St Martin of Tours

...that which holds all things together knows every word that is said.
                                                          Wisdom 1: 7

Before ever a word is on my tongue,
   you know it, O Lord, through and through...
Too wonderful for me, this knowledge,
   too high, beyond my reach.
                                                         Psalm 139: 4, 6

.        .        .

I spend a lot of time thinking about what to say. Maybe I really should spend more time praying. The one who holds all things together (which Colossians 1: 7 echoes) holds all my words already, and knows what I ought to say.

Enough said.

St Martin, pray for us.

Thursday of the thirty-first week in ordinary time

But you, why do you judge your brother? Or you again, why do you regard your brother with contempt? For we will all stand before the judgment seat of God.

Romans 14:10 NASB

 

"In the same way, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."

Luke 15:10 NASB

 

. . .

 

Just one. One matters to God. If God is out looking for the lost, if Jesus spent his time with tax collectors and 'sinners', then what possible grounds can any of us have for passing judgment on one another? That person I regard contemptuously matters to God as much as my friends do, as much as I do.

 

It is not new--surely our equality before God is a theological commonplace--but it is sobering. Awhile back, I made a rule for myself. It's not really a rule of life; I tried all sorts of things and could never quite manage the timetable. Much as I would love to pray the office daily, in solidarity with my 'home' abbey in Kent, I can't. But while I was there I realized that a very simple rule would do: not to speak a harsh word to, or about, anyone, even in my heart. I suppose something like Romans 14: 10 might have been rattling around in the back of my mind as I thought about this rule.

 

I never thought it would be easy. But it has proved a lot more tricky than I thought. Because judging and regarding with contempt (both count as 'harsh'!) aren't always conscious. I just don't 'warm' to this person or that person; I am inattentive. Sometimes I suppose that's fair enough--it's human to like some people more than others. Sometimes, though, that coldness hides a deeper dislike. Maybe it's envy, maybe it's scorn, based on some less-than-conscious judgment about the character of the person, or arising from feelings of insecurity on my part.

 

So of course the whole 'no harsh words' has not been a perfect success. I have, not surprisingly, failed. Still, insofar as I have become more aware of my own inclination to judge or to dismiss others, the enterprise has been, and continues to be, worthwhile. And today's gospel reminded me why the rule is so important. It isn't because I want everyone to think I am nice. It's because there is joy in heaven over one who repents. There is no contempt for the sinner in heaven, only joy at her repentance.

 

I still have a long, long way to go.

 

Kyrie eleison.

Thirty-first Sunday in ordinary time

You can do all things and overlook [people's] sins so that they can repent.

Wisdom 11: 24

 

. . .

 

Somehow--maybe it was struggling to keep the two-year-old quiet--I didn't hear this in Mass this morning. Not that it wasn't read: it was read by the son of my two-year-old's godmother. But I missed it, and the priest didn't comment on it in his homily, which focused on the gospel. Fair enough, I suppose. There is a good deal to say about Zacchaeus. Still, the readings in the lectionary are ordered, and combinations occur for a reason. Sometimes that reason is pretty hard to discern, but today it is less puzzling.

 

At least it's less puzzling if you happen to be a Catholic who has strayed far into Reformed and Evangelical territory. Then the prevenience of grace leaps out of every page of the Bible--even the books of the Bible that only appear in the Catholic editions of the Bible. And here it is in the book of Wisdom. I always associate Wisdom with the key passages in chapters 7-9, about the role of wisdom in creation, including one of my favourites: omnia disponit suaviter, [widsom] arranges all things delightfully. So finding this other theme of the Bible, the grace of God that makes way for the sinner's return, there in Wisdom is, well, delightful.

 

And it is, of course, this path-breaking grace of God that drives Zacchaeus up the tree. The change has already begun. Can it be anything other than the Holy Spirit that draws Zacchaeus to Jesus? I don't think so, and I could quote some early church theologians to support that claim. Besides, Jesus does just what the verse in Wisdom says: he "overlooks" Zacchaeus' sins, so that he can repent. Religious leaders aren't supposed to hang out with infamous sinners, but Jesus doesn't seem too worried about that. He sees beyond the sin, sees the person who needs the space to repent. Jesus makes repentance possible.

