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How Do You Not Understand?

We celebrate a few great feasts this week. Today is the day for prayer for the legal protection of the unborn. Wednesday is the feast of St. Francis de Sales, Bishop and Doctor of the Church. Thursday is the Conversion of St. Paul and Friday is the Memorial of Saints Timothy and Titus, who were bishops in the early Church. Lots of great teachable moments.

Plus, we have some great readings this week. I especially love when Jesus takes the time to explain the parables he’s just taught the crowds. Like any good teacher, he wants to make sure the lesson does not fall on deaf ears and, like anyone who has ever stood in front a classroom, my hunch is he began to see people’s eyes glazing over, people looking off in the distance, and a general disconnect starting to form.

So he paused, rearranged the narrative, and made sure everyone understood.

If you have teenagers, you have lots of practice with this. You ask your teen to do something, retrieve something, go somewhere and complete a task – and you are confident you are speaking in a language he or she understands. But as soon as the instructions are delivered, your teen looks at you and says, with a completely straight face: “What?”

They heard it all but they comprehended nothing.

So you repeat it. You tell them to put the phone away and really listen this time.

“Okay,” says the teen.

Then they walk away and do absolutely nothing.

The more I reflect on Mark 4 from Wednesday’s Gospel, the more I am thinking this was Jesus’ turn with the teens in Jerusalem.

“What?” they said after he taught them.

Jesus said to them, “Do you not understand this parable? Then how will you understand any of the parables?”

Great question.

It turns out in two thousand years, the content hasn’t changed, only the context.

This week, I will practice the patience of Jesus and avoid gritting my teeth as I explain to my four teenagers the same thing over and over and over.

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Who Am I?

“Who am I?” The question of identity touches the most profound depths of our personhood. The pursuit of personal needs and goals can have a suffocating effect. As we prepare in Advent for the Second Coming of the Lord, we are reminded in the liturgy that we must meet the Lord as a community, not as a collection of isolated individuals.

The prophet we call Third Isaiah cared for the hurting community in Jerusalem around 500 B.C. As God’s specially anointed spokesperson, he identifies with the brokenhearted. As a sign of hope he describes the joy of a renewed marriage between Yahweh and Jerusalem. The drab clothing of the past will be replaced with a robe of salvation and a mantle of justice. Yahweh will bring forth justice and praise in the presence of the Gentiles.

In the responsorial, Luke presents Mary’s response to Elizabeth who has recognized Jesus in Mary’s womb. Mary sings of her God and God’s community. She finds the basis of her joy not within herself but within God. Placing herself within the framework of Israel’s history, Mary unequivocally replies to the question: “Who am I? I am yours.”

The two opening verses of Sunday’s gospel describe John as witness to the light and Jesus himself as the light. The Baptist seeks his own identity in relation to the Lord. John explains that he is not one of the traditional figures of the end of the world (the Messiah, Elijah, or the prophet). He is, however, the herald spoken of in Isaiah 40:3. John’s baptism of water envisions the coming one, the Messiah.

Identity begins with family, then we look to community. We must support positive programs for the good of all our neighbors. Allegiance to Church and our brothers and sisters in faith is essential. In all these and similar situations we are encouraged to respond: “Who am I? I am yours.”

Have a blessed week.
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The Season of Hope

This week we celebrate hope. We light the prophecy candle on our Advent Wreath and focus on the hope of the coming of the child that will save us all.

St. Paul tells us that there are three lasting things: faith, hope, and love. I find it hard to separate hope and faith. When I see one, I see the other. But hope has a character of its own. Hope is not simply an emotion or virtue, it is a way of life.

I had a professor once who told me that hope is an unsatisfactory view of the present, a satisfactory view of the future, and a commitment to change. Absent the commitment, it’s not hope.

It’s whining.

We whine well. We have perfected complaining. We blame. We rationalize. We pout.

But do we hope? Are we committed to making a change in our hearts, our homes, our lives? Do we desire that which we do not have and are we committed to letting God work through us to achieve it? Are we willing to place our trust in Christ’s promises and relying not on our own strength, but on the help of the grace of the Holy Spirit?

Are we willing to allow hope to stand beside us like a friend, no matter how desperate we might feel, knowing that with the help of the Spirit, life can be better?

Or are we okay with whining?

Have a good week.

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Learning to See

This morning in Luke’s Gospel, we hear the story of the man born blind.

There it is, the great and powerful question that Jesus asks us all: “What do you want me to do for you?”

On behalf of all of us, the man replied, “Please, I want to see.”

