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The Other Side

In this morning‘s gospel reading from Mark, we read another story of the son of God conquering evil. A man who has been “dwelling among the tombs“ and was filled with an unclean spirit approached Jesus and begged for mercy.

Jesus communicates with the legion of evil spirits, takes them from the man, and puts them into the nearby swine. The swine, numbering around 2,000, rush down a steep hill and throw themselves into the sea to be drowned.

The author of the Gospel of Mark tells us that the swineherds, those caring for the swine, ran away and reported the incident in town and throughout the countryside. 

I wonder what they said.

If these people were in charge of the pigs and the pigs are now dead, I can’t imagine they were happy about that. If this is how they made their living, were they overwhelmed by Jesus’ power over evil, over nature, over animals, over their livelihood? Or were they just really mad? It must’ve been quite a sight for 2,000 pigs to throw themselves into the water, but I imagine the cost of this endeavor complicates life for the swineherds. 

I’ve often wondered when we read about these great signs of wonder what the other side reports. Everyone was thrilled when Jesus took two loaves and five fish and fed thousands. But if you were in the marketplace that day and didn’t get to sell food to anyone because Jesus had fed all the people, you didn’t make any money that day. Was that upsetting? 

When Jesus healed the centurion’s slave, did the slave have to continue to be a slave or was he set free?

People often say that there are two sides to every story. My father used to say there were three side. My side, your side, and the truth that lies somewhere in between our own interpretations. But now we cannot even agree on what truth really is…. and that should concern all of us.

Anyway, I thought about this reading this morning as we look around and see how divided we are as a country and as a church.

There is always a cost to fighting evil. For the swineherds, the cost was their livelihood. I wonder if they really were thrilled that the man was freed from his evil spirits at the cost of all those pigs. Maybe. Maybe not. 

People were fed, literally and figuratively, but shopkeepers made no money that day.

A slave is healed. But he is still a slave. 

If we are the people of faith, there really should only be one side to every story. That side includes goodness, holiness, joy. You know the list.  

Resentment has no place in the kingdom of God. Neither does nationalism. 

In Christ there is no right or left. There is no black or white. There is no we or they. Saint Paul made that clear. 

The faithful are never called to warfare or violence or insurrection. Only peace. 

Religion, if you study it, can be tied to some of the worst of human behaviors.

Faith, if you live it, is only tied to love. 

This week, let us strive to be people of faith. 

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It Was Always Going To End Like This

Someone sent me a meme last week shortly after the horrific events at the capitol. I received it later in the week too, but it was that first person’s reaction to the meme (and the meme itself), that really irked me.

It was essentially a conversation where one side yells, “The Republicans are to blame.”

Then the other side yells, “The Democrats are to blame.”

Then a third side yells, “No, we are all to blame because we let you fight each other instead of fighting for us” – or something to that effect.

I remember it made me mad. My first thought, to be honest, was to be irritated because only hours after an attempted coup in our country, social media had done what it does best – turned it into a game.

Then I showed it to my oldest and she said, without hesitation, “Dad, that’s what guilty people say when they want to share the blame.”

Out of the mouths of babes.

I have voted for people from both parties and I have never considered myself very political, apart from stealing yards signs when I collected them and could actually run without getting winded. But all this week I have been thinking about the events of that day. Maureen and I sat down with the children to talk about it. We watched coverage on television. We prayed together for our country. We avoided talk of who is to blame and we talked about ways we could be people of peace.

But I kept being bothered by that silly Internet post and Ace Number One’s reaction to it. Then I figured out why.

It was always going to end like this. It is hard to say that and not sound arrogant or haughty, or better than those who backed the man. But that is the reaction of so many young people with whom I’ve talked about it. So let’s think about this for a minute.

When you begin your campaign by insulting people from other countries and spewing racist nonsense, you attract people who buy into that.

When you yourself have a history of corruption and surround yourself with people who are corrupt, when you begin your term in office by substituting the truth with alternative facts, when you promise to care for the most vulnerable at the expense of the living, and when you reinstitute a policy that actively seek the death of other people, you can hardly be surprised when followers begin to copy you.

When you tell violent people to stand back and stand by, when you simply refuse to accept that which is fact, and when you were default reaction is to condemn other people by making fun of them, ridiculing their families, insulting them on social media, and bullying other people to acquiesce to your demands, how can anyone be surprised that we are here?

When you ignore science, when you downplay the greatest threat to humanity in decades, when you not only hide the truth from people but knowingly and willingly lie about what you know, you are not called a leader. You are called a despot.