 

Two things follow from this, for me. First, I am struck by the space-making work of Christ. I have noticed it elsewhere in the gospels (see Mark 5: 30-34, for example), but never connected it to Zacchaeus, to repentance. So also, I realize, Jesus is making space, always, for my repentance. Am I perceiving it? Do I enter into that space, or do I avoid it? (I'm not certain, but I am more determined to get to confession this Saturday!) Second, and this is something that has been tugging at me for a little while, Jesus makes space for pretty unpleasant people. Tax collectors are the bad guys in the first century, not the people the messiah is supposed to befriend. Who are the people around me that Jesus wants to befriend? I'm guessing they're not the people I would ordinarily find friend-like.

 

No wonder I haven't seen that space for repentance as space for me: I have just divided the people around me into people like me (friend-like) and people who need space for repentance. The fact that both (1) that Jesus makes space for me to repent and (2) Jesus makes space for "obvious" sinners--the "tax collectors" of our day--to repent means that I am not so different as I might like to think.

 

Luckily, there's plenty of that prevenient grace to go around.

 

Deo gratias.

 

 

Tuesday of the 29th week in ordinary time / Blessed John Paul II

You do not ask for sacrifice and offerings,
     but an open ear.
You do not ask for holocaust and victim.
     Instead, here am I.

                                             Psalm 39 [40]: 7

.        .       .

'Instead, here am I.'

Just letting that sink in... I often find it quite easy to get caught up in the complicated and flashy things I think I ought to do as a Christian theologian. You know, books and articles I ought to write, and the spiritual and mental toughness I ought to develop in order to be the person who can write books and articles, and give lectures, and still remain as humble as St Benedict says I should be.

Yeah, right. There is something completely naked and vulnerable about that statement: 'here am I.' Just me, nothing fancy. No extravagant sacrifice, no spectacular holocaust, just the handmaid of the Lord. I always liked the spectacular holocaust: Elijah vs the prophets of Ba'al (I Kings 18) has always been one of my favorite Bible stories, since I was a child. It's like fireworks from heaven, and the good guy wins in a show of light and power. But that's not what it is about at all. It is about the open ear that the Psalmist identifies as the real sacrifice, the real offering to God. God requires of us nothing more and nothing less than our attention, wholly fixed on him.

The bit about Elijah's showdown with the prophets of Ba'al in I Kings 18 that my mother didn't relate to me when I was little, is the part where the prophets of Ba'al entreat their god, who doesn't seem to be listening. "So they cried with a loud voice and cut themselves according to their custom with swords and lances until the blood gushed out on them" (18: 28). Not only do they harm themselves in their endeavor to get Ba'al to respond to them, but they do so in vain. There is no response. Elijah, on the other hand, calls on God to answer, "that this people [Israel] may know that you, O Lord, are God, and that you have turned their heart back again' (18: 37). The return of God's people originates with God: God responds with fire to demonstrate that he has already rekindled the hearts of his people. It is not what the people do to get God's attention that is the heart of the drama, but what God does to get their attention, to get our attention.

When I present myself, fragile and fallen as I am, God does not ask for my blood. When I come before God having done the wrong thing, or the right thing for the wrong reasons, or having done nothing when I ought to have acted, God doesn't ask for my blood. God has already acted; it is only by the Spirit's encouragement that I return at all. When I say "here am I," it is because God has called me first, and even as I ask for forgiveness and the strength to walk in it, I do so because that grace has already been extended to me. That grace alone makes me the handmaid of the Lord, ready to do his will.

God does ask for my life, to be sure, but that is only so that he can give it back to me, in abundance. And then when I say the "I" in "here am I," it is no longer I who live and speak, but Christ who lives and speaks in me, giving my life as he gave his, to the Father for the sake of the world's salvation.

And that is an extravagant gift indeed.

