Author: DVO

Susan Pitchford writes that just before this passage, Jesus has been shown extravagant love by a woman who was “a sinner”: she anointed him with ointment, washed his feet with her tears, and dried them with her hair. Jesus, more impressed than his host, points out that this woman has received great forgiveness and, as a result, shows great love. The women who accompanied Jesus had also experienced deep healing, and the depth of their love naturally overflowed into generous giving. This is how it works. When we love deeply, we want to give extravagantly. And when we feel someone has pulled us from the abyss, our hearts overflow with gratitude, and there is nothing we wouldn’t give, nothing we wouldn’t do, to show it. Jesus said of the sinful woman that she loved much because she’d been forgiven much. That’s me, too, but I can’t weep over Jesus’ feet now. But I can accompany him, remembering something else he said: “Whatever you do to the least member of my family, you’ve done to me.”

Today, we celebrate the feast of St. Matthew, and his laconic account details the transition from spiritual death to spiritual life. What was going through Matthew’s head when Jesus passed by, noticed him, and said, “Follow me”? As a tax collector, Matthew would have been held at arm’s length by his family and despised by his neighbors. His co-workers had a reputation for coming up with scams to line their own pockets, and Matthew might have done the same thing himself. But then Jesus arrives and offers his invitation, and Matthew follows. The next thing we hear, they are having a meal together with a host of other people like him! Jesus was compassionate. He saw who had been left out and rejected. He let them know that he wanted to be with them. It’s a simple but powerful message: “I want to know you. I’m happy to spend time with you. Let’s have dinner.” This affirmation can change lives. Think of all the people who were touched by Jesus’ genuine compassion. At least two were publicly known to have committed adultery: the woman at the well, who came at the hottest part of the day to avoid the gossip of the village’s wives, and the woman he saves from being stoned to death. Both were living with shame and rejection before Jesus approached them. Jesus never seemed anxious about his reputation. Instead, he looked people straight in the eye and loved them. He just accepted them.

I recently read an excellent reflection by L. Kazlas on the reality that we are all passing through this life on the same journey that I want to share with you today.
We are a pilgrim people, and heaven is our home. We journey through life with our family, friends, and one another in the Catholic church. Our lives are richer, fuller, and happier when we reach out to one another wherever we are to form a community and share our lives, both the good and the bad as well. That is what the gospel reading is about today, too, except the people of that time did not see it that way. John the Baptist did not eat bread and drink wine, and they thought he had a demon, but Jesus did eat bread and drink wine, and they thought he was a glutton and drunkard and a friend of the worst of the sinners. The way things look is not always what they seem to be. There are hidden truths in one another’s lives that only the Lord knows, so we should never judge one another by the surface facts of our lives. That is hard to do sometimes, but it is necessary to be a true community that lives in the Holy Spirit, eating, drinking, dancing sometimes, weeping sometimes, and supporting one another through our life’s journey. Our reflection verse today from Luke’s gospel speaks to the beauty of our church. Individually, we are less than perfect people, but together, we are the living, breathing body of Jesus Christ. The vindication for our imperfections is not from ourselves but from Jesus, the bridegroom of our church, who earned the right for us to be gathered together to celebrate eternal life with him and one another. Surely, we will meet one another in heaven one day, and someone will play the flute, and then we shall dance. But today, I pray that your spirit dances within you wherever you may go.

Christ knows he is surrounded by a crowd that will be awed by the miracle and will tell the story all over the countryside. But he does not act artificially, merely to create an effect. Quite simply, he is touched by that woman’s suffering and cannot but console her. He goes up to her and says, “Do not weep.” It is like he is saying: “I don’t want to see you crying; I have come on earth to bring joy and peace.” Only then comes the miracle, the sign of the power of Christ, who is God. Sr. Melannie Svoboda says we usually think of a miracle as something extraordinary, something spectacular. In the Gospel reading, we see Jesus raise to life the son of the widow of Nain. Yes, raising the young man was miraculous. But just as extraordinary was this: Jesus being moved to compassion by the suffering of a stranger in a nowhere little town. Fidelity, kindness, devotion, and compassion are all expressions of love. And isn’t love the greatest miracle of all?

