Author: DVO

Amy Ekeh, Director of Little Rock Scripture Study, makes some observations on The Book of Ecclesiastes, which many who study scripture can connect to, especially her comment that this book “May not be the book to read when you are having a really bad day.” One of the better-known verses from Ecclesiastes is our reflection verse for today:  “Vanity of vanities! All is vanity.” Amy writes that the word “vanity” is the typical English translation of the Hebrew word hebel, which means “vapor” or “breath.”  The word is used 38 times in the Book of Ecclesiastes to describe the fleeting and even futile nature of life. I have often found this book to voice how I feel about life at times, giving me a “permission” of sorts, as Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes, to not only be okay feeling that way but also to “pray in honesty out of that space.” Amy says a stark realism is written down and poured out on the sacred page: “That is why I don’t find it strange that the Book of Ecclesiastes found its way into the canon. I don’t think the ideas we read here mean that life really is hebel, or futile. I don’t think the author’s own uncertainty about the afterlife means that we need to be uncertain. But this book allows us to express our frustrations and fears, and it comforts us. It allows us to have dark moments and say, ‘I don’t get it’ and ‘It isn’t fair.”‘  It allows us to read and say, ‘I’m not sure either’ and ‘What is death, really?’ If nothing else, this special book reminds us that opening scripture always begins a conversation with God. We can express every emotion, ask every question, and enter into every mystery. And when we enter into the very honest and very human ideas we find in the Book of Ecclesiastes, we can be assured that our God understands and responds: ‘I hear you, my people. Keep talking to me.'” 

Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that to name something properly brings a certain peace of mind. St. John of the Cross tells us that the process of spiritual direction works this way: first, there is the raw experience itself, the flow of events in our lives that triggers a bevy of thoughts and feelings that both stimulate and perplex the soul. This is like uncut-dough, in need of shaping. Next comes the objectification of that experience. The person seeking guidance must in some way give expression to his or her experience, however crudely, through words, a drawing, a dance, whatever. But this initial expression is not yet an interpretation. That’s the next step. With the help of a spiritual director, the person now searches for a name to properly describe what is happening inside them. Using paradigms drawn from scripture and Christian tradition, the one being directed tests various images, like one would try on shoes in a store, looking for a good fit: “Could this be the same thing as Job experienced? Could this be an experience of the ‘desert’? Is God testing me as he did Abraham and Sarah?” When there is a proper fit, peace ensues. The experience has been properly named, and we have turned raw circumstance into shaped destiny. To name something properly is an act of faith, an act that manifests transcendence. Raw forces are forever impaling themselves upon us, but we get to determine their meaning. We do that by naming our experiences correctly. To pray and to struggle in naming our experiences biblically and in faith is to “read the signs of the times.” And remember, not everything can be cured or fixed, but it should be named properly.

Today, we look at two engaging reflections on this famous passage from Luke regarding Jesus’ answer to the question, “Who is my mother?” Bishop Robert Barron points to the nature of family. He writes that there is nothing in the world wrong with fostering the flourishing of your family. But over and again, the Bible places the world’s goods into question—even something as good as family relationships. Why? Because family isn’t God. It is not that which you should serve with your whole heart; it doesn’t belong in the center of your life. Is family the point around which most of your energies revolve? Is it your primary focus as you make your way through the day? Are there times when you feel your family obligations competing with the will of God? That brings you back to today’s reflection verse, “My mother and my brothers are those who hear the word of God and act on it.” So Fr. Ron Rolheiser asks, “Is Jesus distancing himself from his mother here?” He emphatically replies, “No.” He’s pointing out the fundamental link between them. Among all the people in the gospels, Mary is the pre-eminent example of the one who hears the word of God and keeps it.” Fr. Rolheiser goes on to note how Mary gave birth to Christ as something we are called to do in our lives – giving birth to faith in Christ. “Looking at how Mary gave birth to Christ, we see that it’s not something that’s done instantly. Faith, like biology, also relies on a process with several distinct, organic moments. What are these moments? What is the process by which we give birth to faith in the world? Mary wants imitation, not admiration. Our task, too, is to give birth to Christ. Mary is the paradigm for doing that. From her, we get the pattern: Let the word of God take root and make you pregnant; gestate that by giving it the nourishing sustenance of your own life; submit to the pain that is demanded for it to be born to the outside; then spend years coaxing it from infancy to adulthood; and finally, during and after all of this, do some pondering, accept the pain of not understanding and of letting go. It began with Mary, but each of us is asked to make our own contribution to giving flesh to faith in the world.”

