The Worthy Wife?

The Lectionary readings just get better and better.  Augustine said Scripture is simple enough for a child, yet deep enough for an elephant to swim in.   A couple thoughts about last Sunday’s first reading, from Proverbs.

The reading is about a “good wife”: “when one finds a worthy wife, her value is beyond pearls.”  But as often happens, the teaching is better than it first appears.

At first it seems awfully . . . domestic.  “She obtains wool and flax and works with loving hands.  She puts her hands to the distaff, and her fingers ply the spindle.”

Now, it’s true we can get a lot out of these traditional portrayals of femininity.  Notice that she does more than just care for children; that she is in the marketplace; that craftwork is portrayed as beautiful and noble; that both the working and the product seem lovely.  There’s plenty to get out of that.

But that’s not the main thing Proverbs is talking about here.  Already notice the opening line, which I quoted above: “When one finds a worthy wife, her value is beyond pearls.”  We can read that generically and say, she’s real great.  But read it specifically, and it says: beyond material things.  We’re tempted to reduce it to the material, to think the point is how the worthy wife is useful for getting stuff.  But the opening says the opposite: she is worth more than stuff.

(Of course, note that the value put into the craftwork itself makes it better than just stuff.  Pearls are something you find.  But the beauty of workmanship is to make things better than we find them, by putting some of ourselves into them.)

Then it says, “Her husband, entrusting his heart to her, has an unfailing prize.”  Not “entrusting his stuff,” but entrusting his heart.  There’s more to this picture than stuff.

“She obtains wool and flax and works with loving hands.”  The thing is – this is one of my two main points – you have to look at what the reading is saying that isn’t obvious to its original readers.  Of course she obtains wool and flax.  That sounds novel and romantic to us, but not to the author and original readers of Proverbs.  The significant detail is not the wool and flax but the love.

So too in the next lines: “She puts her hands to the distaff, and her fingers ply the spindle.”  Well, yes, women had to do that.  And again, yes, sure, that’s lovely.  But it’s not the main point.  The main point is in the next line: “She reaches out her hands to the poor, and extends her arms to the needy.”  All women have to do women’s work, whatever the women’s work of the time is (a discussion we aren’t very honest about these days – women do more than we give them credit for).  And there is virtue in doing that work.  But the significant detail is that “her hands” and “her fingers” not only do the stuff for herself, but “her hands” and “her arms” reach out to the poor.  It’s good that she fulfills her work at home – but that’s not the main point.

“Charm is deceptive and beauty fleeting; the woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.”  It begins by saying the man entrusts his heart to her and ends by saying she fears the LORD.  That’s the main point of the reading.  It is contrasted with a materialistic view of the woman.

My main points are two.  First, when we read, we have to look for the significant detail.  The quaintness of ancient societies is not the main point of the reading – that’s the point that’s supposed to be obvious.  The main point is what it’s saying that was not obvious: not that women work with wool, but that the good woman cares for others.

And so my second main point is that the main point of this reading is not that women should do women’s work – knitting, etc. – but that a “worthy” wife is one who is more than an economic producer, but one who loves.

 

The Ladder of the Beatitudes

I was thinking during All Saints Mass, in our university chapel, of a nice hokey homily one could give.  All Saints celebrates, among other things, the unnamed, uncelebrated saints.  The marvelous reading from Revelation says, “from every nation, race, people, and tongue.”  We could add, from every walk of life: unnoticed stay-at-home moms, grandmothers, homeless men, garbage men, mailmen, and accountants.

And then, with the reading of the Beatitudes, you could say, here are various kinds of sanctity.  Wherever there is true poverty of spirit, there lies a hidden saint.  Wherever there is Christian mourning, genuine meekness, deep hunger and thirst for justice, authentic mercy – those are saints.  The pure of heart and the peacemakers: two more kinds of saints.

That would be a nice little homily to help those struggling with the idea of sanctity to consider that saints live not only among the statues, but in real virtues in real life.  That would be a helpful homily, and true, and rich.

***

But I’d like to take advantage of today’s reading of the Beatitudes to go a step deeper.  Because, although they show various faces of sanctity, they are not just a disjointed list.  The tradition sees in them a united whole: though it might be helpful to think of them as different faces of sanctity, in truth, there is never one without the others.  Even more, they are an ordered whole, building from bottom to top in a ladder of sanctity.

This post is going to be too long, and I’m only going to be able to hint at this ladder.  But I hope I can give you something to meditate on.

***

There is something funny about the structure of the Beatitudes.  Eight times, Jesus speaks in the third person: “Blessed are they.”  But then at the end, he says, “Blessed are you.”  The setting is, “His disciples came to him.  He began to teach them.”  They might be interested in what he has to say about some other “they” who are blessed – but most of all, they want him to address them as “you.”  When are we, your disciples, blessed?  Bless me, Lord!

All those other eight build up and culminate when he finally says, “Blessed are you”: “Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me.”  Before that last moment, he has not said, “you” and “me,” but here is the summit.

Our reading from Revelation today said, about all the saints, “These are the ones who have survived the time of great distress; they have washed their robes and made them white in the Blood of the Lamb.”  Somehow, it all comes to a head in being persecuted because of him, being united to his cross, bathing in the Blood of the Lamb by passing through the time of distress.