Deo gratias.

Wednesday of the 27th week in ordinary time

Happy indeed is the one
     who follows not the counsel of the wicked;
nor lingers in the way of sinners
     nor sits in the company of scorners,
but whose delight is in the law of the Lord
     and who ponders his law day and night.

She is like a tree that is planted
     beside the flowing waters,
that yields its fruit in season
     and whose leaves shall never fade;
     and all that he does shall prosper.*

                                              Psalm 1

.          .          .

Nobody hangs out in the company of sinners, at least not 'sinners' as the psalmist imagines them. We can admit that we are all sinners, all fallen short of the glory of God. But the active, really-bad-stuff-doers are rarely our regular dinner companions. Maybe they should be.

But scorn? Is that really as bad as the real-bad-stuff (whatever you or I imagine that to be)? My mind stuck on that word this morning, probably partly because I had just read a blog post that included a bit of advice about gossip: don't do it. (Shock and dismay! Reading facebook updates and blog posts before the Holy Scripture! Provdential, I call it.) I thought about the numerous ways in which I am complicit with scorners, even when I am not actively scornful.

I know I am guilty of this. As deeply as I want to be gentle and encouraging, I know that I am easily amused by a derisive remark. I find contemptible all sorts of things and situations, whether or not I say so. And I am dismissive, too dismissive, of that which I regard as unworthy of my notice. I do not just sit in the company of scorners--I should be numbered among them.

And it really is as bad, just as bad, as the content we give to the (really reprehensible) sinners. I miss things I should see and hear, I avoid that which deserves my attention, just because it doesn't come in the package in which I expect to find it. All those things that are said to be 'trite but...' Never mind: I stopped listening at 'trite'.

Half of me still protests: you're not that bad; really this is not such a big deal; you're making something out of nothing. That may be so, but only because too often I make nothing out of something. Or, worse, I make nobody out of somebody--somebody who deserves my attention, not because she's pretty or intelligent, not because he's clever or spiritually astute.

I saw this on facebook this morning and smiled. Shared it. Seeing Jesus behind the hat, playing the accordion, raising money to go to Africa, selling the Big Issue--done. But there are a whole lot more places I ought to see Jesus, and don't: in the head teacher, the driver in front (or behind), the neighbor who shouted at me, the person who just said something I thought was obvious, obnoxious, silly, self-promoting.

Fortunately, Jesus lingered in the way of sinners, and did not shun the company of scorners (though they seem not to have sought his company much)--even this one.

Deo gratias.


*Yes, I played with the translation a bit: 'the man' became 'one'; the first 'he' became 'she', and I left the last 'he' on purpose.

St Vincent de Paul

O send out your light and your truth,
    let them lead me;
Let them bring me to your holy hill,
And to your dwelling places.
                                              Psalm 42 [43]: 3

This is one of a set of two psalms, which, with their refrain ("Hope in God, for again I shall praise him, the help of my countenance and my God" [NASB]) ,were the core of my spiritual life for a large part of my twenties. Despair often settled on me, and I found myself asking "Why are you downcast, O my soul, and why so disquieted within me?" along with the psalmist. "Disquieted" seemed like the perfect adjective to describe my soul a lot of the time. I was grateful for the psalmist's response to his own soul, and repeated it to mine: "Hope in God..." Honestly, this psalm and a handful of others kept me going when things seemed bleak.

During those years, I was too unsettled to see the direction of the psalm, beyond my soul's hope, to the hope of the whole world. The psalmist cries out, "O send out your light and your truth, let them lead me," and so he has. His Light and his Truth came to dwell among us in Jesus. And that holy hill, where God dwells, is also the mount of crucifixion. God is there, too, even as God was there--closer to me than my own soul--during the darkest and most difficult times. It was not for nothing that I encouraged my soul to "hope in God."

Twenty years ago, I was helped by the psalms; now I am also helped by the saints, those who have followed God's Light and Truth before me. Today we remember St Vincent de Paul, who devoted his life to helping the poor, and reminds us that "the Lord takes delight in his people; he crowns the poor with salvation,"and that God's Light and Truth became poor for our sake, that again we might praise him.

