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Martha, Martha

This morning’s readings for the Memorial of Saint Martha offer two choices when it comes to the Gospel reading. They both include a story about a Martha and both include powerful lessons applicable to our daily lives.

In the first option, John 11:19-27, we hear the beginning of the story of the resurrection of Lazarus, the brother of Martha. I love that Martha tells Jesus, “Lord if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” How many of us wonder in the time of great loss if God is really present? And yet, she confesses her confidence that Jesus can still make things right, almost challenging him: “But even now I know that whatever you ask of God, God will give you.”

The conversation leads to that great line that conveys so much for you and I and for all faithful. Jesus tells her, “I am the resurrection and the life; whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live, and anyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

To this, Martha confesses, on behalf of all of us: “Yes, Lord. I have come to believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, the one who is coming into the world.”

Martha speaks for all of us. Her confession must become our own. But how?

This takes us to the second optional reading, Luke 10:38-42, Jesus enters a village where Martha and her sister Mary greet him. Mary listens while Martha works. Then Martha complains that she’s doing all the work and Mary isn’t helping. “Tell her to help me,” Martha requests.

But Jesus chastises Martha, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things.

There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her.”

Martha works. That is important. She serves our Lord. That is essential.

Mary spends time with Jesus. Equally important. Equally essential.

Two readings. Two lessons. There is no escaping the Good News: in one reading, we hear that believing in Jesus gets us life eternal. How do we get to this confession? Serving and spending time.

These are the two roles we can choose when it comes to Jesus – serving him by loving others in word and deed – or spending time with him in prayer, in listening, and in just being present. Or both?

Both are essential and both will lead to that moment of clarity: “Yes, Lord, I believe…”

Saint Martha, pray for us.

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Capernaum

I am in the Holy Land this week with a group of young adults. We have visited Nazareth and arrived today in Bethlehem. Our visit today to the house of St. Peter and the seaside town of Capernaum reminded me of the card in my wallet.

This card in my wallet tells a story and it started, like 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 that great passage from the Gospel according to St. Luke.  You remember the story: Jesus is teaching at the house of Peter in Capernaum and some friends want to get their buddy, who is paralyzed and has spent the better part of his life flat on a mat, closer to Jesus. Unable to get through the crowd, they drag the poor fellow up a ladder and down through the roof.

Then, after we read the passage, we watched a scene of Franco Zeffirelli’s 1977 masterpiece, Jesus of Nazareth. The story unfolds just like it does in 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 movie takes some editorial license, but after a brief conversation, the man is told his sins are forgiven. The movie version, while riveting, fails to follow Luke’s account. Jesus forgives the man’s sins because he is moved by the actions of the friends. But more on that later.

In both versions, 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 that. Surely forgiving sins is easier. Right? To show the crowd what he’s really capable of, Jesus tells the man to get up, pick up his mat, and go home. The man obliges. The crowd goes nuts for an entirely different 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.”

Wait. What? This just got real.

I have repeated that exercise with youth and adults alike for years.  I even used it last night with my group here. Like Sr. Judy, I challenged them to think of those who, when we are paralyzed with fear, sinfulness, 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-two-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.

Yes, there is a card in my wallet that tells a story. It tells a story of salvation.

Who’s on your list?

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Perspective

Reflecting on one of the Gospel stories we hear this week, you can see the stark differences between the way various groups react to the words and work of Jesus.

A demoniac who could not speak was brought to Jesus, and when the demon was driven out the mute man spoke. The crowds were amazed and said, “Nothing like this has ever been seen in Israel.” But the Pharisees said, “He drives out demons by the prince of demons.”  Matthew 9:32-34

The crowds – the everyday people – are overwhelmed with faith. The Pharisees – the so-called holy ones of Judaism – are overwhelmed with indignation.

One group sees light, wonder, amazement. The other sees jealousy, bitterness, even a connection to demons.

I thought of this the other day when we were riding our bikes as a family (well, almost all of us, as the last child’s bike had bad brakes and she nearly wiped out on the first hill). We are trying to increase our exercise so child number three can increase his carb intake. It makes for a healthier family altogether.

Child number one – the one who would almost always rather be online – loved it. She was off and riding on the trail, talking to strangers, interacting with others, and having a great time. Child number two was less thrilled, complained a bit more, and rode with less enthusiasm. Though I was told I look like a bear riding a tricycle, I kept up.

It’s the same at home when we try to pick a movie. One child wants animation. One wants a documentary. Another wants all things Marvel. And yet another wants to stay in her room and interact with others only online. When it comes times for chores, one child clearly understands the connection between helping out and personal responsibility while another sees only a parent stealing playtime.