Sanctity can only be union with Jesus, can only be motivated by our desire for identification with him.  And it only comes to perfection when that identification with him comes to suffering.  There is no true sanctity, no final beatitude, apart from being persecuted “because of me,” being bathed in the blood of the Lamb.  That’s the top of the ladder, the peak of sanctity.  Everything is there, in a nutshell.  This is the only beatitude addressed to “you,” his disciples.  We need to long for that persecution, which will come, one way or another.

***

BUT – we had better be careful, because not all persecution is “because of me.”  If you are hated because you use Christianity as an excuse to be a jerk, that is not the peak of sanctity.  It is not sanctity at all, just a cheap imitation.  And this is where the rest of the ladder comes in.

You can’t reach that top of the ladder without climbing the step before it: “Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness.”  That sounds almost the same, but it isn’t.  The perfect blessing is to be persecuted for the sake of him – but it is not for the sake of him unless it is also for the sake of righteousness.  Are you being a good person?  Only if you are can you claim that you are being persecuted for the sake of him, and not rightly slapped down for being a jerk.

But what is righteousness?  There is, of course, false righteousness, too.  You can’t reach that step of the ladder without the one before: “Blessed are the peacemakers.”  If you face conflict because you are causing conflict, there is no blessing in that.  But if you are making peace, bringing the peace of Jesus, then perhaps your persecution is for the sake of righteousness, and for the sake of him.  Jesus was crucified for being a peacemaker, not a jerk.

And what is peacemaking?  The step before is “blessed are the pure of heart.”  There are a lot of false kinds of peace, cheap imitations of the peace of Christ.  To make real peace – a positive thing – requires clearing away all the dross in your heart.  You cannot be a true peacemaker without first being pure of heart.

But purity of heart, too, can be false.  There are many kinds of purity – Nietzsche is scathing on this – defined more by our isolation from others than by real Christianity. To be pure by standing aloof is Phariseeism, not the way of Christ.  To be persecuted for that kind of holier-than-thou attitude is not persecution for righteousness or persecution for Christ, and it can’t make real peace.  No, to have true purity of heart, we need first to climb the step before: “Blessed are the merciful.”

And of course there is false mercy, as well – parallel to spoiling children, which gives them what they want not for love of them but in hopes that they will leave you alone.  That’s not mercy, that’s a cheap imitation.  Real mercy, too, requires the step before: “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for justice.”  Benedict XVI has a nice line about this: don’t say you are giving to others from what is yours unless you first give them what is theirs; love and mercy are greater than justice, but don’t tell me you love me if you won’t be just to me.  Only a passion for justice, a real desire to set things right, results in true mercy.

Ah, but justice – well, the problem with this step might be the most obvious of all.  Because we know crusaders for justice are often inhuman.  St. James says, “The wrath of man does not work out the righteousness of God.”  Most of our claims to be fighting for justice or righteousness are rooted not in righteousness, but in our demand for our own rights, and our desire to fight.  And so the previous step is necessary: Blessed are the meek.  Until we have conquered our anger with meekness, our claims to be hungering and thirsting for justice are bogus.

And how can I be meek?  First I must be aware of my sin: “Blessed are those who mourn.”  Before I can heal the problem, I need to see the problem.  I have to be pierced by the unrighteousness of men, by the tragedy of my sin and the sin of others.  Without that mourning, I might be mousy or conflict-averse, but I am not meek.

And – this is the bottom rung of the ladder – I cannot mourn as a Christian until I abandon earthly splendor: “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” which (says St. Thomas, quoting Augustine and Ambrose) says either means the renuncation of pride or the spiritual renunciation of worldly goods.  Until I have abandoned worldliness, in either or both of those ways, I will always be mourning for the wrong things, for the loss of earthly goods instead of the loss of my soul.

***

Well, this post is too long.  But the point is, if you memorize the Beatitudes – or just take a Bible with you to prayer – you can meditate on how they fit together.  There is not one without the others.  Each one guarantees the truth of the others.  And there is a ladder, climbing from our renunciation of earthly goods in poverty of spirit all the way to being persecuted, not for our own stupidity or meanness, but for Jesus himself.

Archbishop Gomez on America’s Founding Franciscans

File:Junípero Serra.jpg

St. Junipero Serra

File:Junípero Serra National Statuary Hall Collection.jpg

His statue in the National Capitol

“The Franciscan missionaries who founded Los Angeles named our city for the Mother of God, the Queen of the Angels.

One of those missionaries was St. Junípero Serra, our newest American saint. St. Junípero was Hispanic, a migrant from Spain, and he entered this country after living for more than a decade in Mexico.

In his time, there were many in the California colonial government who denied the full humanity of the indigenous peoples living in this land. St. Junípero became their champion. He even wrote a “bill of rights” to protect them. And by the way — he wrote that bill of rights — three years before America’s Declaration of Independence.

Most Americans do not know this history. But Pope Francis does.

That is why, when the Holy Father came to this country in 2015, his first act was to hold a solemn Mass where he canonized St. Junípero. He held that Mass — not in Los Angeles, but right here in the nation’s capital.