Deo gratias.

Wednesday in ordinary time

I give him thanks in the land of my captivity, 
     and I show his power and majesty to a nation of sinners.
                                                                           Tobit 13: 6

.          .         . 

There is a video that has been making its way around the internet: "Scientists discover one of the greatest contributing factors to happiness." I was curious about the thing that increases happiness (despite the slightly awkwardly-placed modifier)--who wouldn't want to find out what she could do to be happier? Laughter, I thought, maybe.

I was surprised to find that (in case you haven't seen the video) what increases happiness (between 4 and 19%, according to the guy in the lab coat) is expressing gratitude. Immediately, I thought of a verse from one of my favorite psalms:

I know all the birds of the air,

    and all that moves in the field is mine.

 “If I were hungry, I would not tell you;


    for the world and all that is in it is mine.

Do I eat the flesh of bulls,


    or drink the blood of goats?

Offer to God a sacrifice of thanksgiving,


   and pay your vows to the Most High;

and call upon me in the day of trouble;


   I will deliver you, and you shall glorify me.”

                                               Psalm 49 [50]: 11-15

So the 'science' reminded me of something I already knew: giving thanks is a balm for the heart. And Tobit seems to have known it, too. He doesn't say, "I give thanks because God has rescued me from captivity"; he gives thanks in the land of captivity. Some days I get stuck between the joys and duties of motherhood and the joys and duties of my life as a (sort of) academic theologian. I love what I do in both roles. I am living two dreams, really, doing what I always wanted to do. So on those days when the tension between motherhood and career seems like captivity, I know what to do: give thanks. 

Deo gratias, Deo gratias. 

Wednesday of the fourteenth week of the year

The Lord looks on those who revere him,
    on those who hope in his love,
to rescue their souls from death,
    to keep them alive in famine.
                                      Psalm 32 [33]

.         .       .

The first reading from today is about the famine in Egypt, the first episode in the story of Joseph's reunion with his brothers in Egypt. It is one of my childhood favorites, the story of Joseph and his many-colored coat, his fall and rise again in Egypt, and his restoration to his family. It made a great musical.

But it's more complicated than that, isn't it? Joseph must have been a really annoying kid. He told his older brothers that he would rule over them, and his father singled him out. Now that I have a 9-year-old son who has his challenging days, I can imagine how aggravated his brothers must have been. Not, of course, that they can be excused for getting rid of him. Turns out, though, that it wasn't such a bad thing after all: God chose 'to keep them alive in famine' through the very wrong act they committed.

Now, I should have seen that before. It is a picture of redemption bigger than the one I had five minutes ago. Really. Although I am a big fan of Romans 8:28 ('God works all things together for the good...'), I tend not to include intentional sins in that 'everything' that God causes to work for the good of 'those who hope in his love.' So, as I look back over my life and cringe as I remember things I shouldn't have done, I don't need to worry so much about the 'what if I hadn't...?' and the 'what if, instead, I had...?' No. Certainly things would have turned out differently. And I might have been spared some grief, as surely Joseph's brothers might have if they had borne with their brother's vexing attitude. But the purposes of God would not be served any less. I cannot thwart the saving purposes of God.

Does that mean I shouldn't worry about whether I am acting in accordance with God's will? Of course not--as St Paul says. But I can act in faith, knowing that even if I have read wrongly, God will still 'keep [me] alive in famine': the thing is to 'hope in his love'. He's God. That's all he asks of us.

Deo gratias.

St Thomas the Apostle

You are a part of the building that has the apostles and prophets for its foundations...
                                                                                                       Ephesians 2: 19

. . .