When I was a child, my father told me a story about a small boy who went up a mountain and, even though the child was wrapped in a coat and a hat, the air around him was frigid and the boy was cold. A snake approached the boy and begged to be picked up and kept warm. The child refused, “If I picked you up, you will bite me.”

The snake begged again and again saying that he would not bite the boy if the boy would only pick him up and keep him warm and take him down the mountain with him.

Finally, the boy gave in. My father never told me whether the boy gave in because there was no other option or because the boy didn’t like the other options that he saw or if the boy was simply overcome by the sales pitch the snake put forth. But one thing was clear, the boy believed the lies.

When they got to the bottom of the mountain, the boy took the snake out of his coat and placed him on the ground. The snake recoiled and bit the boy. The boy was stunned.

“You promised. You promised. You said if I helped you, you would not bite me.”

The snake, slithering away into the darkness, finally told the truth.

“You knew what I was when you picked me up.”

The snake bites.

And we knew it all along.

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A House At Rest?

Today is the feast of St. John of the Cross, which always reminds me of putting our house at rest. To be fair, this place is more a house at dust, disarray, and disillusionment (will we ever be finished…).

The painter comes tomorrow, the backsplash is in, the appliances are slowly making their way from the garage to the kitchen. The bathroom walls are up, the finishing touches are slowly appearing, and soon, very soon, the house can be put back together and be at rest.

In the meantime, I am reminded of John of the Cross:

On a dark night
Kindled in love with yearnings –
Oh, happy chance!
I went forth unobserved,
My house being now at rest. 

Now I know John was speaking metaphorically about the perfection we seek for our souls, but it works for the physical house too, no matter how chaotic it becomes. Reflecting on John’s words led me to a poem by Jessica Powers, a Carmelite nun who wrote well into her eighties and was introduced to me by a bishop-friend. They are both gone now, yet her words continue to inspire.

How does one hush one’s house,
Each proud possessive wall, each sighing rafter,
The rooms made restless with remembered laughter
Or wounding echoes, the permissive doors,
The stairs that vacillate from up to down,
Windows that bring in color and event
From countryside or town,
Oppressive ceilings and complaining floors?

The house must first of all accept the night.
Let it erase the walls and their display,
Impoverish the rooms till they are filled
With humble silences; let clocks be stilled
And all the selfish urgencies of day.

Midnight is not the time to greet a guest,
Caution the doors against both foes and friends
And try to make the windows understand
Their unimportance when the daylight ends
Persuade the stairs to patience, and deny
The passages their aimless to and fro.
Virtue it is that puts a house at rest.
How well repaid that tenant is, how blest
Who, when the call is heard,
Is free to take his kindled heart and go.

As we look to the day when we will welcome the Christ child into our hearts and homes, we also look to the day when this nine-month advent will end, our families will be back together for celebrations, and when Zoom gives way to true communion.

In the meantime, may our houses be at rest – inside and out.

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The Rest of the Story

From the 5MOM archives as I take today off.

The great radio commentator Paul Harvey has been dead since 2009 and if I had not grown up with the parents I had or with the older siblings I had (and still have) and if one of those siblings had not been in radio himself, I might not have known who Paul Harvey was. But I did and if you did too, then the title of this entry already makes sense.

I thought about those old “The Rest of the Story” radio segments and their little known or forgotten facts as I reflected on Numbers 11.

It is one of my favorite passages of the Old Testament and is one I invoke often. Look it up. Read it. And smile along with me.

There are times, in ministry and in life, we are, quite frankly, overwhelmed by the ignorance around us. On the road, in the supermarket, perhaps even in the office, we are surrounded by foolishness, incompetence, and just plain…well…you know what I mean. Like Moses in this reading, we hear the cries of those we are called to serve and, though we know the tasks we have been given, we are at our wits end, ready to surrender. Every time I read Numbers 11, I laugh because I recognize the Moses in me. “Please, Lord, if this is how you are to treat your servant, just do me the favor of killing me now.”

I don’t really mean it. I am sure Moses, a family man himself, didn’t really want to die either.

But there does come a time in ministry when we look around and wonder if we are the only ones with creativity, vision, or a sense of what’s possible. It’s not arrogance. Really, it isn’t. It is just frustration that those around us simply don’t move as quickly or in the same direction as we think they ought.

So, like Moses, we take it to prayer, and we ask to be let off the hook.

But you have to read the rest of the story.

Since it’s not in this morning’s first reading, let me summarize. Moses says, “Kill me now, God, so I do not have to bear the burden of these people.”

And God says, “I have a better idea.”