Pope Francis was making a point. He believes we should honor St. Junípero as “one of the founding fathers of the United States.”[i]

I agree. I think we should, too. Because remembering St. Junípero and the first missionaries changes how we José Horacio Gómez .jpgremember our national story. It reminds us that America’s first beginnings were not political. America’s first beginnings were spiritual.

The missionaries came here first — long before the Pilgrims, long before George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. Long before this country even had a name.

These missionaries — together with the colonists and the statesmen who came later — they laid the spiritual and intellectual groundwork for a nation that remains unique in human history. A nation conceived under God and committed to promoting human dignity, freedom and the flourishing of a diversity of peoples, races, ideas and beliefs.”

 

-Archbishop Jose Gomez, of Los Angeles, preaching to the majority of the Supreme Court and the great Red Mass gathering of the lawyers of Washington, DC

Exegesis

A couple days ago was the feast of St. Dominic, one of my favorites and the primary influence on this website.  I was hoping to write something about his mission of preaching.

Searching the Scriptures

In every age, maybe ours more than ever, anti-intellectualism has been trendy.  There are elements of truth in that idea.  But it becomes an excuse not to hear the Word of God, as if it is more intellectually humble to trust in your own unexamined ideas than to let yourself be formed by divine revelation.  St. Dominic believed that the Word of God, articulated through preaching, was key to conversion.  I agree.

***

Today I’d like to approach the same point from a different angle: exegesis.  In part because of events, in part by design, this page has become devoted above all to exegesis of the Sunday readings.  I have benefited from that, and I want to reflect with you on why.  I believe what I am about to say is the heart of Benedict XVI’s vision – though in our political age, few people notice.

Exegesis is a fancy Greek word that means “drawing out.”  (Ex– means “out”.)  The way to understand it is to consider its opposite, eisegesis.  (Eis- is the Greek for “into”.)  When you have a text before you – we are talking about Scripture, but this applies to liturgy, to Christian doctrine in general, and even to conversations with friends – eisegesis means that you impose your own ideas instead of hearing what the other person says.  (When people turn Benedict XVI into a proponent of the Latin Mass, for example, they are committing eisegesis, seeing their own ideas instead of listening to his.)

There is a “conservative” or “traditional” kind of eisegesis that sometimes infects what is called the “spiritual meanings” of Scripture.  Sometimes people in the tradition have been so eager to talk about Jesus, or Mary, or some other Christian topic that they don’t bother to hear what a particular Biblical text has to say.   It is possible to read these spiritual meanings in Scripture in an “exegetical” attitude, but it is true that we often fail.  Thomas Aquinas, for the record, warns that we need to start with the “literal” meaning of Scripture, by which he means exegesis.

***

St. Jerome

A more modern example.  It seems to me that someone taught many priests in my diocese a particular, not exegetical, approach to lectio divina.  In this method – which is not real lectio divina – you read a Biblical text, look for a word to jump out at you, and then you put the text down and run with the word.  You read about the disciples fishing – and that reminds you of fishing with your grandfather, and then you do a meditation, on your own or in your preaching, about the spiritual importance of grandfathers.  And your basis for this meditation is the word “fishing.”

Now, there is a germ of truth in this approach.  To understand the text, it is worth thinking about what it means that they were fishing.  But Scripture has something else to say to you.

Imagine if you did this to a friend.  He starts a story, “the other day I was driving in my car” – and you tune out, and start meditating on what cars mean to you.  Sure, part of understanding your friend’s story is understanding what he means by driving in the car, and it’s possible that your shared experience of the car is relevant to understanding his story – but you have to listen to the story!

There are, of course, more and less “spiritual” and “traditional” ways of doing this.  The point is, if you are more interested in your ideas than in the ideas being spoken to you, you are committing eisegesis.

***

To combat this kind of eisegesis, modern scholars have developed some methods – which often become their own kind of eisegesis.  It is good, for example, to consider the original context of the text.  Maybe it was written during the exile in Babylon.  Okay, that’s relevant.  But scholars get so carried away with their theories of Babylon – often, truth be told, based on scant evidence – that all they want to talk about is Babylon, and they can’t hear what Scripture is teaching them about our relationship with God.  They are avoiding one eisegesis and falling into another.

Another danger they want to avoid is that of being so sure that we understand a text that we miss what it has to say.  The Bible is a big book because it has many things to say.  If you are always meditating on the same idea, I would guess you are not listening to the many things the Bible has to say.  So another method of modern exegesis is to set aside your preconceptions and listen to each individual text on its own terms, as if it stood alone.  The modern exegetes have a point.

But again, this can go too far.  If your friend and you have shared experience, and shared loves and ideas, those things are not irrelevant to understanding what your friend is saying.  Even if you are reading someone you disagree with, your background knowledge about their ideas helps you understand the thing they are saying right now – even though, yes, you need to keep an open mind and make sure you keep listening.

One of the premises of this web page – a basic premise of Catholic theology – is that theological knowledge, knowledge of the truths of the Christian faith in general, is helpful for understanding the particular teachings of Scripture.  St. Matthew knew the same Jesus I have been trying to know, the same Jesus who comes to me in the sacraments, and in Scripture.  St. Matthew has things to say to me, and I need to be listening – but to pretend I know nothing about Jesus is not helpful in my listening to St. Matthew, any more than it would be helpful in listening to my friend’s story if I pretended I don’t know what a car is, or don’t know my friend.

