Thirteenth Sunday – He is There

This Sunday the Lectionary gives us another of Mark’s splendid “sandwiches.”  The story opens and closes with the resurrection of Jairus’ daughter.  In the middle is the story of the woman with a hemmorhage.  Together, they show the many working of Jesus, the wideness of his mercy.

Spas vsederzhitel sinay.jpgAt the heart of our Epistle, our second-to-last Sunday reading Second Corinthians, is the curious word “equality”: “As a matter of equality your abundance at the present time should supply their needs.”  The word means “likeness,” or “matching up.”  “Though he was rich, for your sake he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich”: his poverty somehow matches up with our poverty so that he can match us up with his riches.  He does “gracious acts” so that we can do the same.

The reading brilliantly pairs with our reading from Wisdom.  “God did not make death.”  He doesn’t want us to suffer, that isn’t the point of death—but there is some kind of “match up.”  On the one hand, a match between the “imperishability” and “image of his own nature” that he gives us, so that we can match up with his richness.  On the other hand, a kind of match-up—not yet quite in sight in the Old Testament—between our death and Christ’s, his resurrection and ours.

In short: Why is there suffering in the world?  So that Christ can heal it.  They “match up.”


The Gospel is exquisite.  Mark is short; scholars claim it must have been written first because it is primitive.  But there is nothing primitive about this passage.  Here, Mark is longer and more detailed—and richer—than either Matthew or Luke.

The sandwich encourages us to see the two stories together.  Two sick girls.  The woman has been bleeding “for twelve years.”  We later learn (Matthew doesn’t have this detail) that the girl was “a child of twelve.”  Jesus calls her “Little girl” and her father (in a detail our translation leaves out) calls her his “daughterling,” his little girl, but that signifies more about her station than her age.

File:Healing of a bleeding women Marcellinus-Peter-Catacomb.jpgThe woman’s infirmity is obviously connected to her reproductive system—there is some sort of match-up between daughterhood and motherhood.  The two are the same, and opposites.  Jesus calls the woman, too, “daughter”: “Daughter, your faith has saved you.”

The woman hasn’t died, but the language is dramatic.  When it says she had a “flow” of blood, the Greek word doesn’t mean “trickle,” it’s the word you use for a current in a river.  She has “suffered” from the doctors.  But when he heals her, it says her “fountain” of blood becomes “arid,” like scorched earth.  At the end he calls it her “scourge,” the thing you get beaten with.  She does not rise from the dead, but her situation is awful, humiliating, and dramatic.

The ways of approach are opposite.  The woman approaches for herself, the child’s father approaches for her.  The woman is in a crowd “pressing on” Jesus, so that her touch is only one among many; the child is in a house, where Jesus keeps the “commotion” outside.  He “looked around to see who had” touched him; he was the only one who touched the little girl, and the small crowd in the house—only the father and mother and three disciples—were watching closely.  The father orders Jesus to come with him to his home, the woman tries to touch him without being noticed—but the story ends with Jesus giving the father a command (“give her something to eat”), but only generosity to the woman (“go in peace, and be healed”).


File:P1340364 Paris XII ND Bercy Lafosse Ressurection fille Jaire rwk.jpgMark alone gives us the Aramaic: Talitha koum.  It is his own version of when John says, of the water and blood at the Cross, “He who saw it has borne witness—his testimony is true, and he knows what he is telling.”  Mark, of course, was not there—but Peter was.  Mark is also the only one to tell us that Jesus called God “Abba” in the Garden (where again only Peter, James, and John were with him); and that Jesus said “Ephphatha” to the man who was deaf and dumb, after “taking him aside from the crowd privately”; and that James and little-brother John were called “Boanerges, that is, Sons of Thunder”; and even that Jesus used the Aramaic “Corban” to discuss false vows of poverty and that the blind man was named “Bartimaeus.”

The scene in the house is parallel to the Transfiguration, where again Jesus will take just Peter, James, and John to see his glory.  This is the only time Jesus raises the dead in Matthew and Mark (though Luke has a mother’s son to parallel the father’s daughter).  Mark and Peter use the Aramaic to indicate the intimacy of the scene: I was there, I remember the words he said.

But in a different way, the crowd scene, too, is so dramatic: the pressing in, the grasping of the cloak, Jesus “twisting around” and “looking about,” the woman falling on her knees and telling “the whole truth.”


File:Healing of a bleeding women.jpgTaken together, these scenes show the universality of Jesus’s mercy.  In intimate silence and in the crowd, in our youth and our old age, in death and in humiliation, when we call out in strength and when we fall on our knees in fear—Jesus is there.

Where don’t you seek the Lord?

Birthday of the Baptist: The Source of our Fruitfulness

I am the vine

Jesus calls us to bear fruit.  It is tempting, then, to put aside contemplation in favor of action.  I have seen this said, for example, by both scholars and young people, about marriage: we can’t let family slow us down in our mission for the world!  And I feel the temptation to cut both my studies and my prayer short, so that I can go “make a difference.”

But our reading last week—and we could quote endlessly from the Gospels—reminds us that the power of the fruit is in the seed, which bears fruit “we know not how” and springs up far beyond what we would expect.  The key to fruitfulness is not activism, but letting Jesus work in us.


This week our Ordinary Sunday gets trumped by the Birthday of John the Baptist.  John is the ultimate missionary, the greatest of the prophets.  But in celebrating his Birthday, we celebrate God’s work in John before John worked for God.