Perspective matters. What we see matters. But what we see and what we say are often rooted in who we are as children of God – and our willingness to embrace that childhood. How we respond when someone takes our parking space or cuts us off or eats something that is ours in the refrigerator is rooted in our own happiness – or lack thereof. Do we approach others with humility, openness, and love? Or do we allow our responses to be rooted in jealousy, hypocrisy, and envy?

When we look out at the world, do we see stars or just darkness?

This week, may your world be filled with light – and may that light guide others home.

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Telling the Story

In the midst of my doctoral studies, I took a course, “The Christian Tradition.” The early martyrs, whom we hear about in the daily readings after Easter,  intrigued me. In the face of death, these people stood stalwart, accepting that a proclamation of faith in Jesus of Nazareth would lead to being set ablaze, fed to animals, or (mercifully) beheaded. Yet the Gospel continued to spread. In fact, I found an article in The Wall Street Journal about the movie Paul, Apostle of Christ. The article cited a remarkable fact: when Paul died in A.D. 67, there were 2,500 Christians. By the year 350, there were 34 million (WSJ, 5/1/18). That gave me pause. In a time when you would be killed for professing faith in the Risen Jesus, the Good News spread, more people came to faith than left it, and the church flourished. Then Constantine came along and institutionalized the faith into religion and things have never quite been the same. It seems we might have been better off when we had to tell the story than when we were allowed to tell the story.

I remember in my readings for “The Christian Tradition” course studying the early church and its first members. In his book, The Story of Christianity, Vol. 1, Justo González reminds readers that, “The earliest Christians did not consider themselves followers of a new religion” (González, 27). He repeats that sentiment more than half a dozen times in the pages that follow. I suppose this struck me not because it was new information but because it is often a misunderstanding among many of today’s faithful, who assume Jesus said, “Peter you are rock…” (Mt 16:18) and then finished the sentence with the command, “Now go put on your Alb and stole because you are the first pope.” In fact, González is clear:

All their lives they had been Jews and they still were. This was true of Peter and the twelve, of the seven, and of Paul. Their faith was not a denial of Judaism but was rather the conviction that the messianic age had finally arrived. . . The earliest Christians did not reject Judaism but were convinced that their faith was the fulfillment of the Messiah whom Jews over the ages had been anticipating (27).

With the influx of Gentile believers, we see the conversations unfold about how these new converts will be instructed, how they will be introduced to Judaism, and what, if any Jewish laws will be required of these non-Jews. The acceptance of Jews and subsequently of Christians – at least initially – by the Roman authorities is another misunderstanding. That the persecution of Christians led to the “consciousness of Christianity as a separate religion” (30) is ordinarily where most people pick up the story of the early church, perhaps because of Paul’s writing (see Acts 9:29, 2 Timothy 3:11) and because of the lure of the persecution stories that encourage saintliness and sacrifice. Still, go back to The Wall Street Journalarticle: the faith spread. That much is clear.

What intrigues me about this period of time was howthe faith spread. Since written texts were in their early forms, the faithful depended on others to tell the stories of Jesus and his early band of followers orally. In addition, those early followers cared for one another: the orphans and widows were fed and protected, wages became communal as collections were taken and needs were met. It was, in essence, through storytelling and in taking care of the most vulnerable that the faith gained momentum.

González writes that the early Christian communities eventually separated their gatherings into two parts – readings and commentary and communion, focusing not on the events of what we now call Good Friday, but instead on the resurrection of Jesus and the “promises of which that resurrection was the seal” (108). Gonzalez writes, “A new reality had dawned, and Christians gathered to celebrate that dawning and to become participants in it” (108). The key word, for me, is “celebrate” and I am reminded of Pope Francis’ admonition in one of his homilies early in his pontificate, “Often Christians behave as if they were going to a funeral procession rather than to praise God, no?” as well as his call in Evangelii Gaudium: “Consequently, an evangelizer must never look like someone who has just come back from a funeral!” (EG, 10) Somewhere along the lines – between those early Christian gatherings and today, we have lost the idea that Mass is a celebration, at least in many Catholic churches. Gonzalez speaks of that coming change and mentions the shift from communion to preaching and the influence of the Reformation, but I appreciate his focus on the “remarkable characteristics of those early communion services” (108). Even as the world around them was changing and the faithful were being fed to the animals (quite literally), there was a weekly celebration of joy and gratitude because Jesus had been raised from the dead and the implications of that event on the lives of the faithful were enormous.

As I reflect on this, I find myself thinking back to Pope Paul VI and Evangelii Nuntiandi and his charge: “Above all the Gospel must be proclaimed by witnesses” (EN, 21). How do I witness to my own children? How do I showthem the Gospel each day? How do I show them that faith in the person of Jesus Christ leads to joy?