***

Why exegesis?  Because the Bible has something to say to us.  Because God’s perspective is different from ours.  I listen to a lot of Catholic talk: in my opinion, people who aren’t doing exegesis tend to fall into human ways of thinking.  They especially tend to forget the central reality of divine grace, of redepmtion.  To keep our supernatural perspective, we need to listen to the sacred authors, who have that perspective better than we do.  To think like Christians, we need to read the Bible – and if we aren’t doing exegesis, we aren’t reading the Bible.

You don’t have to be an expert to listen to the Bible.  How do you let God’s Word speak into your world?

 

The Parables of Repentance

For three weeks the Sunday Gospel readings walked us through Jesus’s Sermon of Parables, Matthew 13.  My commentary focused on the hidden power of God.  The seed planted in different kinds of soil, and beside the evil one’s tares, the mustard seed, the leaven, the hidden treasure, the pearl of great price, File:Hortus Deliciarum, Der Sämann.jpgthe net that gathers in: all of these are symbols of the Holy Spirit, or the Divinity hidden in the humanity of Christ, the power of God that can transform us.

But before we move on from Matthew 13, let us pause to note a corollary.  Each of these parables is at the same time a parable of God’s power and of our call to repentance, grace and free will.  It is not one or the other, it is both, and we need to see both, not only to understand these parables but to understand the Gospel itself.

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St. Paul has a technique of slipping in something we think is minor beside things we think are major.  For example in, Galatians 5, he says, “Now the works of the flesh are clearly revealed, which are: adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lustfulness, idolatry, sorcery, hatreds, fightings, jealousies, angers, rivalries, divisions, heresies, envyings, murders, drunkennesses, revelings, and things like these; of which I tell you before, as I also said before, that they who do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of God.”

We skim, maybe we don’t even read the whole list.  But watch what he does.  “Adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lustfulness.”  Ah, yes, sexual sin, bad!  Dirty people!

“Idolatry, sorcery.”  Even worse!  Such sinners!

“Hatreds, fightings, jealousies.”  Wait a minute, I can hate, can’t I?  And, I mean, not every fighting is hatred, and not all jealousy is fighting.  How dare he put my jealousy side by side with “really” bad things like adultery and idolatry!  A little divisions and envy aren’t so bad, are they?  Does envy really belong alongside murder, division beside heresy?

***

The parable of the sower works the same way.  “When anyone hears the Word of the kingdom and does not understand it, then the wicked one comes and catches away that which was sown in his heart. This is the seed sown by the wayside.”  Well, I am not like that.  I embraced the Word of the Gospel!

“But that which was sown on the stony places is this: he who hears the Word and immediately receives it with joy.”  Right, me!  I received it with joy!  “But he has no root in himself, and is temporary. For when File:Birds from the parable of the sower.jpgtribulation or persecution arises on account of the Word, he immediately stumbles.”  Oh.

But I’m better than that.  “And that sown into the thorns is this: he who hears the Word; and the anxiety of this world, and the deceit of riches, choke the Word, and he becomes unfruitful.”  This sentence is the climax of the story.  You are someone who has received the Word, who does have roots, who isn’t just temporary.  And Jesus says: that isn’t good enough.  Because even if you have deep roots, you can choke out the life of the Gospel by your worldliness.

The Gospel is tough.

And it concludes, “He who hears the Word and understands; who also bears fruit and produces, one truly a hundredfold; and one sixty; and one thirty.”  He says, even those who are fruitful are not all equally fruitful.  Bear the hundredfold.

We are called to sanctity.  That doesn’t work with taking it easy.

***

The wheat and the tares spins the same lesson another way.  On the one hand, we are so judgmental, but the Master of the harvest warns us , sometimes the ones you are judging are wheat, not tares.  And on the flipside, are you so sure you are wheat?

This parable ends with the first of several threats in this sermon: “bind them in bundles to burn them.”  There are different ways we can think about the fiery punishment – but Jesus insists that the Gospel is demanding.

Later he explains the same parable with some of the most frightening words of the Bible: “The Son of Man shall send out His angels, and they shall gather out of His kingdom all things that offend, and those who do iniquity, and shall cast them into a furnace of fire. There shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth.”

***

The mustard seed is positive, more about God’s power than about our obligation.  (Unless we wonder what kind of burden the birds in the branches are.)  But then the leaven turns the same idea into a parable of repentance: “until the whole was leavened.”  Has the leaven of the Gospel permeated my whole lump?

That idea hands off into the treasure and the pearl, which demand that we sell everything.

And the parable of the net repeats the threat: “The angels shall come out and separate the wicked from among the just, and shall cast them into the furnace of fire. There shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth.”

The stories in the parables do not require these harsh conclusions.  But the Gospel does: we are called to be transformed.  The power of that transformation comes from God, the Holy Spirit hidden within us.  It is he who will make us righteous.  But we have to become righteous.  Jesus is not interested in sending his Holy Spirit so that we can ignore it and go about our way.

We need to be the instructed scribes, who dig into our treasure house and pull out old and new, digging deep to live the Gospel.

What obstacle is keeping God’s seed from bearing fruit in you this week?