File:Meister von Gracanica (I) 001.jpgThus our first reading, from Isaiah, a prophet like John, says first, “The LORD called me from birth,” then “He made of me a sharp-edged sword.”  The point is: He did it, my effectiveness is from Him.

And only because he is God’s work, he can reach beyond human limitations.  “It is too little, he says, for you . . . to raise up the tribes of Jacob and restore the survivors of Israel.”  Working for the salvation of the whole people of Israel would be pretty good, more than I could hope to accomplish.  But “I will make you a light to the nations”—and indeed, both Isaiah and John the Baptist have served to convert the entire world.  Only because it was God’s work, not theirs: “My God is now my strength!”

And John always points beyond himself.  Our reading from Acts reminds us that he was always herald of the King: “What do you suppose that I am?  I am not he.”  His strength comes from beyond him, and so it points beyond him.


Our Gospel, of course, is the story of John’s birth, from the first chapter of Luke.

The center of the story is the naming of John.  Yochanan or Yehochanan (whence the Greek Ioannes) is a semi-common name in the Old Testament, meaning God (YHWH) has bent down, or had mercy.

File:Nativity john baptist.jpgThere are some nice themes.  One is relatives.  The same word is used in the earlier story when the angel tells Mary, “Your relative Elizabeth in her age old has has also conceived.”  Then in our story, “Her neighbors and relatives heard that the Lord had shown great mercy to her” (had Yochanan-ed).  And then, “None of your relatives is called by this name.”  Nature does not produce John.  God’s mercy does.  Mary and Elizabeth are deeper sisters by grace than by nature.

“The Lord had shown his great mercy toward her.”  He had “megalune-d” his mercy, just as Mary had just told Elizabeth, “My soul magnifies [megalune-s] the Lord . . . for he who is mighty has done great things [megalune-d] for me . . . And his mercy is on them that fear him, from generation to generation.”  Mary makes God great, because God has made her great.

So too Zechariah “blesses” God, because God has blessed him.  Our work is always in response to his mercy in our lives.


And, like the mustard seed, it bears fruit faster than we would think.  Here are two more echoes from what Luke has just said about Mary.

File:Leonardo da Vinci - Saint John the Baptist C2RMF retouched.jpgFirst, “Then fear came upon all their neighbors” (not their relatives?)  Now, we don’t like to talk about fear of the Lord, but the Bible does.  Mary says in her Magnificat, one of the most important prayers we have, that “His mercy is on those who fear him.”

In our context, let us just say: they realize that God is powerful.  That’s not everything, but it’s a huge thing.  Fear of the Lord means knowing that we are lost without him, and that we will be changed by him.  There’s an awful lot in modern Christianity, especially modern Catholicism, that seems to say, “He is weak and we are strong”—I heard again recently the very lame line, “We are his hands, Jesus cannot reach out without us.”  Balderdash.

He created the universe.  He doesn’t need you, you need him—and the amazing thing about our taking part in his work is that he chooses to share his life with us, to let us participate in his mercy toward others.  I am weak and he is strong!

That’s what fear of the Lord means.  That’s what Mary proclaims, and what Elizabeth’s neighbors discover in God’s mercy to her, his Yochanan, YHWH bending down to her.


Second, “All who heard these things took them to heart, saying, ‘What, then, will this child be?’”  Twice in Luke 2 we hear that Mary “treasures” the mysteries of the child Jesus in her heart.  It’s an echo, too, of Psalm 119, “Thy word I have hid within my heart.”  Here they only “place it” in their hearts—but the point is, everything begins with us pondering the unfathomable works of God.

How do we bear fruit?  Not by setting aside God or the duties he puts on us, but by letting him work his miracles in us, letting him make of us a marvel that makes people wonder what’s going on.

What miracles does God want to show to the world through his work in your heart?

Eleventh Sunday – Thy Kingdom Come

This Sunday our Gospel plunges us into Jesus’s teaching, with the parables of the seed that grows “he knows not how” and the mustard seed.

The first thing to notice—in continuity with last week’s struggles about the “house” and the “kingdom,” is that Jesus’s teaching focuses on “the kingdom of God.”  “Thy will be done” can sometimes, by itself, give us an individualistic idea of our relationship with God, but “thy kingdom come” situates us within a people and a greater project of renewal.  Christian salvation is social.


Our reading concludes, “Without parables he did not speak to them, but to his own disciples he explained everything in private.”  This passage summarizes a half chapter which this year’s Lectionary skipped—though we read about the parable, and I commented on it, last year (Fifteenth Sunday), in Matthew.

That story is about the seed that falls on different kinds of ground, and in both Matthew’s and Mark’s accounts, Jesus ties that parable to the claim, “To you has been given the secret of the kingdom of God, but for those outside everything is in parables.”  Sometimes people say Jesus’s uses quaint parables to make himself accessible to quaint country people.  But Jesus says just the opposite: he uses parables in part to hide his teaching.

Or rather, Jesus is the key to the teaching.  The teachings are all from Jesus and about Jesus, he is the way, the truth, and the life.  If we stay close to him, the teachings are luminous; without him, we can do, and understand, nothing.

Also in the half-chapter we’re skipping, Mark spins two other sayings in this direction.  Matthew says we are the light of the world, and a lamp is not supposed to be put under a bushel basket.  But here in Mark, it’s Jesus’s teaching, and his kingdom, which are meant to be revealed and revealing.