May we bravely witness to the Gospel this week, allowing others to see our lives as celebrations of resurrected joy.

 

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The Wife’s Helper

This weekend’s Gospel reading is always a fun one to explain to children. As we sat in Mass this weekend and the deacon talked about the woman caught in adultery, child number four leans over to her mother and asks, “What is adultery?”

“Let’s just say the woman was caught in the company of another man,” came the response.

“Isn’t that just dating?” the child replies.

“Well….”

The oldest child wanted to know what happened to the man. Why is it always the woman caught adultery? What ever happened to the man?

Good question, but the deacon never got to that.

The whole situation reminded me of a day a lifetime ago when I was teaching middle school. We were discussing Henry VIII and had just finished reading Robert Bolt’s play “A Man For All Seasons” about St. Thomas More. We engaged in a powerful discussion about the formation of our conscience how we too could shape our lives so as to be “God’s first” above all that society tells us is better or more important.

At some point, the discussion turned to the mistresses of the late king. For the first time that afternoon, I saw a couple of blank stares on a few faces in the crowd and upon questioning the reasons for such looks, I was told that while I had been cruising along quite nicely discussing kings and servants, popes and acts of succession, I had never really outlined what a mistress was or how these women had worked their way from housemaids to queen.

Puzzled, I asked “Yo,u know what a mistress is, don’t you?”

“Oh sure,” came the response from one student in the front row, “she’s like a wife’s helper.”

Sit with that for a minute.

I must have grinned from ear to ear because she knew from the laughter of those more experienced than she that her answer had been off the mark just a bit. When I explained a better definition of a mistress, she too joined in the laughter at her previous answer and left class that day with her head held high that she had been the one to not only cause us to take a break from some serious discussion, but that it had been her uninformed answer that had left us laughing right up until the bell rang.

As teachers and parents, children arrive before us with an emptiness that we feel obliged to fill. We fill it with information we think they should know and beliefs we think they ought to hold. Sometimes we forget to leave a little room in that space for them to learn for themselves. Daily, we pour in facts and experience that are unique to us and expect them to shape their lives accordingly. We ignore the individuality before us until one of them says something that makes us realize that what we have created is not quite what we had expected. We have told our version of the world, but we left out some important details.

Parents are first teachers, but we better make sure we always lead in the right direction.

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The Father Who Runs

At Mass on Sunday, most people heard the story of the Prodigal Son – the little brat who says, “Hey, Dad, can we pretend you’re dead so I can have my inheritance and go do whatever I want?”

You know the story. Dad says, “Sure” and the son goes off and soon finds himself destitute.

But put yourself in that first-century audience. The story is always told to Pharisees when Jesus is surrounded by tax collectors and sinners. Almost from the beginning of the story, we are in trouble. Not because the son asks the father for his inheritance – though we might find that absurd – the Jews would not have. Where the wheels fall off the wagon is that the son not only loses the money, he clearly loses his faith. After all, he becomes a swineherd. He takes care of pigs, which the Jews knew to be unclean. Not only does he care for them, he longs to eat from the food on which they feast. A swineherd, to the Jews listening, was beyond the pale of God’s forgiveness. There was no reconciliation available to such a person.

Then we have another problem. The inclination is to feel sorry for the son. But he  actually practices his apology before ever returning home. If we pay attention, we understand that while he might be sorry he is poor, but the contrition is contrived. It’s rehearsed. He knows just what to say.

But none of that matters. While the son is still a long way off, the father sees him and runs to him.

The father runs.

At this point, the Jews in the audience are really squirming. For a Jewish father to run in a long tunic, he would have to lift the tunic and bare his legs – in public. He would have to shame himself and this father is only too happy to do this to get to his son. Nothing is more important to the father than bringing the son home. He waited for him. He was moved with compassion. He runs to him. And he doesn’t let the rehearsed speech continue. He stops the son midstream and forgives.

Would we ever do as much for a family member, a friend, a coworker? Or would we let them squirm through their apology while we wait for them to finish, silently enjoying their pain?

The hits keep coming as we see the story turn from the forgiving father or the prodigal son towards the unbelievable mercy of God. Everything is exaggerated. The robe is a sign of importance. The ring is a sign of authority. The sandals are a sign of a free man. The fatted calf is a sign of a family meal. The Jews who are listening would not have missed these clues. They would have understood that the storyteller was putting two things – swineherd  and forgiven – in the same sentence. And they would have been embarrassed.