An Update

Dear Readers,

On the one hand, they say that internet readers like to know a little bit about the writers they read.  On the other hand, we could use some prayers, and I write this page for prayerful people, and there seem to be a lot of you.  So today, a little news on why I haven’t been writing:

I am now the father of six children.  My first was born with spina bifida, a birth defect that can have

Contemplation

many outcomes; Joseph, now twelve, is completely paralyzed from the waist down.  Life in a wheelchair is just how things are for us, a hassle, but something we can deal with.

But the last year things have gotten more difficult.  Last summer he needed to have his whole spine fused, neck to pelvis, to correct scoliosis.  The surgery has had endless complications.  In the first round there was an infection, then a secondary infection, altogether requiring seventeen days in the hospital in three admissions, including the first day of my school year.  Winter had lots of little things.  And then this summer we had another major infection in his back, and another ten days in the hospital.

I pulled off one post during that hospital stay, but since he came back, two Fridays ago, things have been hectic.

Tuesday night to Wednesday morning, our sixth was born, Elsbeth-Marie Thérèse.  (Elsbeth is a Swiss version of Elizabeth and a family name.  The other names point both to the Visitation, the feast day when we were married, and the Carmelite saint Elizabeth of the Trinity, one of our favorites.)  A great joy!

But Elsbeth has had some breathing problems.  Things seem to be headed in the right direction now, but she’s in the NICU and that is making things a bit crazy.  I have not gotten much work done this summer.

Meanwhile, the day after she was born, Joseph had a follow-up visit in which we learned that there is a high probability – though we don’t know how high – that infection remains, hiding in the “slime” on all that metal in his back.  The body covers metal with a hiding place for bacteria.  We face months of antibiotics (not part of our holistic lifestyle), at the end of which infection might still spring up in all kinds of ways.  They say we need to beware, and call our specialists, if he has a pimple on his back, since that could be a path for infection.  And any fever might be a new infection in his back.  Not good news.

Joseph takes everything in stride, but it is a lot for both of us.

Today, for example, my wife is at the hospital with Elsbeth and I am home with the other five, ages 3-12.  Today I needed to call the plastic surgeon to discuss some excessive discharges from his surgery site over the weekend; his orthopedics nurse to try to get a working prescription for a bandage he needs; the infectious diseases doctor to discuss his antibiotic, which she calls a “gorilla” for its aggressiveness, and which has a possible side effect, which we are experiencing, of joint damage – and then the other two doctors again, because the infectious disease specialist asked for back up.  It’s a lot.

I am sorry to admit that the main person for whom I write this webpage, dear readers, is not you, but myself.  It helps me keep see clearly.  So I will continue.  But right now, there hasn’t been time.

A last thought: you who read this webpage know that I believe love of the poor is essential to the Gospel.  I convict myself all the time, and have been trying to find ways to live what I preach.  I daydream of living like Henri Nouwen, for example, writing spiritual theology while working with the poor.

I am slowly realizing that fatherhood is my poverty.  I don’t get to visit the sick because I am always visiting the sick.  That, I suppose, is Jesus’s beautiful providence for me, and for it I give thanks.

Do keep us in your prayers.

 

Third Sunday of Easter: Discovering the Hope of the Resurrection

The first three Sundays of Easter give us accounts of the Resurrection; the fourth Sunday is the Good Shepherd; and the following Sundays of the season are about the Eucharist.  Meanwhile the first reading is from the early chapters of the Acts of the Apostles, and the Epistle is from 1 Peter, 1 John, or Revelation, depending on the year.  We spend Easter pondering the meaning of Easter – and finding it in Jesus the Good Shepherd’s care for the infant Church, especially through the Eucharist.

This week we read the Road to Emmaus, from Luke’s Gospel.  Like the Easter Lectionary, those disciples are grappling with the meaning of Easter – and they find it in the Good Shepherd, revealed in the Eucharist.

***

A word central to all three readings and the Psalm is hope.  As Jesus talks to the disciples on the road to Emmaus, they say, “We were hoping that he would be the one to redeem Israel.”  Of course they are right, he has redeemed Israel.  But not the way they expected.  They were prevented from recognizing him walking along with them – but they were also prevented from recognizing him as their redeemer and hope on the Cross.

Luke, the author of our Gospel and of the Acts of the Apostles, is concerned with abandonment.  In Matthew’s and Mark’s Gospels, which Luke seems to have had before him while writing his own, Jesus’s only words on the Cross are “Why have you abandoned me?”  Now, he is citing Psalm 22 which, the Gospel writers expect us to know, tells how even in what feels like abandonment God has not abandoned us.

But Luke wants to make it more clear, so he tells us about another Psalm Jesus prayed, Psalm 31, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.”  Jesus was not abandoned.  Nor did he abandon us: Luke also tells us of Jesus saying to the Good Thief, himself abandoned on the Cross, “today you will be with me in Paradise,” and even of the morally abandoned people who crucified him, “Father, forgive them.”

In our reading from Acts, the same Luke reports Peter beginning his preaching at Pentecost with Psalm 16: “You will not abandon my soul to the netherworld.”  It’s the same Hebrew word for abandon as in Psalm 22.