So too with the line, “With the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”  For Matthew and Luke, this is about treating others right.  But for Mark, here in chapter four, it is about understanding the words of Jesus: live by the sword, die by the sword; live by the word of Jesus, and his word will reveal everything to you, but live by another word, and all is darkness.

As I’ve said before, Mark is Peter’s Gospel, and Peter wants us to keep our eye fixed on Jesus.


The first parable we read is the seed growing.  The parable of the sower, which we skipped, emphasizes the difference of the ground: is our heart ready to receive his word?  But this parable emphasizes the mysterious power of the seed itself.  The farmer just “scatters” the seed, then goes to bed.  “The seed sprouts and grows, he knows not how.”

The kingdom of God depends not on our strength, not on our plans, but on the power of Jesus, and of his seed, the Word.  We cover it with the bushel basket of our human calculations, measure it by human prudence—but he can do immeasurably more than we ask or imagine.

Jesus adds the picturesque detail that first the blade comes, then the ear, then the full grain.  Sometimes all we see is a tiny little plant sticking up, and we don’t even know if it’s the Kingdom or not, or if it can possibly survive.  But he is working, and we must pray, “Thy Kingdom come!” and give ourselves over to that divine work.

Other times we see the Kingdom at work, but it doesn’t yet bear fruit that we can receive.  No matter, Thy Kingdom come!


Our second parable is the mustard seed.  The simple point is, we think Jesus can’t possibly win.  But he can.  He’s more powerful than you think.  Jesus, I trust in you.

My Bible dictionary says the thing about Middle Eastern “Sinapis” is that it grows fast.

Our first reading, from Ezekiel, reminds us that this parable has a background—Jesus is often quoting the Old Testament (maybe we should read it).  Ezekiel even has the detail of the birds dwelling in the shade of its boughs.  Ezekiel, too, underlines the power of God: it is not we who make the kingdom strong, it is the Lord.


The reading from Second Corinthians is dizzying.  We are at home in the body, we would rather leave the body, we are judged by what we do in the body.  We are at home (literally, among our people), away from home, we want to go home, we should please the Lord at home or away from home, we’re going home.  There’s a lot to pray about here.

But one point for us: we will appear at the foot of Christ.  (Our translation says “judgment seat,” but that adds a detail that only distracts.)  We must live all our life in the light of this final encounter: love what he loves, share in his work, live by his word, and let him be our all in all.

That’s the meaning of the Kingdom: not that Jesus has some project he wants done, but that he wants our whole life to be united to him, for our every moment to be hallowing his name, calling out for his kingdom and his will, living by his bread, dwelling in the mercy of his forgiveness, letting him be our leader and deliverer.

What does Jesus’s kingdom mean in your daily life?

More on the Strong Man

Another thought on this Sunday’s Gospel:

The scribes, coming down from kingly Jerusalem to Jesus’s house, say, “By the prince of demons he casts out demons.”  (Continuing the parallels between kingdom and house, they also say, “He has Beelzebub,” whose name seems to be a Hebrew parody: Baal of the Flies, maybe, the pagan God of the filthy house.)

Jesus first responds to the general charge, “How can Satan cast out Satan” (how can the attacker throw out the attacker).  Then he ties it to kingdom and house: “If a kingdom be divided against itself . . . if a house be divided against itself.”


Then he adds one last version: “No one can enter a strong man’s house and seize his goods unless he first bind the strong man.”

Now, there are two houses here.  Jesus is casting out demons and “preaching the Gospel of the kingdom of God” (Mk 1:15): he is entering Satan the strong man’s house and seizing his goods (that is, us, those the strong man has bound).  And Satan has entered the house of Jesus the strong man to seize his goods.  It all depends on who is stronger, who can bind the strong man.

That’s what Jesus means when he says next, “Truly, I say to you, all sins will be forgiven (sent away) for the sons of men,and whatever blasphemies they utter.”  Jesus is the stronger man.  No matter how Satan has bound us, no matter how we have fallen prey to his lies, Jesus is stronger.  He can cast out those demons because he is the stronger one.


“But,” he immediately adds, “whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit never has forgiveness, but is guilty—no, held in—with eternal sin.”  “For they were saying, ‘He has an unclean spirit,’” and casts out the unclean spirits by an unclean spirit.

The only sin we cannot escape is the sin of denying that Jesus is our liberator.  That is the logic of the strong man: we are bound by Satan the strong man, and no one can enter that strong man’s house and seize his goods unless he first bind the strong man.  We are not strong enough to bind that strong man, we need someone stronger.  If we reject him—if we reject his Holy Spirit, if we turn against Jesus the liberator—then we are stuck.

It’s not that he won’t forgive us.  That’s not the problem.  The problem is that we are bound and we need someone to set us free.  We need to call on Jesus.


Of course, it’s worth noting that all this language of “binding” and “forgiving” points right to Jesus’ mandate to the apostles: “I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven,” he tells Peter, “and whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven” (Mt 16).  He extends it more broadly two chapters later.

In John he breathes on the Apostles and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit”—just as Mark is talking about the sin against the Holy Spirit—“if you forgive (send away) the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you withhold forgiveness from (actually, it’s a different version of, ‘use strength on’) any, it is withheld” (Jn 20).

Jesus passes this power to his disciples, especially in Confession.  You could paraphrase: “The only sin that cannot be forgiven is the one that is not confessed.”


