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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.

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The Poor In Spirit

St. Matthew gave us all the Beatitudes on Sunday morning, but the Bishop focused on only one at Mass: the first one. He called it the doorway to all the others, the requirement for the rest. Live the first one, the others become easier to understand and emulate.

It reminded me of my friend, Macrina Wiederkehr, a Benedictine nun who died in 2020 of a brain tumor. She has a reflection on all the Beatitudes, but this one danced around in my head as the Bishop spoke.

I turned to the empty ones,
What does it mean to be poor in spirit? I asked
Is there anything good about being that poor?
 
The poor in spirit replied:
Can God fill anyone who is full?
And how sad if you should suddenly discover
That you are full of illusions
Instead of filled with truth.
 
Being poor in spirit means
Having nothing to call your own
Except your poverty
It is a joyful awareness of your emptiness
It is the soil of opportunity
For God has space to work
In emptiness that is owned.
 
Being poor in spirit means
Knowing that you are so small
And dependent
Needy and powerless
That you live with open hands
And an open heart
Waiting to be blessed.
For only then can you be blessed
If you know
That you need blessing.
 
Being poor in spirit
Means that you have time
You are not oppressed by deadlines
There is always time for waiting
For the one who is poor.
Being poor in this way
Frees you from the prison
Of having to have everything
planned and structured
As though there were no tomorrow.
 
And finally, being poor in spirit
Means being able to say
Without embarrassment
Humbly, and yet with passion:
“I need you.”

This week, may we have the courage to be empty, to be poor, to seek the assistance of others as we journey together.

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The Seventy-Two

The reading from Sunday has been on my brain today. I know we read the story  of Jesus sending the 72 from a few different Gospels, but the story itself has been on my mind and since I have not been faithful in my weekly posts, I thought I would share.

There are a few elements to consider. The instruction is to pray first. Pray for each other. Pray for the mission. Pray for the people. For Jesus, prayer precedes the mission because we soon find that prayer pervades the mission too. So whatever it is you are about today, begin with prayer. 

Go in pairs. Another common theme. We need each other. I suppose Mother  Theresa may have been correct when she diagnosed the worlds problems this way: “We have forgotten that we belong to each other.” There is a lot of noise out there. Blue. Red, Right. Left. Trad, Rad Trad, and Neo Trad. Too much noise.

Jesus was clear: we need each other. Not because it’s helpful to have company (one prays while one heals), it’s because we are built for community, for relationship.

Urgency. Jesus tells the disciples to go on your way. Go now. No dilly-dallying. The harvest is plentiful and the laborers are few. There is no time to waste. And take nothing – because no thing is more important than the mission and so there is no time to waste getting ready.

Peace. The greeting of peace is a Jewish greeting and a farewell. We must be people of peace, but peace requires a relationship. It requires harmony. Remember how I said we need each other – well, there you go. And if you don’t find harmony – if you are not invited into relationship – and there are many places this won’t happen – leave. Shake the dust. Go on your way. The mission is too important to waste with people who are not interested.

That is a striking instruction and counter intuitive to our ears. It’s also a story for another time.

Finally, proclaim the kingdom. Notice that this comes after the greeting of peace and care of the needy. It is essential to the mission but needs context. The context is living love. Do that first. Build relationships first. Because if you don’t, no one will listen. 

Just a few thoughts. May your week be filled with prayer, people whom you love and are in harmony with, peace, and most importantly, a sense of the mission that drives you always forward.

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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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The Art of Distraction

I am distracted of late.

Distracted by not being at the office and confusing working from home with vacation, with a list of chores that never seems to get finished.

Distracted by children who have not been anywhere and want to go somewhere. One who is out of school (today is her first day of no school) and who announced her boredom to the world this morning. I offered to share the list of chores, but that was a nonstarter.

Distracted by the sheer volume of work on my plate. I love my job but sometimes I can feel the walls closing in on me. So much to do, so much we don’t know, so many people wanting answers.

Distracted by the unknown, the intensity of wanting to be finished with the pandemic, the virus, the masks that make me hot, and the lack of human interaction outside this domestic church.