***

The disciples on the Road to Emmaus feel abandoned.  Christ was not the redeemer, he was abandoned on the Cross, and so we too are abandoned.  But this is the first thing they need to know about Easter: we are not abandoned.  “Therefore,” says our Psalm, “my heart is glad and my soul rejoices, my body, too, abides in confidence; because you will not abandon my soul to the netherworld, nor will you suffer your faithful one to undergo corruption.”

Rembrandt’s Christ in Emmaus

“Abides in confidence” – actually, the word is hope.  In the Greek Old Testament, which Luke cites in Acts, it’s the same word as the disciples say on the Road to Emmaus: “we had hoped he was the redeemer.”  It’s the same word Peter says in our Epistle: “through him you believe in God who raised him from the dead and gave him glory, so that your faith and hope are in God.”

We are not abandoned, because we have hope.  And yet, as Paul says in Romans, hope is not yet possession.  The other side of hope is that we do indeed feel abandoned.  The power of Psalm 16, and the joy of Easter, is not in having completely escaped death, but in knowing, in the midst of death, that Christ is our hope.

The disciples “hoped” for a redeemer who would get them out of jail free.  For that, on the Road to Emmaus, Jesus scolds them: “Oh, how foolish you are!  How slow of heart to believe all that the prophets spoke!  Was it not necessary that the Christ should suffer these things and enter into his glory!”  (Glory is another word all over this Sunday’s readings.)  We enter glory through suffering, through hope.

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In our Epistle, St. Peter tells us that we were “ransomed” – redeemed, as in, “we had hoped that he would redeem Israel” – from our futile conduct.   Peter reads the resurrection in terms of our conversion, which is still in process.

File:De gamle Kalkmalerier or12.pngBut we were redeemed not through earthly power, “not with perishable things like silver or gold,” but through our Passover lamb, “with the precious blood of Christ as of a spotless unblemished lamb.”  He redeemed us not by being a powerful conquering king, but by laying down his life on the Cross.

His Word and his Eucharist transform the disciples on the Road to Emmaus.  “Were not our hearts burning within us?”  Actually, the word is more like “kindled,” “lit on fire” – the Greek emphasizes not a fire already burning, but the beginning.

Jesus kindle, your love in me, may your Cross and Resurrection give birth to the Church, a hope of glory, in each one of us.

To what new hope is Christ calling you this Easter?

Second Sunday of Easter: The Open Doors of the Risen Christ

This Sunday has many names.  St. John Paul II renamed it Divine Mercy Sunday.  It used to be called the Sunday in the Octave of Easter – the last day of the week-long solemnity.  For the same reason it was called “Low Sunday”: part of Easter, though not the “high” part.  The pre-Vatican II Missal calls it “In Albis,” “wearing white garments,” though the older, fuller name was “in albis depositis,” “when they take off the white garments,” because before the Middle Ages, when there were many people baptized at Easter – as again now – this was the end of their week-long celebration in baptismal garments.

Before Vatican II, the opening prayer said simply, “grant that what we have celebrated we may maintain in our lives.”  The new prayer develops the same theme: “let us remember in what font we have been plunged, by whose Spirit anointed, by whose Blood.” This Sunday is a kind of send-off: the Easter solemnities conclude, but the new life they celebrate has only just begun.

And it was called Quasimodo Sunday, because the opening antiphon (what riches we lose by neglecting those opening antiphons!), quoting First Peter, says, “Quasi modo geniti infantes”: like newborn infants, desire milk, with reason and without guile (or in the new missal, “you must long for the pure spiritual milk, that you may grow to salvation”).  Receive the new life given you in Christ!

(In Victor Hugo’s novel, Quasimodo, the hunchback of Notre Dame, the humiliated, the miserable, was abandoned by his mother and adopted by the Church on this day.)

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The Gospel for this day has always been doubting Thomas.  On Easter day, Jesus visits the apostles in the upper room, bringing peace and the power to forgive sins – the power of mercy.  But Thomas is not File:Smuglewicz Doubting Thomas.jpgthere.  The next Sunday after Easter, Jesus submits himself to Thomas’s doubting and probing.  He stoops down to Thomas, unafraid to be humiliated and lifting Thomas from his fears.  Mercy.

An interesting detail: on both Sundays, St. John tells us, the doors were locked, “for fear of the Jews.”  We’ve just been through the season where our modern Missals are full of assurances that John isn’t talking about today’s Jews and we shouldn’t be anti-Semites.

Those notes are right, but they don’t go far enough.  For us, “Jews” means another religion, outsiders.  But that’s exactly the opposite of what it meant for John.  John’s point is not that outsiders crucified Jesus, but that his own people did it: “he came to his own, and his own people received him not” (John 1:11).  It’s not only that we shouldn’t hate the Jews.  In fact, when John says “Jews,” we could translate it as “Christians,” us.  We, his people, crucified him.  The constant warning of the Gospel is not against outsiders, but against insiders.  The ones who most persecute Christ are us, the Christians.

When the disciples lock the doors for fear of the Jews, they are locking out doubters like Thomas – and thus becoming doubters like Thomas.  Both Sundays, John says, Jesus comes in “although the doors were locked.”

Like Thomas, like Jesus’s own people, we are always locking him out.  But Jesus overcomes our locked doors, just as he overcomes Thomas’s doubt.  Locking out our brothers, locking ourselves in against our fear, we lock out Jesus, just as Thomas’s doubt locks out Jesus.  But the mercy of Jesus comes through our locked doors.  Where we hide behind locked doors, Jesus shows his pierced body: perfect File:Hosios Loukas Crypt - Doubting Thomas 01.jpgvulnerability, his own hands and heart like an open door.