“Go find people smarter than you and bring them with you to the meeting tent (ahh, the first parish committee). Then I will take some of my spirit that is within you, Moses, and I will place it on them, so you do not have to do my work all by yourself.”

So, in other words: “Quit your whining and surround yourself with smart people, if you can admit they exist, which is another issue entirely. Find those who share your passion and vision and remember: the work you do is God’s, not yours.”

It isn’t your ministry. It’s God’s.

They aren’t your young people. They are God’s.

It isn’t about you. It’s about you making God present to others.

And just because an idea wasn’t yours, doesn’t mean it isn’t good. Just because you didn’t think of it, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t support it…but I digress.

God could have let Moses off the hook. He could have struck him dead.

But disciples hardly ever get off that easily.

Look around this week. Who are the smart people you should gather together so that God can share God’s spirit with God’s people so that, together, you can do God’s work?

I love Numbers 11. But you have to read the rest of the story.

I think Paul Harvey would be pleased.

~pjd

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Let the dead bury their dead

We hear this week in Luke’s Gospel that Jesus is calling people to follow him. As he is inviting people to be his followers, one person requests that he first be allowed to bury his father.

“Let the dead bury their dead.”

It’s not the most sympathetic portrait of Jesus. Even when we add the last part of the conversation, “..but you, go and proclaim the Kingdom of God,” it doesn’t really get better. There is no bereavement leave where Jesus is concerned.

Why?

Because nothing is more important that proclaiming the Kingdom. Nothing. Not family, not rituals, not taking the time to pack, nothing.

This is tough stuff. We like our comforts. We enjoy our rituals. We depend on our down time to get recharged and rejuvenated.

But not so, when it comes to Jesus.

Scholars tell us that the man’s father was probably not actually dead yet. His request was to spend time with him until he died, to stay with him, make him comfortable, and hold his hand as his dad passed from this world to the next. That was important to the son – and I think we can all probably relate.

Here’s the problem: the man assumes that tomorrow – or whenever he was free from his duties as a son – he could come back and follow Jesus. The response of Jesus shows that He understood full well that if the man did not respond immediately, he might never respond all.

Jesus asks us to follow, to be compassionate, to feed the poor and forgive one another. He asks that we love one another in a way that is both counter-cultural and, for some, counter-intuitive. He asks us to be merciful and just, open-minded and even keeled. He tells us to welcome the stranger, give sight to the blind, and heal the broken-hearted. He asks us to witness our faith to others and live as an example of sacrificial love that can change the world.

And nowhere does he say that any of this will be convenient or that the invitation will arrive only when we are ready to heed it.

Invitations come in all shapes and sizes – at all times of day and night. From children and parents and brothers and sisters. Through friends and strangers and people stuck in traffic.

I cannot help but wonder how many invitations I missed today because I let my own desires get in the way.

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Everyone

Today is the Feast of the Exultation of the Holy Cross. For today’s Gospel reading, we hear from John:

”For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son,
so that everyone who believes in him might not perish
but might have eternal life.
For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world,
but that the world might be saved through him.”

Note that John didn’t say that God loves only those people who vote for the “right” people.

Or attend the right church. Or believe what we believe. Or look like us. Or talk like us. Or come to the country in the same way as we did.

I don’t believe it’s an accident this reading follows Sunday’s gospel about forgiveness. Maybe one of the things we could work on this week is an eagerness to forgive those who have offended us with no strings attached.

The next several weeks are going to be rocky. We are going to disagree with people. Depending on the channel, the commentators will irritate us. Or maybe all the commentators on all the channels will irritate us. There is a serious lack of clarity in this world when it comes to truth.

But John is clear. God loves the world and anyone who believes this is in pretty good shape. The hard part is acting like we believe it.

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Making Peter’s Confession Our Own

The reading from Matthew’s Gospel we shared yesterday is one of my favorites.

Remember: Jesus asks the apostles that great, defining question, “Who do people say that I am?” It’s the 2,000-year-old version of, “Hey, what are you hearing about me out there?” except that it doesn’t sound paranoid or conceited coming from Jesus.

Some apostles give answers and then Peter jumps in and shuts down the conversation. “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.” Boom. There it is. The naked truth. The confession.

I use the word confession on purpose. Peter believed it to be true. It was – and is – a statement setting out essential religious doctrine. It was not and could not be a profession of some religious truth because that truth was not yet fully established. For this group of itinerant preachers, getting to the reality that Jesus was the Messiah was a process. Peter, who I imagine as very impatient, sought to make the truth known now.