But Mark doesn’t make that connection, he sticks with Jesus the strong man.  And this is an important point, one our devotion needs to discover.  It is not the sacrament that frees us from our sins.  It is Jesus.  We approach Jesus through the sacrament; the sacrament is the structure he has established by which we say, “Oh Jesus, the strong man, bind Satan the strong man and set me free from his possession”; but it is Jesus, working through that sacramental ritual, who sets us free.

Never forget it is Jesus, Jesus alone, who frees us from our sins.  If we are not his kingdom and his house, we are lost.


Tenth Sunday: Gathered Around Jesus

We finally return to Ordinary Time—and I return to writing these reflections.  I have finally emerged from a very busy Spring—but I confess, I’ve fallen more and more in love with Ordinary Time, and I had more trouble motivating myself to write on the more scattered readings of Easter.  I missed Mark.  Easter is great, and Pentecost, and Trinity, and Corpus Christi!  But Ordinary Time, just praying through the Gospels: what a great gift to us.  It is one of the greatest gifts of Vatican II, to restore to us this orderly reading of Scripture.

File:Albrecht Dürer, Adam and Eve, 1504, Engraving.jpgThe Old Testament reading is always chosen to complement the other two readings; this one is from Genesis 3.  Then we jump back into the fourth week of the Lectionary’s eight-week tour of Second Corinthians.  Paul sounds the theme for the day: “what is seen is transitory, but what is unseen is eternal.”

Genesis 3 tells us about the breakdown of human relationships.  “She gave me fruit from the tree, and so I ate it.”  Adam reduces their relationship to externals, first, by just relating to “her,” without consideration for God and the good, and second by choosing what food over higher goods.  It is in this way that they discover nakedness: “what is seen” in absence from “the eternal.”  This is the way of the serpent, always crawling on his belly and eating the dust, and it will always be the enemy of the woman.

Paul instead proposes faith, thanksgiving, the glory of God, and even affliction.  None of these things are opposed to earthly life—but we need to live “what is seen” in light of “what is unseen.”


And that is the theme of our Gospel.  We have what scholars have given the ugly name, “a Markan sandwich”: Mark likes to put two connected pieces around a central piece.  The “bread” of this week’s sandwich is about Jesus’s family according to the flesh.  The “filling” is about a “house divided against itself” and the “everlasting sin” against the Holy Spirit.

70Apostles.jpgThe two outside pieces are magnificent, but they require a closer look than it is easy to get just hearing the Gospel read at Mass.  They are full of parallels and contrasts that are easy to miss so far apart, and in a translation that ignores them.  The great contrast is those who are “around him” (in spirit) and those who are only “near him” (by the flesh).

In the first part, “Jesus came home with his disciples.”  Actually, he “came into house”—in Greek it could mean “a house,” any house, or “home,” but “house” and “in” are important words this Sunday.  “Again the crowd gathered”—sorry, I’m going to have to abandon the Lectionary’s translation.  “Again the crowd came with him.”  And then his family—literally, those “near him”—“heard and came to muscle him, for they said, ‘he stands outside.’”  Our translation is right, it means, “he is out of his mind.”  But the phrase is “he stands outside.”

Then in the second half of the sandwich, after the business about a house divided, “The brothers and the mother came and stood outside.”  Hmm, it’s the same word.  But notice that he is inside the house but somehow outside of the family circle.

Colorful details paint the picture.  In the first, the crowd are so tight that they “couldn’t even eat bread.”  In the second, his family “sends out toward him, “bellowing to him”—those who are “near him” by the flesh are not so near after all.

The crowd “sits around him”—so close—and says, “behold your mother and your brothers stand outside.”  Again the standing outside, same words.

But Jesus “looks around him”—again “around”—and now it adds “sitting in a circle,” and says “behold my mother and my brothers, for whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”


Yes, this is harsh to Mary.  We needn’t reject our Marian devotion to acknowledge that Jesus is hard on her—Jesus is hard.  We can blame the brothers here if we want.  But the bigger point is, there are two ways to be united to Jesus.  We can be “near him” by the flesh.  Or we can be “around him,” sitting at his feet, hearing him, making his will our own.  It is, in fact, important to say that Mary is united to him not just by the flesh, by “what is seen,” but by the spirit, “what is unseen.”

But it is worth adding here that those who do his will can be seen—he “looks around at them, sitting in a circle.”  We’re not supposed to escape from the flesh.  We are supposed to love Jesus in the flesh.  That’s the point of the Incarnation, and of Mary.  But it has to be more than just flesh.  More than just receiving the Eucharist, for example, we need to sit at his feet and truly receive him.  The readings are part of true Eucharistic devotion . . . .


Sermon on the Mount, Fra Angelico

In the long middle section Satan is divided against himself, and cannot stand.  But so too Jesus speaks of a “house” divided—alluding to the familiarity of his family and his disciples, two kinds of “houses”—and of a divided “kingdom,” which is the theme of much of his teaching.  To follow Jesus means being a united house and kingdom: united with Christ, and with one another.

Blasphemy against the Holy Spirit is not some special sin that Jesus can’t forgive.  It means “all sins and all blasphemies will be forgiven”—but only if are united to Jesus.  To separate ourselves from him, and from his spirit—“For they had said, ‘he has an unclean spirit’”—is death.  Let us sit around him, in a circle, at his feet.

How do you practice really sitting at the feet of Jesus?