Distracted by the cacophony of sounds in my head and around the house – the arguing, the laughing, the Alexa, the fan, the door chimes, the sounds of computers and television and keyboards and timers and endless emails and Zoom calls.

Distracted by the news of more protests and trying to see through lenses I can never wear. Trying to marry compassion and understanding with justice and order and wondering how to support a cause that is foreign to me as a white, middle class man who has never suffered because of his race and yet fully comprehending the privilege this brings.

So I turn to today’s readings. Matthew offers Jesus’ take on the constitution of our faith, the foundational principles of who we are as followers of Christ and who we ought to be with each other.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the land.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they will be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart,
for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness,
for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you
and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me.
Rejoice and be glad,
for your reward will be great in heaven.
Thus they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

I am not sure these words bring me the complete comfort I seek, but they help. They promise solace for the suffering – but with the assumption that someone hears their cry and addresses their pain. They promise mercy and compassion and justice and fairness and happiness and more. But these are not obtuse promises; these promises are rooted in a relationship that begins with everyone being part of one body.

Therein lies the problem, I think. One body. Do we grasp that? Do we honor that? Do we accept that? Do we live by that?

Do we really understand that no race is better, no color more superior, no person is more deserving of love than any other? Do we accept that there can be space in our togetherness, that we need not agree on politics or religion or which channel gives the best coverage? Can we first simply accept that we are all part of one body in this crazy upside down planet we call home?

Perhaps when we truly grasp that we are one body, we will understand how our lives can be a blessing to the merciful, the peacemakers, and those who long to be called children of God.

Perhaps when black lives matter, all life will matter.

Or are we too distracted by the noise that surrounds us?

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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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Lighting Our Lamps

This morning’s Gospel gives us Luke’s version of one of my favorite passages in Matthew.

Jesus said to the crowd:
“No one who lights a lamp conceals it with a vessel
or sets it under a bed;
rather, he places it on a lampstand
so that those who enter may see the light.
For there is nothing hidden that will not become visible,
and nothing secret that will not be known and come to light.
Take care, then, how you hear.
To anyone who has, more will be given,
and from the one who has not,
even what he seems to have will be taken away.”

 In this parable of the lamp, we are given very clear instructions: those who have heard the Word of God are to show it to others – in word and in action.

Even when we are surrounded by darkness (perhaps especially when we are surrounded by darkness), we are to be a light for others.

This week, it might be worth asking: when people look at our lives, can they see light? Does that light direct them towards God or towards ourselves? Do we let the darkness overwhelm us? Consume us? Paralyze us?

This week, I will work on being a light. I will work on reflecting the love of God to others so that they may see the good things I do and thank God for my presence in their lives.

Will you?

 

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Words to Live By

Politics is in the news these days and whether you live in a red or blue state, vote right or left and somewhere in the middle, it is hard to avoid the noise coming out of the nation’s capital.

When I was in the Holy Land, the Dominican who guided us said something that has been on my mind these last few days. As we visited the Mount of Beatitudes, he asked the group if we could recite any words to the US Constitution. A few knew how it started, “We the People of the United States, in order to form a more perfect Union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense….” Then the voices trailed off.

Though no one could say much more, we knew the gist of it and could certainly explain what the Constitution did, its place in history, and why it was still important.

But that Father Paul threw us a curve. How many could recite the Beatitudes? We had just read Matthew 5:3-12 and yet few of us could remember more than a few of the eight in the list.

“We remember what guides a country, but not what guides our faith,” Father Paul challenged. He likened the Beatitudes to our own constitution. That got me thinking. By definition, a constitution is “a body of fundamental principles or established precedents,” so doesn’t it stand to reason that the Beatitudes are just that – fundamental principles of our Catholic faith?

Take some time this week and read Matthew, chapter five. See how many you can commit to memory (I’m up to six). Think about what each teaches. Imagine what it must have been like to be challenged by those words two thousand years ago.

As the good bishop, Fulton Sheen, once said, “If you do not live what you believe, you will end up believing what you live.” Maybe living what we believe begins with knowing what we believe.

Now there’s a lesson our politicians could certainly use.

~pjd

 

(photo taken looking from the Church of the Beatitudes down the mountain)