We all fear judgment. We fear being seen with everything inside us, some of which we don’t want exposed to the light. Conversely, we fear being misunderstood and not being seen in the full light, and not being seen for who we are. And what we fear most, perhaps, is a final judgment, the ultimate revelation of ourselves. Whether we are religious or not, most of us fear having to one day face our Maker, judgment day. We fear standing naked in complete light where nothing’s hidden, and all that’s in the dark inside us is brought to light. For many, the above words from Fr. Ron Rolheiser might be our human response to the reality that light, as our reflection verse notes, exposes everything. When, one day, we stand in the full light of God, stripped naked in soul, morally defenseless, with everything we have ever done exposed, that light will, I suspect, indeed be a bit of hell before it turns into heaven. It will expose all that’s selfish and impure inside us and all the ways we have hurt others in our selfishness, even as it will expose its opposite, namely, all that’s selfless and pure inside us. That judgment will bring with it a certain condemnation even as it brings at the same time an understanding, forgiveness, and consolation such as we have never known before. That judgment will be momentarily bitter but ultimately consoling. For those of us who are Roman Catholics, this notion of judgment is also, I believe, what we mean by our concept of purgatory. Purgatory is not a place separate from heaven where one goes for a time to do penance for one’s sins and purify one’s heart. Our hearts are purified by being embraced by God, not by being separated from God for a time so as to be made worthy of that embrace. Therese of Lisieux implies that the punishment for our sin is in the embrace itself. Final judgment takes place by being unconditionally embraced by love. When that happens to the extent that we’re sinful and selfish, that embrace of pure goodness and love will make us painfully aware of our own sin, and that will be hell until it is heaven. None of us deserves either the cruelty or the grace we experience in this world. Only the embrace of unconditional love, God’s kiss, will make us aware both of how cruel we’ve been and how good we really are.

There can be no peace on the big stage of life when there is greed, jealousy, unwillingness to forgive, and unwillingness to compromise within our private hearts. When the outer body gets sick, it nearly always signals a breakdown in the internal immune system. Fr. Ron Rolheiser opens our reflection on waging peace in a world where someone could be pretty sure that there is not much in the way of antibodies (charity, joy, peace, patience, goodness, long-suffering, faith, mildness, gentleness, and chastity) within the body of humanity, namely, within our private lives. When we cannot get along with each other within our marriages and families, we should not be surprised that countries do not get along with each other. There are many aspects to waging peace. The social justice literature of the past decades has given us a crucial insight that should never again be lost, namely, that private virtue and private charity, alone, are not enough. In the face of unjust systems and corrupt governments, Christians cannot get away with simply practicing private virtue and saying to their less fortunate neighbors: “I wish you well. (Stay warm and well-fed!) I’m a good and honest person, I did nothing to cause your suffering!” There are real social and political issues underlying war, poverty, oppression, and violence. Peace-making must address these. But there are real private, personal ones as well. Hence, waging peace requires more than simply confronting the powers that be. What must, ultimately, be confronted is our own greed, hurt, jealousy, inability to forgive, compromise, and respect. More than we need to convert bad systems, we need to convert ourselves. There is a story told about a Lutheran pastor, a Norwegian, who was arrested by the Gestapo during the Second World War. When he was brought into the interrogation room, the Gestapo officer placed his revolver on the table between them and said: “Father, this is just to let you know that we are serious!” The pastor, instinctually, pulled out his bible and laid it beside the revolver. The officer demanded: “Why did you do that?” The pastor replied: “You laid out your weapon – and so did I!” So, in waging peace we must keep in mind what our true weapons are and who the real enemy is. and saying to their less fortunate neighbors: “I wish you well. (Stay warm and well-fed!) I’m a good and honest person, I did nothing to cause your suffering!” There are real social and political issues underlying war, poverty, oppression, and violence. Peace-making must address these. But there are real private, personal ones as well. Hence, waging peace requires more than simply confronting the powers that be. What must, ultimately, be confronted is our own greed, hurt, jealousy, inability to forgive, compromise, and respect. More than we need to convert bad systems, we need to convert ourselves. There is a story told about a Lutheran pastor, a Norwegian, who was arrested by the Gestapo during the Second World War. When he was brought into the interrogation room, the Gestapo officer placed his revolver on the table between them and said: “Father, this is just to let you know that we are serious!” The pastor, instinctually, pulled out his bible and laid it beside the revolver. The officer demanded: “Why did you do that?” The pastor replied: “You laid out your weapon – and so did I!” So, in waging peace we must keep in mind what our true weapons are and who the real enemy is.