And therein lies the challenge for us. Do we let others define who Jesus is for ourselves, our families, our coworkers, and partners in ministry or are we, like Peter, willing to make the statement others only say in the silence of their hearts?

To make Peter’s confession our own, we have to remember that it’s all faith. Peter’s statement is important because he did not know it to be true. He believed it to be true. Ultimately, we go to the grave believing, not knowing.

But we read the Bible, listen to the Gospels, and think about Jesus as people who have read the end of the book and seen the end of the movie. We know that if Jesus is not the Christ, our sins are not forgiven and Jesus did not rise, so, as St. Paul says, “Pack your bags” because we are all a bunch of fools.

But Peter did not know the end of the story. He only knew Jesus. He knew his own lived experiences and his lived experiences were the Jesus experiences. He knew the Jesus of history. We know the Christ of faith. We know that only if you walk with Jesus can you get to know Jesus and really come to see him. Peter didn’t know that – but he was figuring it out. (Which is, by the way, the reason Jesus tells the boys not to tell anyone – it’s a process for everyone.)

This is why I love this passage, whether it’s in Matthew 16 or Mark 8. It reveals the truth and joy that comes from understanding that only those who walk with Jesus and repent can sit down with Jesus (though the repenting may come later for some).

We too must walk the Jesus way so that we can break bread together and see Jesus for who and what he really is: the Lord. If we walk the Jesus way, then we too can sit with everyone – saints and sinners alike – and break bread together. But not without doubt and skepticism – it is a process, a journey.

It always reminds me of the end of Godspell. Jesus is dead and they take him off the cross. But in a really great production – where the audience is really into the play – they don’t just take Jesus down, they carry him around and sing those haunting words, “Long live God…long live God.” They cannot accept that this ends with death. God is victorious even in this death. Even the audience, who sings right along, cannot accept that this is the end. In time, they realize that it isn’t the end, but they don’t know that as they are singing. That’s why its so powerful.

That is why I love this passage. It reminds me to walk with Jesus, as did the first followers. It reminds me to experience Jesus. It tells me that if I do, I too will see precisely who and what this man is: God’s definitive act, word, salvation, and presence in history.

Then I too can say with Peter: “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.” But now it will no longer be Peter’s confession, but my own.

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The Banquet

This week, we hear from the Gospel of Matthew (chapter 22) and the story of the wedding feast. Remember? They had a big party, killed the fattened cattle, set the table, and…

No one came.

We are told that some ignored the invitation, some laid hold of the ones giving the invitation and “mistreated them, and killed them.” Honest to God, who does that? It’s like attacking the guy who delivers your Amazon package.

The king, of course, is not much better. He sends his troop and burns the city. Yikes. Revenge much?

Finally, the king realizes the food is getting cold and sends his people to “go out, therefore, into the main roads and invite to the feast whomever you find.” The hall was filled with, as Pope Francis says, those on the peripheries.

Let’s pause here for a moment. Let’s not go into the last part of the story, where the king throws out the guy who is underdressed. Let’s forgo the conversation about what the heck is wrong with the king.

Last week, a friend sent a song to me, compliments of YouTube that she remembered from her days in the folk group back in the seventies. It’s called, “I Cannot Come” and, really, it’s just awful in a hilarious way. Search for it. Just Google “I cannot come to the banquet song” and enjoy. It’s a bit of an earworm, so you’ll be humming the silly song the rest of the day.

But I thought of that song as I was looking at the readings for the week. The refrain started playing in my head again and again:

I cannot come to the banquet,
Don’t trouble me now.
I have married a wife,
I have bought me a cow.
I have fields and commitments
That cost a pretty some,
Pray, hold me excused,
I cannot come.

It seems that each day we are invited into the lives of others – a cashier, a coworker, a stranger at the stop light, the guy on the corner with a sign, a sibling, a child, or a spouse. The invitation to come to the banquet is right there in front of us. Will we shy away from doing what is right and good and holy and just or will be ask to be excused because we are too deep into our thoughts and jobs and commitments and emails and Zoom calls to worry that much about someone else.

Yes, the song is silly by today’s standards. But the question it asks – the same question the writers of Matthew’s Gospel ask – are still out there.

When God invites, what’s our response?

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The Truth About Walking On Water

I had a call today that irritated me. We were talking about various things and at one point the person made the comment, “Truth is relative.”

I wanted to scream, “No it isn’t!” but I am trying really hard not to interrupt people. Still, as the conversation went on, I could tell that the person on the other end of the call was serious. Truth, to my colleague, is what you believe it to be – and if my truth is different than your truth – then we just have to live and let live.