And Jesus sends us as missionaries of the same mercy.  He brings them peace and sends them as missionaries of peace: whoever’s sins you forgive.  Unlock the doors.

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Our first reading, from the beginning of the Acts of the Apostles – the verses immediately following Pentecost – tell us how the early Church carried on the mystery of Jesus that was given to them.  They lived in the teaching and the common life and the Eucharist and prayer.  And from that rooting in Jesus, came openness to one another: sharing all things in common, meeting in common, making their homes domestic churches.  Their meals were filled with the joy of the Gospel, and what our translation calls “sincerity of heart” has a root meaning of something like, “no stoning of hearts.”  When Jesus came through their locked doors, they opened their own hearts and hands to one another.

As always, the epistle, this time First Peter, gives the theology of grace.  From the resurrection of Christ we have received a new birth and a living hope.  We look forward to the inheritance in the final time.

This reading has one of the best ironic lines in the Bible: “though now for a little while you may have to suffer through various trials.”  No kidding!  Peter knows, in fact, that we will be “tested by fire,” smelted like gold, crucified with Christ.  But the life and love of Jesus poured into our hearts lets us love, and believe, and rejoice, even though we do not see.

Rooted in the mystery of Easter, we have nothing to fear.

Where is the mercy of Jesus calling you to open doors that you have shut?

Mercy, Truth, and Humiliation

I’m sorry I’ve been silent over these last, most important days.  I spent hours on a Palm Sunday post, but it didn’t quite come together before Holy Week got very busy.  This year we went to the Chrism Mass and had good friends in town, along with everything else – and then we got a bad stomach bug, and a big new project for work, etc. 

Yesterday I wrote two posts: before I wrote about today’s readings, in this post I’ve tried to put together some insights from the last week.

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Every Good Friday my kids and I join our Franciscan friends for a procession through Harlem and the Bronx.  There are many great things about this procession, but this year I also learned something about the liturgy.

One of the priests pointed out the novena to the Divine Mercy: beginning with Good Friday, there are nine days leading up to Divine Mercy Sunday.  I’ve always been a little confused how Divine Mercy fits into Easter Week, but here it is: Divine Mercy summarizes the mystery of Good Friday and Easter.  As soon as we have passed through these nine days of mercy, we stop to think about it.

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This year during the last few weeks of Lent I was meditating on Howard Thurman’s Jesus and the Disinherited.  Thurman was a big influence on Martin Luther King.  The book is both imperfect and breathtakingly important.  An example:

Thurman complains that he doesn’t like St. Paul.  That’s bad: Paul is amazing, and Thurman is missing Paul’s theology of grace, which is so central to the Gospel.  Thurman is incomplete.

But the reason he doesn’t like St. Paul is fascinating: because of citizenship.  When Paul is accused, he appeals to Ceasar (Acts 25).  Paul is a Roman citizen, he has rights.

BrotherSlave.jpgNow, whether or not Thurman understands Paul, he uses this event to take us deep into the mystery of Jesus.  Jesus did not have rights.  He was a poor man from a despised region of a despised, occupied country with a despised religion.  From Thurman’s experience as a black man in the 1930s American South, he takes us into Jesus’ experience of having no rights at all.

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If you’re at all interested in what people like Ta-Nehesi Coates have been talking about (I think you should be), you should read Jesus and the Disinherited, which says the same things but in a much richer, more complete way.

One powerful chapter, for example, talks about how the poor are often stripped of their love of the truth.  To deal with their lack of rights, it is tempting to solve everything with lies.  Thurman gives a meditation on the disaster this loss of truth is for human dignity.  And on how Jesus shows another way.

Jesus dies because he has united himself to the most humiliated.  And he dies because in that position of absolute humiliation, he alone maintains human dignity – a dignity, we must add, found ultimately in the Fatherhood of God.  No one else can deal with that kind of humiliation.  Jesus does.

For me this Lent and Easter, this meditation on Jesus’ union with the humiliated has opened up the Gospel in a new way.  I have heard it in every line of these last weeks’ liturgies.

This is the Divine Mercy: he goes all the way down, to save us at our most humiliated.

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Of course, like Paul, and much more comfortable than Paul, I have rights.  I am not among the humiliated.

But Jesus teaches me to love those who are, to see in them the deepest truth of the Gospel, the face of Christ.

Jesus teaches me a more excellent way, which is not to cling to my rights, not to fight to get ahead, but to love till the end.  At the Cross, Peter fled humiliation.

Jesus teaches me the meaning of my little humiliations.  I have not experienced what Thurman or Jesus (or Peter or Paul!) experienced.  But there are so many humiliations in life, leading up to the final and utter humiliation which is death.  (Another important read: Tolstoy’s Death of Ivan IlyichIf we do not learn humiliation during life, we will have to learn it at death.)

At the same time, I’ve been reading John of the Cross’s Dark Night of the Soul.  Spiritually, too, everything culminates in humiliation.  This is central to the Gospel.

And it is central to Divine Mercy: the mercy of Jesus is to join us in our humiliation.