Then there is the older brother. Looking into the party from the outside and thinking, I would imagine, “What the heck is going on in there?” Again, the father goes to the son. The son says, “I’ve always kept the law” just like a Scribe or a Pharisee in the audience would say. The older son calls the prodigal, “your son” not “my brother.” He has already distanced himself like we distance ourselves so quickly from someone who offends. We are so quick to walk away from someone who needs mercy.

In the end, the older brother doesn’t look that great. But he doesn’t look as bad as the Pharisee who Jesus chastises for praying, “Thank God I am not like these people.”

It’s a parable – a story that is meant to invite us in and then turn us on our heads. Why? Because with Jesus, history has to stop being ibid, ibid, ibid. All things are new. You can only be a part of the reign of God if you are willing to have your life turned upside down, to be converted. You will never reform your life if you are not open to the possibilities that people who sin can be forgiven, that hate can be overcome by love, and that evil can be beaten by prayer and good works.

It is easy to stand outside the party and criticize. It is easy to stay inside and wait for someone to approach you and beg forgiveness.

Yet, we are called to forgive. We are called to lift our tunics – even at the risk of shaming ourselves – and run to those who need us most.

And yes, we are called to stop feeling sorry for ourselves and enter the party where all are welcome equally.

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Annunciation

As my attention turns to the final edits, pagination, and printing of my dissertation, I fill this space not with my thoughts, but the very appropriate words of Malcolm Guite, who offers this sonnet on this Feast of the Annunciation:

We see so little, stayed on surfaces,

We calculate the outsides of all things,

Preoccupied with our own purposes

We miss the shimmer of the angels’ wings,

They coruscate around us in their joy

A swirl of wheels and eyes and wings unfurled,

They guard the good we purpose to destroy,

A hidden blaze of glory in God’s world.

But on this day a young girl stopped to see

With open eyes and heart. She heard the voice;

The promise of His glory yet to be,

As time stood still for her to make a choice;

Gabriel knelt and not a feather stirred,

The Word himself was waiting on her word.

Gabriel knelt. The Word waiting. What powerful images. May your week be filled with opportunities to announce God’s Word, leading to hidden blazes of glory in God’s world.

Peace.

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A Sturdy Shelter

On Friday this week, we will hear from the sixth chapter of Sirach. It is one of my favorite readings and, though we do not hear it often proclaimed at Mass, Maureen and I used it as the first reading at our wedding.

A kind mouth multiplies friends and appeases enemies,
and gracious lips prompt friendly greetings.

O Lord, this is hard. I know my mouth should be kind, but sometimes the words get from my brain to my mouth too quickly.

Let your acquaintances be many,
but one in a thousand your confidant.

Who do you trust? Who will be with you when the going gets rough? Thank God for Maureen.

When you gain a friend, first test him,
and be not too ready to trust him.

This is odd. I was taught that being the first to trust is better. Still, I suppose being cautious is relationships, especially new ones, is a good thing.

For one sort is a friend when it suits him,
but he will not be with you in time of distress.

Yes, I have met these people. They say they want to work with you, then they throw you under the bus when the work becomes too difficult.

Another is a friend who becomes an enemy,
and tells of the quarrel to your shame.

Pope Francis says that gossip is a form of terrorism.  Lord, save me from those who do not speak to my face when they are angry – and give me the courage to speak the truth.

Another is a friend, a boon companion,
who will not be with you when sorrow comes.
When things go well, he is your other self,
and lords it over your servants;
But if you are brought low, he turns against you
and avoids meeting you.

Yes, I know these people, too. They are right by your side until you are in need. Then, they are nowhere to be found. They have moved on to happier friends, those not currently in despair, those who require less of them. 

Keep away from your enemies;
be on your guard with your friends.

Makes sense to me.

A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter;
he who finds one finds a treasure.

I call her my wife.

A faithful friend is beyond price,
no sum can balance his worth.

Or her worth. Let’s be fair here.

A faithful friend is a life-saving remedy,
such as he who fears God finds;
For he who fears God behaves accordingly,
and his friend will be like himself.

A life-saving remedy indeed. They are your best editor and hear what you do not say. They save you from yourself and help you understand your needs before you are even able to identify them.

 May your week be filled with friends.

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God Breaks the Silence

When I was teaching in Knoxville, we had a diocesan in-service for teachers reflecting on the three times that God breaks the silence in the New Testament. One of those times is at the Baptism of the Lord, which we celebrated yesterday. Hearing this Gospel reading reminded me of that day so many years ago. 