Dr. Catherine Kroeger, in her article titled, The Neglected History of Women in the Early Church, notes that women were the last disciples at the cross and the first at the empty tomb. She was captivated by their integral relationship to the work of the church in its early centuries. Below is an excerpt from her article.

“It is no surprise that women were active in the early church. From the very start—the birth, ministry, death and resurrection of Jesus—women were significantly involved. In fact, women were the major witnesses of his crucifixion and resurrection. Matthew, Mark and Luke all record that a significant group of women had followed Jesus in his Galilean ministry, and that they were present at his execution—when the male disciples were conspicuously absent. All three describe the women’s presence at Jesus’ burial. Luke declares that the women who had followed Jesus from Galilee still followed along as Christ was carried to the tomb. Mark details the care with which Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses, brother of James the younger, noted where He was laid, while Matthew tells how they kept watch over the sepulcher after the men had left. John tells of the group immediately beneath the cross, three women and one man. John alone preserves the garden interview between Mary Magdalene and the Risen Christ. The early church considered Mary Magdalene an ‘apostle to the apostles,’ and Luke relied heavily on the testimony of women as he wrote both Luke and Acts. The involvement of women continued in the first few decades of the church, attested by both biblical and extra-biblical sources. A number of women served as leaders of the house churches that sprang up in the cities of the Roman Empire—the list includes Priscilla, Chloe, Lydia, Apphia, Nympha, the mother of John Mark, and possibly the ‘elect lady’ of John’s second epistle. The walls of the Roman catacombs bear pictures showing women standing in prayer, exercising a ministry of intercession and benediction, and dominating the scene. To this day, their steadfast faith and ministry still bless us.”

In the gospel reading from Luke, Jesus is at supper at a Pharisee’s home when a “sinful woman” washes and anoints Jesus’ feet. The Pharisee sees this display and wonders how Jesus could allow this to happen. Marylynn Herchline of Ite Missa Est writes that his self-righteous attitude prevents him from seeing this woman as anything but broken and unlovable. The Pharisee seems to illustrate our human tendency to judge others. This self-righteousness prevents us from seeing our own brokenness and need for help. Without this awareness, we are unable to be healed.  A recent homily from Bishop Robert Barron reminded me about the 12-step program. The first steps in the program require the admission of helplessness and the necessity of relying on a “higher power” to be healed.  Our spiritual healing and salvation require this same surrender. If we are unable to humbly admit our need for mercy, then in some ways, we close off the ability to receive God’s grace. The woman in today’s reading readily identifies the need for forgiveness, and her ability to be open provides her the opportunity for grace that brings healing and redemption.  Jesus tells her, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”  We need God’s grace to find peace, love, and salvation, but God does not force this on us. God patiently waits for us to say, “I need your help!” I believe that Jesus loves both the Pharisee and the woman who anoints his feet.  However, the difference in the love that the woman shows to Jesus and the Pharisee’s reception of Jesus at his home is remarkable. She is overflowing with love and gratitude because she has experienced God’s love, acceptance, and mercy. Her humility and faith opens the door for this conversion to occur. Jesus invites us to this same transformation.  Similar to the beginning of the 12-step process, we need to understand that we are unable to fix ourselves, and we must rely on the goodness of our God to provide what we need. This faith in God allows us to receive great mercy, which then opens us to the many graces of living in Christ.