Once again, I find I have been completely outdone by Pope Francis. His daily homilies are a source of encouragement, and challenge me to practice my faith more consistently. He said:

"We find Jesus’ wounds in carrying out works of mercy, giving to our body – the body – the soul too, but – I stress - the body of your wounded brother, because he is hungry, because he is thirsty, because he is naked because it is humiliated, because he is a slave, because he's in jail because he is in the hospital. Those are the wounds of Jesus today. And Jesus asks us to take a leap of faith, towards Him, but through these His wounds. 'Oh, great! Let's set up a foundation to help everyone and do so many good things to help '. That's important, but if we remain on this level, we will only be philanthropic. We need to touch the wounds of Jesus, we must caress the wounds of Jesus, we need to bind the wounds of Jesus with tenderness, we have to kiss the wounds of Jesus, and this literally. Just think of what happened to St. Francis, when he embraced the leper? The same thing that happened to Thomas: his life changed. " 

I like to stay at arms length: give to cafod, support the Missionaries of Charity, that sort of thing. But the neighbor in need deserves my attention equally. Attention to the poor is attention to Jesus...how often I forget that!

I am grateful for the words of Pope Francis, and for the example set for us by the saints. 

St Thomas, pray for us.

St Augustine Zhao Rong and companions, martyrs

But as for me, I shall walk in my integrity;
Redeem me, and be gracious to me.
My foot stands in a level place;
In the congregations I shall bless the Lord.
                                                             Psalm 26[25]: 11-12


And when he got into the boat, his disciples followed him. and behold, there arose a great storm in the sea, so that the boat was covered with waves; but he himself was asleep. And they came to him, and awoke him, saying, 'Save us, Lord; we are perishing!' And he said to them, 'Why are you timid, you men of little faith? Then he arose and rebuked the winds and the sea, and it became perfectly calm.
                                                              Matthew 8: 23-26

.        .       .

Maybe this is one of those days when the readings just happen to fall on the same day, without an inherent connection (as is usually the case for Sundays). The first reading was from Genesis, about the fate of Lot's wife, and of Sodom and Gomorrah. Don't look back! Then the psalmist speaks confidently of stability and security before God--or does he? I am fascinated by the prayer for mercy in the midst of assurance. It is as if to say that all that we do is not what redeems us: God's grace is what redeems us. Integrity and right worship might contribute to our hope that God will redeem us by his grace; our practice, however faithful, is not sufficient.

And grace--there he is, God's grace come to dwell among us, asleep in the boat while the storm rages. That's a confidence beyond that of the psalmist, I think. I love this passage, I confess. It is short, but to the point: here is the one who calms the storm. My storms tend to be of a different kind, but just as dark and sometimes just as violent. Yet here he is, if I can just remember he's on board, ready to calm the storm, ready to redeem, and to bring me to a level place.

Deo gratias.

St Aloysius Gonzaga

Preserve me, O God, I take refuge in you.
 I say to the Lord: 'You are my God.'
Lord, it is you who are my portion and cup;
 it is you yourself who are my prize.

You will show me the path of life,
the fullness of joy in your presence,
at your right hand happiness forever.

                                     Psalm 16 [15]: 1-2, 11

.        .        .

I made a conscious effort in my early 20's to memorize this psalm. (The final verse, 16.11, is the reason for the number appearing in my twitter handle and email address. Nothing to do with the King James Bible.) I struggled constantly against the sense that what I really needed to be happy was something 'out there', somewhere beyond me. If only I could reach it--the right job, the right guy, the right whatever--then I would really be happy.

No. I saw in this psalm that real happiness comes from somewhere else entirely. It's not from out there, but originates in here. It is the peace that surpasses all understanding, not the perfect situation, that settles the soul. In comparison to many, the storms in my life are just light rain showers. Still, I need shelter, and the psalmist reminds me that the only shelter I can count on is God: preserve me O God, I take refuge in you.

St Romauld

Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.

Philippians 3:12-14

 

 

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up; my eyes are not raised too high;

I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.

But I have calmed and quieted my soul,

like a weaned child with its mother;

like a weaned child is my soul within me.

O Israel, hope in the Lord from this time forth and forevermore.

Psalms 131[130] :1-3.