During his presentation, the retreat master, Archabbot Lambert Reilly, OSB (who served as the leader of St. Meinrad Seminary from 1994-2004) said that God broke the silence in the New Testament three times. But he arrived late for his presentation and never got to the third occasion in Scripture where the voice of God is heard. Intrigued, I called the seminary, tracked down the Archabbot, and asked him to tell me about the third time. It was the start of a long friendship and I still have my notes from that conversation. For years, I have used yesterday’s readings as the jumping off point for a quiz I gave students – challenging them to find the three times in Scripture when God breaks the silence.

I will spare you the work.

The first, as I mentioned, is the baptism of our Lord (Matthew 3:13-17) in which not only the Trinity is revealed but also Jesus begins his public ministry to proclaim and make present the reign of God on earth. The Father’s voice in this passage speaks in terms that reflect Is 42:1, Ps 2:7 and Gn 22:2. This God-in-the-flesh is giving us first hand an example of submission to the saving activity of God. “To fulfill all righteousness” is to submit to the plan of God for the salvation of the human race. This involves Jesus’ identification with sinners; hence the propriety of his accepting John’s baptism.

The second time God breaks the silence comes at the Transfiguration (Mk 9:2-8, Lk 9:28-36, Mt 17:1-8) which confirms that Jesus is the Son of God (Mt 17:5) and points to fulfillment of the prediction that he will come “in his Father’s glory” (Mt. 16:27) at the end of the age. The voice that speaks repeats the baptismal proclamation about Jesus, with the addition of the command “listen to him.” The latter is a reference to Dt 18:15 in which the Israelites are commanded to “listen to” the prophets like Moses whom God will raise up for them. The command to “listen to” Jesus is general, but we know that just as Jesus shined white as light in this event, it is only by the light of his resurrection can we truly come to understand the meaning of his life and mission. His own instruction to the apostles to not reveal the details of this extraordinary event to anyone indicates that Jesus knows that until the resurrection, no testimony of this vision will lead people to faith.

The elusive third time that God breaks the silence is in John 12:20-36 as Jesus discusses his own death. He says that “whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there also will my servant be” (Jn 12:26). He continues and after admitting that he is troubled about the future and what he knows it holds for him, asks “what should I say? ‘Father, save me from this hour’? But it was for this purpose that I came to this hour. Father, glorify your name” (Jn 12:27). In other words, Jesus is saying that even though he is afraid, he also knows that it was for this purpose – to die for each of us – that he was born. In response to his request for his Father to glorify his name, a voice speaks: “I have glorified it and I will glorify it again” (28). The crowds who hear the voice say it was thunder, others say it was an angel. Jesus says the voice is heard so that we may believe that he himself is the light by which we all must live so as to become children of the light (36). We know that Jesus will have – after his suffering – all that he had before and that those who follow him will have what he has promised, namely, eternal life with the Father in heaven.

God becomes man so that we might follow Jesus’ example in our love for each other. Jesus dined with sinners and made the lame walk. He was crucified for our sakes and is made whole again through his resurrection. Those who follow will rise above all darkness that comes from doubt and sin and live only in the light. A light that is God. 

It is easy to forget the God still breaks the silence. We struggle to find both God’s voice and the silence. This week, take some time in the stillness of the morning or just before the lights go out to sit in the silence and listen for the voice of God.

May God be pleased with the work of our lives.

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It’s time once again for the story to be told

The readings this week are all over the place, especially our Gospel readings. We hear about the genealogy of Jesus, the birth of Jesus, the prediction and conception of John the Baptist, then back to the Annunciation and final, on Friday, Mary’s visit to Elizabeth. Yes, the readings are all over the place.

Still, they are a good reminder about what we will gather next week to celebrate – God in the flesh. The miracle of the incarnation. Not unlike all of us, scattering from store to store, room to room, shopping and wrapping, dusting and decorating, this time of year is filled with a story here, a story there, a time-honored tradition of where the tree goes and who puts the star on top, and then a pause to reflect on why we do what we do.

The miracle, the wonder, the amazing bits and pieces of the story remain. There is great beauty in the truth of the story. God skips nothing: not the frantic eruption of birth or the numbness of death – through Jesus, God enters fully into humanity, even as He invites us to share in His divinity.

When I was a child, we would go as a family to the Knoxville Nativity Pageant. Every year. And every year, the narration was the same, the actors were the same, the parts were the same, the choir sang pretty much the same songs every year. And yet it was powerful and inspiring every single year. There was a line at the beginning and the end that I remember well. I can still hear the man’s voice when I close my eyes and think of those hard, wooden chairs and the smell of that parking garage.

“It is time, once again, for the story to be told. A story of peace. Of goodness. Of God as Man. It must be told. And it’s greatest beauty is its truth.”

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel. May we be prepared to greet you.