God’s love, as related by Jacques Maritain in his book, Raissa’s Journal, is sweet only to those who are already saints and to those who do not know what they are talking about. Fr. Rolheiser writes that this is true not just of God’s love, but of all love. Love isn’t easy, except in our daydreams. The older we get, the more we sense what love actually demands. I wonder sometimes whether I, or almost anyone else, have much sense of what that over-used word, love, really means. When we are honest, we sense our own distance from its full meaning. We too easily read Jesus’ most important commandment: “Love one another as I have loved you!” We read this command simplistically, romantically, and in a one-sided, over-confident manner. Like the deepest part of the gospel to which it is linked, the crucifixion, it is very, very difficult to imitate. Why? It’s one thing to love someone who adores you, it’s quite another to love someone who wants you dead! But that’s the real test. Jesus’ command to love contains a critical subordinate clause, “as I have loved you!” What was unique in the way he loved us? Where Jesus stretches us beyond our natural instincts and all self-delusion is in his command to love our enemies, to be warm to those who are cold to us, to be kind to those who are cruel to us, to do good to those who hate us, to forgive those who hurt us, to forgive those who won’t forgive us, and to ultimately love and forgive those who are trying to kill us. The gospel is uncompromising: We are loving or non-loving not based on how we respond to those who love us but based on how we respond to those who hate us and are cold, hostile, and murderous toward us. That’s the hard, non-negotiable truth underlying Jesus’ command to love and, when we are honest, we must admit that we are still a long way from measuring up to that. What shatters our illusion of love is the presence in our lives of people who hate us. They’re the test. It’s here where we have to measure up: If we can love them, we’re real lovers, if we can’t, we’re still under a self-serving illusion.

Christ is a mystery that includes us, Jesus’ followers on earth, the sacraments, the Word (Scripture), and the Church. Scripture is clear: We are the Body of Christ on earth. We don’t represent Christ, replace Christ, or are some vague mystical presence of Christ. We are the Body of Christ, as too are the Eucharist and the Word (the Christian scriptures). Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that part of the wonder of the incarnation is the astonishing fact that we can do for each other what Jesus did for us. Jesus gives us that power. To be touched, loved, and forgiven by a member of the body of believers is to be touched, loved, and forgiven by Christ. Hell is possible only when someone has put himself entirely out of the range of love and forgiveness to render himself incapable of being loved and forgiven. This is not so much a question of rejecting explicit religious or moral teaching as it is of rejecting love as it is offered among the community of the sincere. In a parable, G.K. Chesterton once expressed this: “A man who was entirely careless of spiritual affairs died and went to hell. And he was much missed on earth by his old friends. His business agent went down to the gates of hell to see if there was any chance of bringing him back. But though he pleaded for the gates to be opened, the iron bars never yielded. His priest also went and argued: ‘He was not really a bad fellow; given time he would have matured. Let him out, please!’ The gate remained stubbornly shut against all their voices. Finally, his mother came; she did not beg for his release. Quietly and with a strange catch in her voice, she said to Satan: ‘Let me in.’ Immediately, the great doors swung open upon their hinges. For love goes down through the gates of hell, and there redeems the dead.” In the incarnation, God takes on human flesh: in Jesus, the Eucharist, and all who are sincere in faith. The incredible power and mercy that came into our world in Jesus is still with us, at least if we choose to activate it. We are the Body of Christ. What Jesus did for us, we can do for each other. Our love and forgiveness are the cords that connect our loved ones to God, salvation, and the community of saints, even when they are no longer walking the path of explicit faith.

What does the centurion mean when he says, “I am not worthy,” and how does that speak to how God sees that all he created was good? Fr. Mike Schmitz writes that the Church has always taught the universal goodness of the universe and human dignity. Where does “our” goodness come from? The Church teaches that all of our goodness comes from God. Not some of it, but all of it. God is the source of everything that is good in us. I cannot overemphasize this point. If we start claiming dignity or worth as our own apart from God, we wander into a very dangerous trap. When we repeat the phrase “I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof,” we are not speaking of our worth in relation to other human beings. We are talking about our worth in comparison to God himself. Because all of our goodness comes from God, human dignity is something we can scarcely imagine. But this does not make us even close to becoming equals with God. We are not talking about being worthy of just and honorable treatment by another human being, being worthy of respect and equality in the community in which we live, or being worthy of the love of the people around us. We are talking about whether we believe God “owed it to us” that we deserved that he should die for us. We are talking about whether we deserved that God “emptied himself and took the form of a slave … [and] obediently accepted … death on a cross!” We are dangerously close to asserting that we are so worthy that the Lord of the Universe ought to humble himself to the point of becoming our food. I am not worthy of that. God is so good, however, that he offers me this. Remember, pride is still the deadliest of the deadly sins. And pride that is simply dressed up as “self-worth” remains deadly. Compared with God, I am not worthy, yet his goodness desires to bridge the gap between his worthiness and our unworthiness, which is why we continue, “but only say the word, and my soul shall be healed.”