 

 

'I have calmed and quieted my soul'? Maybe so, for St Romauld. Not so for me. Nor would I fare better with the readings for week 11 of the year: happy the one who fears the Lord, because it will go well for her. No, I am not feeling especially triumphant today, not like one who has mastered my fretful soul.

 

There is something that intrigues me, though, about the combination of readings for St Romauld. The first reading is from Philippians, and it includes Gregory of Nyssa's favorite phrase: 'forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal...' The psalm says 'rest'; Philippians says, 'get on with it!'

 

Maybe resting is getting on with it. That seems to have been the case with St Romauld. He became a Benedictine, then a hermit. He wanted to be alone with God; he sought a prayerful solitude. To attend to the presence of God in his cell and to be quiet was active spiritual engagement.

 

I like that, but I am not entirely sure how it helps. Time alone is rare, and silence is hard to find. Everywhere I go there are things that insist on being done. At home there are more domestic chores than hours in the week; at work there is always something else waiting after each task is completed. Even walking to work, errands interrupt the quiet--whether I do them immediately or not, I am reminded of what is to be done. My soul catches the unsettledness of the house, the daily timetable, the office. And my activity is far from spiritual engagement.

 

I cannot do it: I need more grace.

 

St Romauld, pray for us.

St Anthony of Padua

I will hear what God the Lord will say;

For He will speak peace to His people,

to His godly ones;

But let them not turn back to folly.

Surely His salvation is near to those who fear Him,

That glory may dwell in our land.

Lovingkindness and truth have met together;

Righteousness and peace have kissed each other.

Truth springs from the earth,

And righteousness looks down from heaven.

Psalm 85 [84]:9-11

 

For God, who said, "Light shall shine out of darkness," is the One who has shone in our hearts to give the Light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ.

2 Corinthians 4:6 NASB

 

. . .

 

It won't be the first time I observe that the 'truth [that] springs from the earth' begs for a Christological reading. The whole exchange of intimacy between love and truth, righteousness and peace, it seems to me, signals the righting of the relationship between Creator and creation. It is the work of the incarnation, accomplished in Christ.

 

But I confess I never attended carefully enough to the preceding verse. Together with the passage from 2 Corinthians (which runs from 3:15 to 4:6), the Christological significance is hard to miss. The glory of The Lord comes to dwell in the land ('and we have beheld his glory...' John's gospel says), and in our hearts. (I can't help but add, though, that we have this treasure in earthen vessels--so says 2 Cor 4:7--so that the power is seen as coming from God and not from us.)

 

Glory. It is the glory of God that is revealed in the meeting of lovingkindess and truth, in the kiss of justice and peace. The glory of God is in Christ. And it looks like love.

 

Deo gratias.

St Barnabas

The Lord has made known his salvation;

has shown his justice to the nations.

He has remembered his truth and love

for the house of Israel.

Psalm 98 [97]

. . .

 

 

Justice. Truth. Love. Israel and the nations.

 

I am always struck by the juxtapositions in the psalms. It's as if the psalmist wants us always to bear in mind that God's justice is never without God's love, and God's love is never without God's truth; that God's particular love for Israel is a love that takes in the whole world, that the chosenness of God's people is a vocation to bless, to be a blessing to the world. This is who God is--the one who loves in truth, the one who is justice and mercy and peace.

 

God is always bigger than we thought. And no matter how long we follow Jesus, or how deep our faith is, we are still susceptible to paradigm shifts, to a still more profound encounter with the Lord. How often I coast along, like my car in neutral on a gentle downhill slope. I am not looking for the paradigm shift. Am I even looking for Jesus? Am I so sure I am following that I have stopped looking ahead on the road for his footprints, his figure in the distance?

 

Probably, yes. More often than I think. I forget to look up, to ask for the eyes to see, the ears to hear, the mind to know, and the heart to love God. Would I hear the Spirit calling, as the community heard the Spirit calling Barnabas and Paul? I am not so sure. Fortunately God remembers, even when I don't, keeps calling me forward. By God's grace, eventually, I look up, and I see Jesus there, God's Truth and God's Love, and I know he hears the prayer of my heart, and I am grateful.