All I could think about was if this guy’s house was on fire and I told him, as the flames licked through the windows, “I don’t believe that’s fire.” I wonder how he would react. Having an opinion is fine in this house, even welcomed. You can tell me that you don’t like something or you would rather watch another show or play a different game. But there is also truth in this house. We believe in right and wrong. We live according to a creed. You are not allowed, in this house, to make up your own truth because you no longer want to live by the one that existed five minutes ago.

Oh, if I ruled the world….

Actually, that’s a really bad idea.

What does this have to do with walking on water? Well, in my irritation with my phone call, I went back to the readings for the day. I suppose it’s a good thing that a conversation about truth led me back to Scripture.

Looking at today’s Gospel readings had me searching through the archives of this blog when it appeared in another form. I love the reading about walking on water (Mt 14). It puts me in the mood for impossible things.

I can imagine the storm, the darkness, and the fear. I can imagine what it must have been like to feel alone, wondering if anyone would help as the waves got bigger and I feel smaller. It’s like that feeling you get when you are in bed and you swear you hear a noise…and you freeze. It gives me chills just thinking about it.

Then Jesus comes along – wait, is that Jesus? Sometimes I don’t recognize Him. Is He in a boat? Or are we that close to shore? No, wait. He is walking on the water. Holy cow. It’s like He is stepping on stones as he comes closer and closer.

Then Peter, that rock, that steady but sometimes dim witted leader, says something to Jesus and Jesus responds. What are they talking about? Then Pete hops out of the boat and starts walking on the water too. This is incredible. I forget about the storm. I forget about my fear. I am watching the impossible; or rather two men doing the impossible.

Suddenly Peter begins sinking. What did he say? He must have called out, because Jesus reached after him and brought him to safety, but he had that look on his face, Jesus did…that look that says, “Why do you persist in your unbelief? Why are you so hard hearted?” I’ve seen that look before.

Later Jesus is asleep and the others are giving Peter a hard time. He did, after all, lose faith and start to sink. If it weren’t for Jesus he probably would have drowned.

Peter takes it all in stride. He just listens for a bit and then starts to smile. It’s a smile that comes from knowing the Truth.

“Three steps,” he says, and the others are silent.

“Three steps,” he repeats. That is not just his truth, it is truth. He walked. He doubted. He was saved. Sometimes in life there are simple unarguable truths and just because we don’t like them doesn’t make them any less true.

The implication is clear: How many steps did you take on the water? I may have started sinking, but I took three more steps than the rest of you…

He is right. He speaks the truth. And the rest of us doubters are well-rebuked.

The Truth will be all around me this week and in many cases, I probably won’t recognize it. I am often distracted by life.

“Three steps,” I say to myself.

How many steps will you take this week? What truth will you live?

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Prayers Forgotten

Back in March, my office hosted Nine Nights of Prayer and we prayed a Novena together online with several hundred people.

Then in April, we did Evening Prayer for a while, then the Divine Mercy Chaplet for nine nights.

Every night in May, the Donovan family gathered and either led the Rosary online or at least participated it in. Sometimes, several hundred people would join us. Other times, several dozen.

Since the end of May, we have gathered on Sunday nights and Tuesday nights to pray the Rosary with the online community. Once again, we average a few hundred each night.

Last night, something remarkable happened.

Last night, we forgot.

We stranded a few hundred people online and it was not until I came up from the basement and looked at my phone that I realized what had happened. The texts, the reminder, the emails – the cacophony of noises I had missed by leaving my phone in the kitchen all conspired to remind me that I had missed the Rosary.

What was happening instead?

Family time.

The day began with the electricians – masked and gloved – coming in at 7:30 am to fix a few things. Then we spent the day cooking, singing, playing cards, and generally doing nothing. We watched television, read a little, and had a great time.

When dinnertime rolled around, we had leftovers and grilled cheese, a great salad from the lettuce we grew in our own garden, and then headed to the basement for a movie.

We left the phones in the kitchen and just enjoyed each other’s company.

And before you suggest we set an alarm, I should tell you that the fifteen year old heard the alarm go off at 7:15 and turned it off.

“I thought it was Saturday,” she admitted later. Mass was a distant memory and since she’s in the midst of summer vacation (with so few responsibilities), she just silenced the alarm.

Another unintended consequence of quarantine. All the days run together.

So to all those who wanted to join us, my apologies. I am sorry I missed praying with you. But I really am not sorry that I got to spend such a great day hanging out with my family.

Have a great week.