This reading always makes me chuckle. The man was blind. The people on the side of the streets knew it (they had to tell him what all the fuss along the road was about). My guess is the townspeople knew it. The man certainly knew he was blind. And Jesus likely knew it too.

Still, he asked the question, “What do you want me to do for you?”

I always imagined Peter, who struggled to understand so many things, slapping himself on the forehead at the question and then leaning in to whisper to Jesus, “Dude, he’s blind. You really had to ask?”

But yes, Jesus has to ask – for two reasons, I think.

First, in Jesus’ time, the sick were the way they were because of sin – the sin of the lame or of their parents. That’s how sickness was explained. The person who was sick or those who brought them into the world, must have done something wrong to deserve such animosity from a God that was sometimes very distant.

Jesus restores not just his sight, but his dignity. By addressing the man directly, he raises him up as an equal, treats him with respect, and shows the crowd how we are all to treat the ill.

The other reason is more simple. Then – as now – the question demands an answer.

“What do you want me to do for you?”

Show you how to love? Check.

Show you how to forgive? Check.

Show you how to heal one another? Check.

Show you want it looks like to love hatred to death? Just watch.

The challenge for us is to answer the question Jesus poses so that in our blindness, we might come to see the presence of God in our midst.

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Doing More

Their mothers and fathers gave them names. Hugged them. Fed them. Carried them. They sent them off to school, packed their lunches, corrected their homework, and signed their tests. Their brothers and sisters shared their rooms, inspired them, fought with them, borrowed their clothes, and protected them.

They had friends, co-workers, bosses, employees, partners, husbands, and wives. They drove cars, took buses, checked books out of the library, and rented movies.

They lived in Columbine, Ft. Hood, San Bernadino, Charleston, Sandy Hook, Orlando, Buffalo, Uvalde, and too many other cities to name.

So we cry and wear ribbons, light candles and say prayers. We will remember them and care for those they leave behind. And these are good things. These are appropriate actions.

But will we learn anything?

Will we stop to talk about how this happens? Will we talk about guns? Will we talk about the bullets? Will we talk about the hate, the indifference, mental health, or the banality of it all?

We have to resist the urge to let the talking heads on television reduce it to allegiance to a foreign movement. We have to talk about it, even as we talk about the victims.

It’s not enough to say that love wins.

We have to act as though it really does.

And that requires action, conversation, and maybe even change.

The headlines will list the number of victims. Headlines always do.

But the numbers had names.

And they deserve more than headlines.

Our Lady of Humility, Pray for Us.

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Waiting

I had a few visits with mom and said my goodbyes.

There will be plenty of time to reflect on her life and the gifts she gave her children, but for now, we wait. When I arrived, she was in a wheelchair. When I left three days later, she was in bed nearing the end.

It was a heartbreaking scene as she began vocalizing all the pain and confusion and memories and whatever else was flowing through her mind. The sounds echoed up and down the hall – a combination of screams and moans and howls and cries. You could make out a few words here and there, but the clearest was, “Help me….”

The anguish of a soul not ready to go home, perhaps fearful of what awaits or simply a person in pain, only made worse by the inability to articulate.

Finally, the staff got its act together enough to give her medicine and my sisters and I ducked out before the younger sibling stormed the castle, enraged by my speaking truth to her supposed power.

Mom is on morphine now, if only to keep the screaming to a minimum and to take advantage of modern medicine’s gift to the final journey: a peaceful transition.

Advent is the season of waiting. So as we wait for the coming of the Christ child, we also pray for another child of God to head home and rest in peace.

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Rest

I’m on vacation this week. No beach. No trip to the shore. Just books and downtime at home.

I picked up a book of poetry recently and found one that I had marked with lots of notes. I hope you enjoy it.

Have a great week

-———

The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

‘In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I’d like all the odor of your roses.’

‘I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.’

‘Well then, I’ll take the withered petals  and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.’

the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:  ‘What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?’

by Antonio Machado

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Excess

I spent several days in Las Vegas last week. It’s a city I really do not like, but I had been invited to speak at a conference and they were paying my way, so off I went.

Since I don’t gamble, don’t drink, don’t smoke, and I love my wife, Vegas holds little for me. I am not the kind of person that can handle the constant din of the machines, the lights, and the smells that emanate from the casino floor or waft outside into the streets. Even if I drank more than the occasional Jameson and cranberry juice, I cannot imagine that I would want it at 8 am. Still, these are not lenses through which I can see, so suffice it to say I was glad to get home.