 

Deo gratias.

St Norbert

...And together they said, 'Amen, amen,' and laid down for the night.

 

Tobit 6: 10 - 8: 9

 

. . .

Today's reading from Tobit fascinates me, as I see the prayer of Tobit and Sarah in context. I was acquainted to with the prayer, but until today could not have related the story of Tobit and Sarah that leads up to it. It is a lovely prayer, in which the newly-joined couple ask for God's blessing, especially (in Tobit's words) 'that she and I may grow old together.' Not an unusual prayer for newlyweds.

 

The context, however, shows that Tobit is taking his life in his hands. Sarah's seven previous husbands all died on the wedding night, before consummating the marriage. Tobit has been reassured by the angel Raphael that the Sarah will be released from the demon responsible for the deaths of the others. Raguel, Sarah's father, warns Tobit about the fate of the others, but Tobit will not be dissuaded.

 

Going in to Sarah is an act of faith, trusting that the angel of the Lord has kept that promise. If not, Tobit might die like the others. It reminded me of Luke 5, in which Peter trusts Jesus: he goes out again, into the waters in which he's found no fish, and tries again.

 

'At your bidding, Lord...' It is the hardest place to try again, the place we've found barren, lifeless, empty. But that is often where the greatest fruit is to be found, and where we discover who we are, and who Jesus is, more profoundly than before.

St Christopher Magallanes and companions, martyrs

Be sincere of heart, be steadfast,

  and do not be alarmed when disaster comes.

Cling to him and do not leave him,

  so that you may be honoured at the end of your days.

Whatever happens to you, accept it,

  and in the uncertainties of your humble state, be patient,

since gold is tested in the fire,

  and chosen men in the furnace of humiliation.

                                                                 Ecclesiasticus 2

.          .         . 

It was the words 'humble state' that caught my attention. Humility is the most highly-praised virtue in the writings of the desert fathers and mothers, and in the theology of St Augustine and many others. But it is a slippery virtue to develop. By what standard might we measure our own humility? 

The very idea of a measurement seems somehow incongruous. Humility is more like flying, in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: you'll never fly by intending to fly. The only way to take off is to aim for the ground and miss. And the only way to stay in the air is not to call attention to yourself. One of my very favorite lines in the flying scene consists of the immortal words (every letter capitalized): do not wave at anybody. 

Flying, like humility, is a matter of the right sort of attention. Concentrate on the flying, and you'll fall; try to become humble, and you'll never achieve it. How then, do we do it? "Cling to him and do not leave him...Whatever happens to you, accept it." The attention is all important: attend to Jesus, and not to ourselves; amid the uncertainties and upsets of life, do not wave at anybody. Look to Jesus, and forget about the laws of gravity. 

The Mexican priests we remember today did that, and we honor them for their humility, for counting nothing so precious as the body and blood of Christ. For them, and for all those who have walked faithfully the path of discipleship, lighting the way for others to follow, I am grateful. 

Deo gratias. 

Our Lady of Fatima

A father of the fatherless
   and a judge for the widows,
   is God in his holy habitation.
God makes a home for the lonely;
He leads out the prisoners into prosperity,
   Only the rebellious dwell in a parched land.

Psalm 68[67]: 5-6

.    .    .

In case any doubt remained about God's preferential treatment of the downcast and oppressed: in his holy habitation, God is the defender and protector of those in need. Holiness cannot be separated from care for the downtrodden; to be holy is to make 'a home for the lonely,' not to hide ourselves away somewhere, as God in his holy habitation is not secluded, but opens himself to all those who need him.

Deo gratias.

Tuesday of the sixth week of Eastertide

I thank you for your faithfulness and love, 

   which excel all we ever knew of you. 

On the day I called, you answered; 

   you increased the strength of my soul.

                                              Psalm 138 [137]

.     .     .