The Ascension: Victory in the Flesh

File:The Bible panorama, or The Holy Scriptures in picture and story (1891) (14804899633).jpgThis past Sunday—or last Thursday, the fortieth day after Easter, if your diocese can handle mid-week days of obligation—was the Ascension.  “Men of Galilee, why are you standing there looking at the sky?  This Jesus who has been taken up from you into heaven will return in the same way as you have seen him going into heaven.”

This year of Mark, we get one of the weirdest of all New Testament readings.  The end says, “So then the Lord Jesus, after he spoke to them, was taken up into heaven and took his seat at the right hand of God.”  But first comes Mark’s version of the great commission, with some weird promises: “Go into the whole world and proclaim the gospel to every creature.  Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved; whoever does not believe will be condemned.”  So far so good.

But then: “These signs will accompany those who believe: in my name they will drive out demons, they will speak new languages.  They will pick up serpents with their hands, and if they drink any deadly thing, it will not harm them.  They will lay hands on the sick, and they will recover.”

Picking up serpents?


File:Вознесение Господне 16 в.jpgThe Ascension completes the Resurrection.  In the Resurrection Christ conquers death—but the deeper point, and the reason for all those appearances where he eats fish and lets people poke his hands—is that he redeems the flesh.  Life in the fallen world is deadly.  But death is not the end, or the goal.

Pagans (and too many Christians) believe that death is a release from the sufferings of this world.  But we look forward to the resurrection of the dead.  We don’t want to be rid of our bodies.  We don’t want to die—though for now, we have to pass through death as part of how Christ conquers our sin.

Mark’s strange lines about picking up serpents and drinking poison point to Christ’s victory over death.  He has taken our flesh into heaven in his body, so that our flesh can ascend to heaven in our bodies, too.  We look forward to the resurrection of the dead.


Mark’s promises are in part missionary.  The Apostles are given miraculous powers as a way to manifest the power of Christ and win believers.  The traditional teaching of the Church is that more such miracles were given in the early Church—because they did not yet have the miracle of the sanctity of the saints, and the conversion of the poor.  We have different, more essential signs now, the miracle of the Church itself.  But in that early age, Christ showed his power through many physical miracles.

File:Giotto - Scrovegni - -38- - Ascension.jpgThe line from Acts, “Men of Galilee, why are you standing there looking at the sky?” shows us this missionary dynamic.  On one level, it highlights the weakness of the Apostles.  Men from the boondocks, from the backwaters of a backwater country, looking at the sky, is an image of the human weakness of the Church, through which, as through our physical weakness, Christ manifests his strength.

But Galilee is not only a backwater, it is also a crossroads, “Galilee of the Gentiles,” where Jews lived among pagans.  And so those small-town fishermen also point toward Pentecost, which is a miracle not just of general miraculous strength, but of the specific miracle of tongues: the Gospel preached in every language, to every tribe and people and nation.  Only the power of Christ can conquer Babel and forge unity in this divided world.  These Galileans are the first sign that the Gospel will spread from Jerusalem to all nations.

Our Epistle, from Ephesians, makes a parallel point: “to preserve the unity of the spirit through the bond of peace: one body and one Spirit, as you were also called to the one hope of your call; one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all.”  And so “he gave some as apostles, others as prophets,” etc.: many tasks at the service of the one mission of the Church.


File:The Ascension of Our Lord.jpgThe Ascension is partly about mission.  When Christ goes to heaven, he becomes no longer a member of one nation, in one time and place, but the one Lord of all history.  And so the Ascension brings with it these missionary miracles of snake handling and poison drinking.

But more than that, it is about the victory of Christ, source and goal of that mission.  No more is human flesh a place of distance from God.  Christ takes our flesh to heaven in victory, so that he may triumph in our bodies, too.  Those strange bodily miracles of the early Church serve for mission because, above and beyond mission, they testify to the redemption of the body, Christ’s victory even in our flesh.  We look forward to the resurrection of the dead.

In what ways are you tempted to deny that your own flesh can be transfigured by union with God in Christ?

Sixth Sunday in Easter: Dearness

This Sunday’s readings, obviously, were about love.  Our Epistle, from 1 John, said, “Let us love one another, because love is of God; everyone who loves is begotten by God and knows God.  Whoever is without love does not know God, for God is love.”  Our Gospel, the passage from John 15 right after last week’s reading, the vine and the branches, has Jesus saying, “As the Father loves me, so I also love you.  Remain in my love. . . . Remain in his love. . . . This is my commandment: love one another as I love you.”  Lovely.

But what kind of love?

Of course you know the Greek here is agape.  It’s not the standard Greek word for love; it’s distinct from eros, desire, and philia, friendship.  Sometimes it gets translated “Christian love,” because it is a word almost made up for Christians.  But what kind of love?  Benedict XVI spent his whole first encyclical trying to tell us.


Sometimes we misunderstand (BXVI points out) and call it “service love.”  It sounds like there are two totally different things, mistakenly covered up by a common word.  When normal people say love—from “I love pizza” to “I love him” and even “I love you”—they mean something about liking the person, desiring to be around them, finding them pleasant.  But Christians, we might be tempted to think, are above all that.  We aren’t sullied with mere desire.  Our love is without desire, purely self-giving.  Right?

Well, there’s something true in that framework—an important pushback against the million silly homilies we’ve heard that begin, “Our Bible readings today talk about love,” then never return to the Bible, and give us a lot of sentimental mush.  It’s important for us to say, “no, they’re not about ‘love,’ they’re about agape”; to pretend that Jesus just tells us to go on being perfectly normal is to throw away the Gospel—so perfectly symbolized by the utter lack of interest in what Jesus actually says about this ‘love.’


