something very important about God as he does this. To state it metaphorically: Jesus is replacing a former religious coinage with a new religious coinage. It’s important to recognize that those moneychangers performed a needed function. People came to Jerusalem from many different countries to worship at the temple. But they carried the coins of their own countries and, upon arriving at the temple, had to exchange their own currency for Jewish currency so as to be able to buy the animals (doves, sheep, cattle) they needed to offer sacrifice. The moneychangers fulfilled that function, like banking kiosks do today when you step off an airplane in a foreign country and you need to exchange some of your coinage for the coinage of that country. When Jesus says, “take all of this out of here and stop using my Father’s house as a market”, he is teaching something beyond the need to be honest and beyond the need to not be buying and selling on church property.  More deeply, not turning the Father’s house into a market might be translated as: “You don’t need to exchange your own currency for any other currency when it comes to worshipping God. You can worship God in your own currency, with your own coinage. Nobody, no individual, no temple, no church, no institution, ultimately sits between you and God and can say: ‘You need to go through us’!” All religious coinage had to be transferred into their particular coinage, since in their belief, they controlled access to God.  Jesus tries to cleanse us of any attitude or practice that would enshrine that belief. [Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “Religious Coinage.”]

We had received our transfer orders and knew from the housing waiting list at our new duty station that it would be at least six months before something would open up. When we showed up to move into our temporary quarters, we discovered that the prior tenants had kept dogs in the downstairs bathroom, which left a permanent smell and stain on floors all the way through the concrete. Amazingly, the smell and stain were gone after a good dose of bleach. We often see our sins like that smelly stain, believing it could never be made clean. But when we humbly acknowledge our brokenness and turn to God, that’s when his power of forgiveness goes to work, making us as clean as the day we were baptized. This is the true joy of this parable. Luke shows us God’s love and mercy for sinful human beings. Trust that every time you turn to him in repentance, you will come away feeling washed clean from front to back, from top to bottom, and from head to toe.

Our reflection verse today is another statement by Jesus that shocks many at first blush. But our first reaction should not be to react. We should first try and understand a few things related to this verse. First, how was the term “hate” used in other areas of the New Testament? The force of the word is typically Semitic and was used in Matthew’s gospel, where the term means “loves father or mother more,” which would tell us that the meaning of hate in this context means to love less. The second item to note is the context and setting of the saying. At the time of Jesus, social and economic conditions led families to become self-contained. This prevented them from fulfilling the law of ransom or liberation (goel), which called one to help one’s brothers and sisters in the community (clan) who were in danger of losing their land or becoming slaves. When the family of Jesus wanted to take him back to Nazareth, he ignored or hated their petition and chose to expand the definition of his family by saying, “Behold, my mother and my brothers! Anyone who does the will of God is my brother, sister, and mother.” The life of Jesus is about choosing a different way to live. It’s a choice to favor him above all things in life or favor the ways of the world. Only one choice will bring true joy, peace, happiness, and eternal life.