Peter’s Confession

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.

The List

There is a card in my wallet that tells a story. Many of you have heard the story and some may even have lists of your own. The list, the card, battered and torn, started, as all good stories do, with a teacher who made a difference.

It was my junior year in high school and Sr. Judy Eby, RSM asked us to reflect on the reading from Mark’s Gospel that we will proclaim at Mass on Friday morning this week. You’ve heard the story before: there are crowds gathered around Jesus and so some guys carry a paralytic, drop him through the roof, and in front of Jesus.

After we read the story in Sr. Judy’s class, she wheeled in that big glorious television that promised a break from the text and we all move our seats so we could see it. It was a scene of Franco Zeffirelli’s 1977 masterpiece, Jesus of Nazareth. The story unfolds sort of like like it does in Mark’s (and Luke’s) Gospel: the crowds have gathered and there is no room for the men to bring their friend to Jesus. He cannot walk so they carry him over the wall, through the thatched roof, and place him before the Teacher.

You know what happens next. The man is told his sins are forgiven. The crowd goes nuts. “Only God can forgive sins,” they reproach Jesus. Putting yourself on the same plane as God is only going to cause trouble. To this, we get a classic Jesus response: “Which is easier, to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Rise and walk’?”

Think about it. Surely forgiving sins is easier. But how can someone who is not harmed be the one to forgive sins? To show the crowd what he’s really capable of, he tells the man to get up, pick up his mat, and go home. The man obliges. The crowd goes nuts for a new reason and everyone learns an important lesson.

But back to the card in my wallet.

We wrap up the reading, the watching, and the discussion about the friends who carried the stretcher, and Sr. Judy hands us all an index card. “Now,” she tells us, “write down the names of those who carry you to Christ.”

I have repeated that exercise with youth and adults alike for years. Like Sr. Judy, I challenge people to think of those who, when we are paralyzed with fear, sinfulness, guilt, and selfishness, carry us to Christ. When you cannot move, who lifts you up? When you are sick or alone or unhappy or in serious need of a friend, who do you call?

I have edited my list throughout the years. Friends come and go. People die. But my list has been there since that spring day in 1987. I have moved it from wallet to wallet. It’s a thirty-year-old ratty piece of paper that I carry with me everywhere.  On more than one occasion, the list has saved my life, my soul, my sanity.

Go ahead, take out a piece of paper.

Who is on your list?

The Visitation

My wife is amazing. Anyone who knows her knows this. I married up in every sense of the word (except height). When she was pregnant with each of our children, I saw her do things that would have us mere men falter: manage the safe release of more than twenty thousand high school students from an arena, facilitate meetings with adults who behave like children, work full time, cook, clean, and wrangle our own children all by herself while I am an ocean away.

Yes, she is amazing. Pregnant or not. Women are amazing. We men should know that, respect that, honor that, and always remember that.

Even with all of this amazing-ness, all of it pales in comparison to what we read about in today’s Gospel. In Luke, chapter one, Mary sets out in haste. Having just learned she will be the mother of her Lord, an unwed mother at that, she thinks not of herself, but of her cousin whom she has learned is now with child. She must go help. There is no choice. She must head out in haste.

Having been to the Holy Land and having made the journey Mary made (in an afternoon, in a van), I am drawn into that story. We celebrate the Annunciation in March, the Visitation in May, and the birth of Christ at Christmas. It fits nicely with our modern-day calendar, but let’s imagine for a moment that it actually lines up with history. Mary receives a visit from the angel, to which she gives hers fiat, her “yes” to God. Then, hearing that Elizabeth, a cousin presumably, is with child, she forgets her own needs and heads out – in haste! For the next sixty or so days, she hikes her way up and down hills, through the valley of villages, across very dry land, traversing rocks, heat, and discomfort as she goes – all so she can be of service to someone else. The short van ride we made in air conditioning took her two months – though my hunch is that she probably would have stopped to help anyone else she saw in need. Still, I haven’t done anything “in haste” in some time and that line reminds us of Mary’s single-mindedness. Elizabeth is first. May is second. It’s clear she was teaching Jesus from the get-go.

Once again, we turn to Ruth Mary Fox and her wonderful poem about this event. Let each of us commit to going “in haste” to someone in need this week. Let us bring Christ to others so they, too, may leap for joy.

Into the hillside country Mary went
Carrying Christ.
And all along the road the Christ she carried
Generously bestowed his grace on those she met.
But she had not meant to tell she carried Christ
She was content to hide his love for her.
But about her glowed such joy that into stony hearts
Love flowed
And even to the unborn John, Christ’s love was sent.

Christ, in the sacrament of love each day, dwells in my soul
A little space.
And then as I walk life’s crowded highways
Jostling men who seldom think of God
To these, I pray, that I may carry Christ
For it may be
Some may not know of him
Except through me.

Have a wonderful week.

Easter Readings

The Scripture readings around the Easter season are filled with great challenges. Yes, Scripture is always filled with challenges, but I really like the ones we find in the readings around Easter.

We have the women running to the tomb. We have Peter reconciling with Jesus. We have the apostles walking to nowhere and meeting Jesus on the way. We have Thomas the doubter – who we must remember is recognized as a saint (that always give me hope).

Eventually, we have the apostles looking at the sky, waiting for what’s next.

But the people who have been on my mind of late are the disciples in the upper room. We hear that they were in the upper room and the doors were locked. Jesus arrives. Thomas isn’t there. You remember the story.

Then, a week later, Jesus arrives again and shows Thomas his hands and feet.

The doors were still locked.

Think about that for a minute. We focus on Thomas because he doubts and his name means twin and we, doubters and sinners, are his twin. We think about Thomas because we get Thomas. We struggle and wonder and question and doubt.

But don’t let the other ten off the hook. They experienced the Risen Christ. They welcomed him. They interacted with him. This guy with whom they had interacted and lived and shared their lives with had been brutally put to death. They buried him. Now, he had been raised and was standing, breathing and talking in their midst.

But after he left, they locked the door.

I am not sure what the lesson is for you, but for me it raises the question about my own openness to the resurrection experience. When I experience Christ in the flesh all around me do I welcome it and share it or does the fear overwhelm me?

Do I lock the doors to feel safe or to avoid responsibility?

Maybe that’s why we celebrate Easter for so long. The dead are raised. What has happened for one is suddenly possible for all. After a lifetime of saying, “yes” to God – even unto death – God validates his life choices and says, “yes” right back to Jesus.

God resurrects that which we crucify. Isn’t that nice?

Why then, if we believe, are so many doors still locked?

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. 

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

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.

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.

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.

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?