In her work “The Flowing Light of the Godhead,” Mechthild of Magdeburg, a medieval mystic, writes: “Lord, you’re full, and you fill us with your kindness, too. You’re great, and we’re small. Tell us, how are we to become like you then? Lord, I see you’ve given us many blessings and that we must pass these on to others. Although we have a small vessel, you still fill it up. A person can pour the contents of a full, small container into an empty, larger container over and over until the large container becomes full from the contents of the small container. The large container is the satisfaction God gets from our kind actions. Sadly, we are so tiny that a single petite word from God or the Bible fills us so completely that we can’t take it in for the moment anymore. We should then pour the gift back again into the large container that is God. How can we do this? Through our holy desires, we must pour our small container of God’s love over those we know so that they may work on becoming perfect in God’s kindness and remain that way. Our Lord God wants us to love Him just as He has loved us and loves us still and always will. If we want to be like Him, we will love just as He does.”

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry” is a famous line from Erich Segal’s 1970 novel, “Love Story.”  Bishop Robert Morneau writes that this statement is not only lousy psychology but also denies what love is all about. “The cousins of love are mercy and forgiveness. Every relationship will have its hurts and bruises. These must be tended to as much as a knife wound. If not, an infection will set in, threatening our spiritual and community life. A humble spirit and contrite heart allow us to live authentically with God and others.” In the Book of Daniel, at the point where Daniel’s three friends refuse to bow down to the golden image of Nebuchadnezzar and are thrown into the fiery furnace, the three friends, commonly known as Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego – the names they were given in Babylon which in the original Hebrew were Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah, we have Azariah (Abednego) praying loudly to the Lord: “But with contrite heart and humble spirit let us be received.” Bishop Morneau makes a crucial point: “As we come before the Lord in personal or communal prayer, our disposition and our moral behavior play a significant part in the effectiveness of our dialogue with the Lord. Humility grounds us in the truth of things; contrition opens our hearts to receive the mercy of God. The Gospel parable about the servant who received God’s forgiveness but refused to forgive in return is deeply disturbing. Of course, we are that servant being offered God’s forgiveness. Hopefully, we are not that servant in withholding forgiveness from those who have hurt us in any way.” Jesus teaches that forgiveness of others must be “from the heart,” for that is what God looks at in every request we make of Him. That is the depth and breadth of his desire for intimacy and truth.

Kathy Hendricks in Give Us This Day writes that her home was her stronghold, sheltering her throughout her childhood and adolescence. “My parents built the house before World War II, and it was a strong and sturdy structure. This proved true in withstanding the elements of nature and the way our family weathered storms of grief and loss. My years at our home formed a foundation that has steadied me for decades. Perhaps this is why I am so fond of Jesus’ image of the house built on rock. I get it down to my core. The parable is not difficult to unravel. When we truly hear what Jesus teaches, we act accordingly. In doing so, we aren’t thrown off base by faith-straining experiences and events. However, what may not be so clear is how to remain true to this foundation. There is no disputing the profound impact of a nurturing family. The bedrock of faith, however, isn’t dependent on a street address or idyllic childhood. It continues to be formed, layer by layer, in various ways. Spiritual practice is one. Routines of prayer, reflection, and meditation expand the interior space in which love, mercy, compassion, and wisdom can grow. Immersion is another. We cannot, nor should we try to, escape the realities of the world with all of its societal and cultural sinkholes. The beauty of the Eucharist, the richness of our shared story, and the companionship of our Church family provide solid ground upon which to merge word and deed into an authentic act of faith.”