St. Augustine and St. Jerome, studying Scripture

But it would be wrong to throw out actually liking people.  My insane semester is almost over; for now I could only do a short Old Testament Scripture study.  Agape is a word in the old (Jewish) Greek translation of the Old Testament, maybe made up for that context.  (Much of the time, at least) it translates the Hebrew word achab, which is a word for affection.  It describes how Abraham feels about Isaac, and also Sarah, and how Jacob loved Rachel, and how God loves his people.  This is not about extinguishing affection.

In the great wisdom of the ancient Latin translation of the Bible, there’s a (I think) made-up word, caritasCarus means “dear,” or “precious” (there are cognates in Spanish, French has things like cher), so caritas, the Latin translation of agape, the special word for Christian love, means literally, “dearness.”  This isn’t about extinguishing affection—it is about having much more affection.


“As the Father loves (agape’s) me, so I also love you.  Remain in my love.”  “Remain” (or “abide,” or “dwell”) is one of John’s favorite words.  When he says “in my Father’s house, there are many rooms,” it’s really “places to dwell,” because we are supposed to dwell in this love, to feel the depth of our dearness to God, and to hold that dearness dear.

“You are my friends if you do what I command you. . . . I have called you friends, because I have told you everything I have heard from my Father.”   Agape doesn’t extinguish desire or friendship, it takes them deeper.  It means seeing as God sees—and so seeing the dearness of things, and especially people, as our Creator and Redeemer sees them.

We are called to “lay down our life,” yes—for our friends.  It’s not because, like Stoics, we set affection aside.  It’s because we burn with such love that we are willing to die on the cross: he held them so dear, he loved them till the end.

That’s why we have to be “begotten by God”: until he pours his love into our hearts (by the Holy Spirit, who is given to us, Rom 5:5), we just don’t hold things as dear as he does.


Our reading from Acts is not obviously connected.  Peter is finding “that God shows no partiality.  Rather, in every nation whoever fears him and acts uprightly is acceptable to him.”

The bigger story is, God spelled out a thousand details of right conduct for the Jews, tailored to all the details of their historic time and place.  In Christ, he transcends the particularity of that nation.  But he transcends it by giving us the deeper law, the law of agape.  It’s like moving from being told, “at 7:15 each morning, you should offer to make your wife breakfast”—to holding her so dear that we don’t need to be told all the details, we attend to those and even more, not because we are told to, but because we love.

Dearness takes us beyond the law, because dearness is the point of the law.

Whom in your life should you hold more dear?  How can you practice dwelling in God’s love for that person?

The Fourth Sunday of Easter—The Power of the Spirit

Пророк Троица XVIII.jpegOur reading from Acts this Sunday begins, “Peter, filled with the Spirit.”  Acts is like the Gospel of the Holy Spirit.  By my count, the Spirit is named about 60 times in these 28 chapters—compared to 67 times in the 89 chapters of the four Gospels.  Acts shows us the power of the Spirit.

The Spirit gives Peter the power to preach, of course.  But more deeply than that, the Spirit gives him knowledge.  He says he acts “in the name of Jesus Christ the Nazorean whom you crucified, whom God raised from the dead.”  The Spirit is power, and so is Jesus—the name of Jesus signifies that it is Jesus himself who has power.

Then he cites Scripture—another manifestation of the power of the Spirit: “He is the stone rejected by you, the builders, which has become the cornerstone.”  Peter knows what they don’t know.  The Spirit has revealed to him the power of Jesus Christ.


Every Easter season we read Acts.  This year of Mark, we read 1 John as our Epistle.  And this week John speaks of knowledge and love.  “See what love the Fathers has bestowed on us,” he says, and twice calls us, “beloved” agapatoi.

But what is the gift of the Father’s love?  “That we may be called the children of God.  Yet so we are.”  There is our identity—and there is our knowledge of our identity.  Both are gifts of the Father’s love.

Our identity is itself tied to knowledge: what we, God’s children, “shall be has not yet been revealed”—we don’t know yet—but “we do know that when it is revealed we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is.”  We know that we will know.  The power of the Spirit is in all this knowing.


Every year, this fourth Sunday is Good Shepherd Sunday; we read different selections from John 10.

Hermes crioforo.jpgNow, I don’t want to stretch things too far, but—when he says, “A good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep,” it sounds like he is talking about what is common to all shepherds.  But first of all, the Greek says, “The good shepherd.”  One way to read that is just as a general statement about shepherds, just as the next sentence says what “The hired man” does.  But another way to read it is to say, he’s not saying all good shepherds lay down their life, he is describing what The Good Shepherd does (and “the hired man” might be a more significant figure than he at first appears).

And the way he says, “lays down his life for the sheep” is literally, “puts his soul onto the sheep.”  Yes, it is saying that he is willing to die for them (how many shepherds die for their sheep?).  But later, John will say that when this Good Shepherd is pierced on the Cross, he pours out blood and water for them, and when he dies he “hands over the spirit.”  Both of these statements have to have double meanings: he lays down his life—and he gives his soul, his spirit, to us.