As I flew home and reflected on the experience, I was reminded of the man who wants to tear down his barns to build bigger ones because the harvest had been so great. True, I do not like to gamble, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like money or sometimes dream about winning the lottery. I think all of us would rather protect the possibility of being rich than face the reality of being poor – even our own “poverty” is not real poverty at all.

Many of us in America have access to excess. We are inundated with information, we have more than we need in the ways of clothes, books, electronics, toys, and other “stuff” cluttering our house. We have more email than we can handle, more bills than we can manage, and more of everything but time to enjoy the things that really bring us joy.

The coming of fall always reminds me to take stock. As the leaves are blown away and bagged, I always try to take a mental inventory of all that surrounds me. It’s time to take stock of the closets too, the drawers, the toy box, and the garage. It is time to let go of excess and share it with those who have less.

So that is my charge this week: do more with less. Clean out and declutter. Give away and throw away (another feature of our excessive culture, but a story for another time).

What will you clean this week? What excesses with you give up?

 

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A Note From God

My Dear Children,

What is it about, “Do not kill,” that you do not understand? Put the guns downs. Please.

When you were offered freedom in the garden, you got to choose between love and loneliness, true freedom and selfishness, happiness and despair.

Owning all the guns you want that fire all the bullets you want is not freedom; it is insanity. I gave you intellect so you could make smart decisions and protect each other. Why not get together and pass some of those laws you like and make it harder for dozens of people to die in a single weekend? While you are at it, think about that “welcome the stranger” line – I meant that too.

Take care of those who need help sorting out the wiring in their brains.

Love the depressed into wholeness.

Seek to understand each other and stop blaming one another.

Stop worrying about what the television says and open your hearts and minds and work together. It starts by listening to each other. Put the phones down and just listen. I gave you the intellect to create things – great things – like technology and cool ways to communicate – and you turn them into ways to tear one another down. I just don’t get that.

Too many of my children – your brothers and sisters – are dying and nobody seems to want to help. I said, “Blessed are those that mourn…” but I didn’t mean for you to make more people mourn each day. I think you might want to re-read that part of Matthew.

You are loved – all of you – in every color and in every race, every gender, and every orientation – no matter where you come from and no matter what you are heading. I love each of you – unconditionally – why is that so hard for you to understand? If you could try to understand it, perhaps you could mimic it. No race is better than another, despite what you might hear proclaimed in the streets or on the screen. We have been down that road and fought that battle before. Remember? I won.

Please. I am begging you. Freedom comes from doing what is hard, what is right, what is just, and what is true. It does not mean that everyone gets their own way all the time. That’s just silly.

Take care of each other. Love one another. Listen to each other. Mourn with one another. Hold one another. Talk to one another. And, please, for my sake – and your own – make some wise decisions that lead to safety in the classrooms, in the marketplace, at parties, and on the streets.

I am here if you need me. I always have been.

~ God

 

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Memorial Day

It would easy – too easy – to lose sight of why we take the day off from work today. Between hot dogs and hamburgers, beach passes, and cutting the grass, today marks the unofficial beginning of summer. Many of us will stand along streets to watch parades, catch up on household chores, and spend time with family and friends.

But it’s important, too, to pause for a moment and remember why we enjoy the freedom to do the things we love to do. Thanks to the sacrifice of someone’s daughter or son, sister or brother, mother or father, you and I get to vote for whomever we choose and then complain about the outcome. We get to speak our mind out loud without fear of recrimination and we get to worship wherever we choose.

Freedom comes at a price. Following the Civil War, which claimed more lives than any conflict in our nation’s young history, our leaders were faced with the need for the country’s first national cemeteries. Within a few years, Americans in towns and cities began setting aside a day in late spring to pay tribute to the fallen, decorating their graves with flowers and praying for the dead.

As wars continued, so did the number of cemeteries. Decoration Day gave way to Memorial Day, which was established officially as a federal holiday in 1968 and first celebrated across the country in 1971.

So even if you do not have a chance to visit a cemetery and lay flowers at a grave, you and I can pause this day and give thanks for the brave women and men who offered, as President Lincoln called it, “the last full measure of devotion.”

You can be a person of peace. You can speak kindly to a stranger, thank a veteran, fly the flag at your home. You can pray in public, tell your children the stories of friends and family that served. You can enjoy the freedoms earned by another’s sacrifice.

And we can pray…

God of power and mercy,
you destroy war and put down earthly pride.
Banish violence from our midst and wipe away our tears,
that we may all deserve to be called your daughters and sons.
Keep in your mercy those men and women
who have died in the cause of freedom
and bring them safely
into your kingdom of justice and peace.
We ask this through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen

—from Catholic Household Blessings and Prayers