Today’s Gospel reveals an essential fact about Mary as she deals with the greatest of all sorrows: her son’s horrific torture and ultimate death. As Jesus was dying, Mary stood under the Cross. What is she doing standing under the Cross? At first glance, it appears she is doing nothing. She does not speak, does not try to stop the crucifixion, does not protest its unfairness, or plead Jesus’ innocence. She is mute – seemingly passive, not doing anything at all. But, as Fr. Ron Rolheiser suggests, at a deeper level, she is doing two important things. First, in the Gospels, “standing” is a position of strength. Mary stood under the Cross. She was silent, but she was strong and fearless there. She was not one of those who fled. Second, she refused to give back what she was receiving. Mary seems to say, “I can’t stop the crucifixion, but I can stop some of this hatred.” “I can’t stop this crucifixion, but I will not give back this bitterness.” “I can’t stop this crucifixion, but I will not add a single drop to this negative, destructive energy swirling around me.” “I can’t stop this crucifixion, but I can give the opposite of this crucifixion: gentleness, understanding, forgiveness, peace, and light.” Why does any of this matter? In the Gospels, Mary is the first person to hear and keep the Word of God. Thus, she is the first true disciple. She knows what a true disciple should be and should do. She provides an example of discipleship that we can imitate. Today’s celebration invites us to follow her example in two areas of our lives. First, when pain, sorrow, suffering, and grief come, Mary inspires us to stand in strength and courage and to take heart. Second, Mary encourages us to refuse to give back darkness when darkness comes. When confronted by negativity and blackness, Mary inspires us to transform negativity and blackness rather than retransmit them.

What does God look like? German priest and theologian Karl Rahner wrote that to ask a question like this is tantamount to looking at the most beautiful day in June, seeing all the trees and flowers in full blossom, and asking a friend, “Where is summer?” To see certain things is to see summer. To see certain things is to see God. Rahner used to ask people when they asked him this question about God:

• Have you ever kept silent, despite the urge to defend yourself, when you were unfairly treated?
• Have you ever forgiven another, although you gained nothing by it, and your forgiveness was accepted as quite natural?
• Have you ever made a sacrifice without receiving any thanks or acknowledgment or feeling any inward satisfaction?
• Have you ever decided to do a thing simply for the sake of conscience, knowing that you must bear sole responsibility for your decision without being able to explain it to anyone?
• Have you ever tried to act purely for the love of God when no warmth sustained you when your act seemed a leap in the dark, simply nonsensical?
• Have you ever been good to someone without expecting a trace of gratitude and without the comfortable feeling of having been “unselfish”?

Rahner asserts that if you have had such experiences, you have experienced God, perhaps without realizing it. A little girl, drawing a picture, was asked by her mother: “What are you drawing?” She replied: “A picture of God!” “But we don’t know what God looks like,” her mother objected. “Well,” replied the child, “when I am finished with this, then you will know what God looks like!” If we do what Rahner suggests, we will also draw a picture of God.¹

¹ Adapted from Ron Rolheiser, “What Does God Look Like,” September 1994.

In his article, “Turning Our Eyes Toward Heaven,” Fr. Rolheiser writes that it’s not easy for the faithful to be centered, rooted, secure in who we are, and able to give our very best to the world each day. Why? The honest answer can be found in our prayer life or lack thereof. How can we manage the daily churning of the sea that so much of life appears to be when the ship of life we travel in does not have an anchor? Unless we are anchored in something beyond the here and now, there is a good chance that we will drown in the present moment. Jesus models the kind of prayer we need to cope with a world that goes mad at times and with a heart prone to drink in that madness. The gospels describe Jesus praying in different ways, but sometimes they simply say: “He turned his eyes towards heaven!” The phrase hasn’t been lost on artists. Virtually every painting of someone being martyred has this motif: the martyr has his or her eyes lifted up towards heaven, in contrast to the eyes of the executioners and onlookers, which are cast downwards in hatred, envy, and groupthink or in the blank stare of mindlessness. What made Jesus different was a prayer praxis that sought union with the Father. Each of us must find our own way of doing this if we are to cope with the forces that threaten to drown us. Only in seeking to be one with His will can we ever hope to be grounded, be ourselves, have a clear direction in life, be free of compulsions, and live out more of our dignity, goodness, and creativity. Without prayer, we haven’t a prayer. – Gil Bailie