He goes on to talk about knowledge.  “I know mine, and mine know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father—and I put my soul upon the sheep.”  Yes, he dies for them.  But they know him because he gives them his Spirit, his soul.  That’s what it means to be his: to know him—whose death and resurrection make him the least knowable of all—because we have received the Spirit from him.

He goes on to say that he has other sheep who are not part of this fold.  “These also I must lead, and they will hear my voice.”  They too know his voice, and follow him—but they hear his voice because he leads them, because he gives them his spirit, speaks into their hearts.

Why does he talk about another fold?  To make clear what defines his flock.  It is only Jesus.  Wherever Jesus goes, whomever Jesus draws, those are his sheep.  It’s not because we were in the right place at the right time, not because we’re part of the right club—but because Jesus has put his Spirit upon us.  Don’t make the church more natural than it is.

Christ Angel of Great Advice (Ochride).jpg“And there will be one flock, one shepherd”—one flock, because one shepherd.  He’s not saying there are alternate churches—he is saying that what defines the true church is being led by him.


“This is why” (or: it is through this that) “the Father loves me, because (or: that) I lay down my life in order to take it up again.  No one takes it from me, but I lay it down on my own.”  True, this is the power of the Resurrection, that he willingly dies and has power to rise again.

But it is also the power of grace, the power of the Spirit.  He has the power to give that spirit to us, to lay his soul upon us, and thereby to draw us up to him.  We have no power to take that spirit—it is not by our own merits—but he lays it upon us.  That is the power of the Resurrection: the giving of the Spirit.

How can you gave more intently on Christ?

Easter and the Gospel

Easter allows us to state the Gospel in the simplest terms: The death and resurrection of Jesus are symbolic and causative (just as a sacrament causes what it symbolizes).  And they symbolize and cause our moral death and resurrection.

File:Altenburg Brüderkirche Wandmalerei Auferstehung.jpgJust as Jesus died in the body, we are to die to our old way of life.  Just as Jesus rose again, we are to live a new life.  The new life is no less bodily, but it is a life from God and for God, and a life that never ends.

Jesus’s death and resurrection don’t just affect him.  They don’t just affect us emotionally, as if the main point of Good Friday was to be sad and the main point of Easter is to be happy.  They are sad and happy, and they do affect Jesus, but that is not the main point.  They don’t just affect our bodies, as if the Resurrection promises us only physical life after death.

And they are not just encouragement.  My silly new line with my students is, Jesus is not our Zumba instructor.  It is not that he moves vigorously around in our sight, and then we have to do our best to imitate that vigor.  The point of the Resurrection is that God is powerful to do what nature cannot do on its own.  I am weak and he is strong.

Jesus lives his life in the flesh to raise us to a greater life.


Thus at the Easter Vigil, one of the central proclamations of the Gospel in the whole Church year, proclaimed with the Gloria and with lights after darkness, is from Romans 6:

“We were indeed buried with him through baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might live in newness of life.”

  1. File:Atribbuted to Hans von Aachen 001.jpgOur participation in his death is sacramental. It’s not that when we physically die we will imitate Christ’s physical death and resurrection (though that happens too, as a consequence).  It’s that his physical death, and our physical baptism, participate in a world of symbols that point to and bring about something greater: our moral resurrection.
  2. Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father. So too it is only the glory of God that brings our new life: not just zumba-style imitation, but an influx of the light of God, bringing eternal life to our death.
  3. The new life we are given is not just more of the same physical life, but “newness of life,” that is, a new way of life, a transformed life, a new “moral” life, the life of the Beatitudes.

“We know that our old self was crucified with him, so that our sinful body might be done away with, that we might no longer be in slavery to sin.”

There is a death we must die.  But it is death to sin.  It is a bodily death, and sin is in our body, our “body of sin.”  But of course the Resurrection (not to mention the physicality of Baptism) cannot mean that bodies themselves are sinful, as St. Paul will say in a moment.  An old way of being bodily—a bodily life that is “corruptible,” in both the corruption that is physical death and the corruption that is sin—is ending, so that we can live a new, incorruptible life, also in the body.

File:Hans Thoma Auferstehung.jpg“If, then, we have died with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with him.  We know that Christ, raised from the dead, dies no more; death no longer has power over him”

The end is not death, nor is it the destruction of our body.  The end is new life, in the body.

“As to his death, he died to sin once and for all; as to his life, he lives for God.  Consequently, you too must think of yourselves as being dead to sin and living for God in Christ Jesus.”

His physical death is a sign of death to sin.  His physical life is a sign of life for God.  The consequence in us is that we live, in our bodies, a new life, no longer for sin but for God.  Our Resurrection is above all a moral resurrection, the life of the Beatitudes.

How do you pray the Resurrection?

Palm Sunday – Mark’s Picture of the Savior

Matthew, Mark, and Luke are called the “Synoptic” Gospels–it means something like “look-alike”–because they are so similar, mostly word-for-word, that it is obvious they are copying from one another.  

Luke says in his introduction that he is working from previous versions, but we don’t know the relationship between Matthew and Mark.  I like to think of Mark as Peter’s revision of Matthew, though most modern scholars think Mark came first.

Acknowledging that we don’t know the exact relationships between them, it can still be fruitful to approach these three similar documents by digging into what is distinctive in each.  This year, the year of Mark in the Lectionary, I took this approach to my meditation on Palm Sunday, digging into the differences between Mark and Matthew.


There are some details of personal recollection.  If the ancient legends are true, Matthew was written by one of the Twelve, and Mark by the disciple of one of the Twelve, so both have inside information.  But it is touching to see the details Peter passes on.