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One more thought, from Good Friday.  In John’s account of the Passion, Jesus discusses with Pilate his kingship and his kingdom.  “Are you a king then?  Jesus answered, You say that I am a king.  To this end I was born, and for this cause I came into the world, that I should bear witness to the truth.”

Jesus is a king, but not the kind of king that conquers with a sword.  His kingdom is the kingdom of truth, his soldiers are those who embrace truth, speak truth, die for truth.  Those, too, who do not resort to untruth as a way of avoiding humiliation: the lies that protect our pride, the lies that get us out of hard situations, and the lies that allow us to demean others.

To follow Jesus is to live in the truth.  To receive Jesus is to have our eyes opened to the truth, to live in the light.

Where is humiliation in your life?  How does Jesus want to transform that?

 

The Mercy of Almsgiving

I recently heard someone summarize our Lenten observances as prayer, fasting, and fraternal charity.  On the one hand, that’s good: the heart of almsgiving is our love of neighbor, and discovering that our neighbor is our brother.  Fasting denies ourselves so that in prayer we can turn to God and in almsgiving we can love our neighbor.

File:Léo Schnug, Saint Martin partageant son manteau.jpgBut the tradition – based above all on the first half of Matthew 6, in the Sermon on the Mount – does not say fraternal charity.  It says almsgiving.

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Almsgiving takes us a step further, because it specifies that the neighbor in question is poor where we are rich.

It means recognizing our own gifts.  On this level, almsgiving brings together two things that seem like opposites.  On the one hand, we should be grateful for all God has given us.  On the other hand, we should deny ourselves.  Those two seem to be in contradiction: we often find ourselves thinking that if we are grateful to God, we ought to feast, not fast.  In almsgiving, we make our fast out of our neighbor’s feast.  We give thanks to God for what he has given to us by denying ourselves and sharing with our neighbor.  Quite nice.

Almsgiving also means recognizing our neighbor’s need.  This recognition goes against our tendency to make excuses for ourselves and demands of our neighbors.  I am needy, he ought to help me.  But almsgiving calls us to recognize that I have more than enough, and my neighbor is hurting.  We need to see how our neighbors hurt.

File:Meister des Schwabacher Crispinus-Altars Hl Sebastian Martin und Rochus c1500.jpg

St. Martin and the Beggar

And almsgiving calls us to get over our assumption that when I lack, I don’t deserve it, but when I possess, I do deserve it – and when my neighbor lacks, he does deserve it, but when he possesses, he doesn’t deserve it.  In its most basic, traditional form – what Jesus is talking about and the tradition practices – almsgiving means finding someone you don’t know, someone whose merits you can’t judge, and helping them out, purely out of mercy.  It means renouncing our tendency to judge—and, even more, always in our own favor.

It teaches us to see ourselves as rich and our neighbor as poor.  And it teaches that the right way to deal with that is to share our riches.

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Where can we practice almsgiving?

I have said before and I will say again: the traditional call to almsgiving should remind us that there is something very strange about our society.  If you read the life of any saint, they regularly came across beggars.  Beggars have always been a part of life – including anonymous beggars, not just people you know all about and can judge worthy or unworthy.  Jesus and the whole of the Bible treat it as a normal part of life that you will encounter beggars.

Why, in our normal American lives, don’t we encounter beggars?  This website is about theology and spirituality, not economics, so I can only assert as a moral judgment, not prove: we have constructed our entire American way of life on making sure we never see beggars – making sure we never have to give alms.  That should disturb you.  There are lots of beggars in America – we have just organized our lives to make sure we don’t have to encounter them.

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And yet there are beggars in our life.  Elizabeth Foss, a homeschooling writer I very much respect, once pointed out that Jesus’s words in Matthew 25 about caring for him in the hungry, thirsty, foreign, naked, sick, and imprisoned almost exactly describe the vocation of motherhood.

Mothers see more literal naked beggars than even the most traditional society.  We might need some metaphor for the foreigner, but our children’s lack of social graces, their inability to act according to our expectations, makes them pretty “strange”: can we welcome them nonetheless?  And though they are not typically in prison, like the prisoner they are often accused, sometimes falsely, sometimes legitimately – and Jesus calls us to ignore that distinction and love them, be present to them, either way.

We can give alms to our children.

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Sometimes I like to meditate on the Old Testament injunction to care for widows and orphans.  I simply add to it that to the extent that I fail in my vocation, my wife is a widow and my children are orphans.  So along with caring for the poverty of my children, I can care for the poverty of my wife, who relies on me.

And so too I can realize that everyone who depends on me, at work, in my extended family, in my neighborhood, or elsewhere, even in my economic relationships, is an orphan and impoverished to the extent that I fail them.  I give alms when I recognize that they deserve my generosity.

Finally, I give alms every time I recognize the suffering and poverty of the people around me.  Real almsgiving teaches us, and our call to almsgiving calls us, to see the brokenness of the people around us and to come to their aid.

And it teaches us that, though prayer is the highest thing, our love of Jesus means not only “spiritual works of mercy” (which are not explicitly taught us by Jesus) but far more, “corporal works”: simply giving up our material stuff to care for the concrete needs of our neighbor.  That’s why we have material stuff in the first place.

Where can you give alms?