Mark’s gospel tells us that Matthew’s “very expensive ointment” was spikenard–maybe Peter can remember the smell.  When the two disciples go to find the upper room for the Passover, Mark tells us the man they spoke to was carrying a pitcher of water. Matthew tells us only that the room is in a “house,” Mark adds that it is a “guest room,” a “large upper room, furnished and ready.”  

Matthew has the rooster crow once, all that is necessary for the story.  Peter remembers the detail that it was twice.

In the garden in Matthew, Jesus cries out to his Father–but Peter remembers that he used the Aramaic term, “Abba.”  (There’s a legend, started around the year 1900, that Abba means daddy, and we’re supposed to see something sentimental in it.  But it seems just to have been the word for father in Jesus’s language. So too Mark remembers Judas using the Hebrew title “Rabbi,” the places were called Gethsemane and Golgotha, and on the cross Jesus quotes Psalm 22 in Hebrew: Eloi, eloi, lama sabachani.)  Peter remembers the exact words.

Matthew tells us Peter was standing in the courtyard when he denied Jesus.  Mark knows that he was warming his hands by the fire. And he tells us that Peter was recognized by his accent as a Galillean.  

Mark has the weird detail of the young man running away naked.  Many scholars think that’s Mark’s own cameo appearance.

And Mark tells us that Joseph of Armimathea was the father of Alexander and Rufus–people he knows.  

Maybe there is symbolism here, I don’t know.  I just like the picturesque details, the personal touch.


And then there are the things Mark leaves out.  Mark’s gospel always cuts to the chase.

The central point in Mark’s gospel is that no one knows who Jesus is until he dies on the Cross.  Peter doesn’t deny that he had said, “You are the Christ, the son of the living God,” and that Jesus had named him Peter, the rock on whom he would build his Church.  But Peter leaves it out of his version of the story, because Peter knows that whatever he said way back then, he didn’t really understand, didn’t know Jesus’s identity well enough to stay with him at the Cross.  

Only at the Cross is Jesus truly revealed.

So in the Garden, Mark has the poignant line, “He said to Peter, ‘Simon’.”  Not such a rock that night. How that old name rings in Peter’s ears.

The characteristic word in Mark is “immediately”: always racing toward the Cross.  And Mark’s account of the Passion skips several details from Matthew’s.

When the soldiers come, Matthew tells us Jesus said he could call on angels, and tells his disciples to put their sword back.  Mark leaves out these details, so that Jesus’ words, “Have you come out as against a robber?” stand in all their starkness.

Mark leaves out the story of Judas hanging himself, Pilate’s wife’s dream, and Pilate washing his hands.  Nice details–but Mark is focused on Jesus headed to the Cross, and he does not want to distract us.

They both say the veil was torn when Jesus died–but Mark leaves out the distracting detail of people rising from the dead, and Matthew’s detail about Pilate guarding against a resurrection hoax.  

Christ is on the Cross, that is all that matters.

It’s not that Matthew’s details didn’t happen.  It’s that Mark wants us to focus, and adds only the details that make the scene real.


Finally, a series of details focus on Christ the King.  When the soldiers beat him, Matthew has them asking him to prophesy who did it.  By taking out that detail, Mark lets us focus us how they mock him as messiah-king.  He adds the detail that the mockers “knelt down in homage.”

Matthew says Barabbas was a “notorious prisoner.”  Mark focuses on kingship: “among the rebels in prison, who had committed murder in the insurrection.”  In Matthew, Pilate offers to release “the Christ.” In Mark it is “the King of the Jews.”

In Matthew, they offer Christ on the Cross gall, just something nasty.  But in Mark it is myrrh, a royal embalming spice.

In Matthew, they say to him, “He trusts in God; let him deliver him now, if he desires him; for he said, ‘I am the Son of God.’”  But Mark stays away from calling him Son of God until he is dead, and changes it to, “He saved others; he cannot save himself. Let the Christ, the King of Israel, come down now from the cross.”  It makes less sense–Matthew’s God can get you down from the Cross better than Mark’s kingship–but Mark keeps us focused on this royal title.

And finally, the great hero of Mark’s gospel, the one who finally recognizes Christ, is no one but the centurion, the captain over a hundred soldiers, who then appears again, only in Mark, as the one who delivers the news to Pilate.  

Mark keeps directing our attention back to Christ as king.


And so he directs us back, too, to the triumphal entry with palms.  Matthew is focused on the fulfillment of prophecy, even to adding the weird detail that there were two animals, a colt and an ass.  Mark focuses us on the image of Christ riding in as a humble king, a different kind of king.

Matthew’s crowd acknowledges him as Son of David–fulfiller of the prophecy–but Mark again adds the detail of him being king, so that they say, “Hosanna!  Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the kingdom of our father David that is coming! Hosanna in the highest!”

He leads us to our own profession at every Mass: “Hosanna in the highest!  Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!” (Hosanna appears in the Bible only in this scene; it means something like, “come save us!”)  

Mark makes it a little ironic.  Like the crowds, we may call this king-who-comes blessed because we seek an earthly kingdom.  Or we may have found the true kingship of Christ, a totally different kind of kingship, crowned with thorns and hanging on the Cross.

At every Mass, as we say those words, may Mark’s challenge ring in our ears: do we seek the king apart from the Cross, or the king who hangs on the Cross?  What salvation, and savior, do we profess?