When I was pregnant with Anna, and we knew that something was not right, people would often ask me how I was doing. I had good days and bad days; I said that the bad days were the days I was worried that I wouldn't be up to the task of parenting in any case, and the good days were the days that I thought that whatever happened, I would be given the strength to see it through. I noted then that it was not that the good days were those when I believed that everything would somehow, perhaps miraculously, work out. The good days were hopeful in a far deeper sense, when I hoped in God's power to strengthen me for whatever might come. 

Looking back on that time, I ought to thank God for his faithfulness and love: I made it. And I made it through some pretty unpleasant times with a sometimes unsteady soul. I know that God can strengthen my still unsteady soul, and can draw it back from the brink of destruction. I know what it is like to have fresh hope breathed into my despairing heart, and to see the love of God in the eyes of my children. Today isn't one of those days. Today is more like the unsteady days, the days of uncertainty and exhaustion, of calling out to God, hoping for a speedy answer. 

Perhaps more than anything else, the dark and difficult days have taught me how to call out--as much an exhortation to my soul as a prayer, maybe, but I think God hears the prayer in these words: 

Why are you downcast, O my soul, 

  and why so disquieted within me? 

Hope in God, for again I shall praise him, 

  my help and my God. 

And so I shall. 

Deo gratias. 

Sts Philip and James, Apostles

Day to day pours forth speech,
   and night to night reveals knowledge.
There is no speech, nor are there words;
   their voice is not heard.
Their line has gone out through
   all the earth,
And their utterance to the end of the world.
                                                       Psalm 19 [18]: 2-4


Jesus said to him, "Have I been so long with you, and yet you have not come to know me, Philip? He who has seen me has seen the Father."
                                                       John 16: 9

.       .       .

The readings for today are full of puzzles, or so it seems to me. I have always loved the paradoxical character of the words from Psalm 19: "day to day pours forth speech" yet "there is no speech"? How can that be? (If we read on in the psalm, it becomes even more puzzling, I think, since the speech-that-is-not-speech somehow is also a "tent" for the sun...) And then, there is Jesus' response to Philip's question: if you have seen me, says Jesus, you have seen the Father. Yet Jesus himself says he is going to the Father, so there is some distinction in the unity between the Son and the Father to whom he is going. I don't blame Philip for asking, because the whole thing seems far from obvious.

What stands out for me in these puzzles, though, is the way "knowledge" of God comes. There is the knowledge that somehow is revealed in the night, in the way "speech" comes forth in the day; and there is the knowing Jesus by knowing his relationship to the Father--and conversely, the knowledge of the Father by seeing the Father in (through? with?) Jesus. That is, the knowledge of God isn't like the knowledge that we acquire through reading books, studying nature, or hearing lectures (or even homilies). My friend John Swinton describes the knowledge of God as being known by God. God knows us independent of our senses or our faculties, and God indwells us by the Spirit. If our senses seem to fail us (as Philip's sight seemed to fail him), or our minds fail us, God does not fail us. We know God by God's initiative and power, not by our own initiative and power.

That seems to raise more questions than it answers, and doesn't solve any puzzles. But it does remind us that, in the end, it's all grace. And that's good.

Deo gratias.

Wednesday of the fifth week of Eastertide

But some...were teaching [that] 'Unless you are circumcised according to the custom of Moses, you cannot be saved.'

Acts 15: 1

Jerusalem...
to which the tribes go up,
     the tribes of the Lord,
as was decreed for Israel,
     to give thanks to the name of the Lord.

Psalm 122 [121]: 3-4

Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself,
unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me.
I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in me, and I in him,
he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.

John 15: 4-5

.         .        .

I teach theology, and I can't quite leave my day job behind when I approach the Mass readings. Still I am the theology teacher, thinking in terms of the Big Questions. And these three passages seem to shout out answers to the question, 'What must I do to be saved?' (A) Be circumcised. (B) Go to Jerusalem to worship the Lord. (C) 'Abide' in Jesus.

The thing about (A) and (B) is that they are so straightforward. Each could even be construed as a mark of (C), abiding in Jesus. Because, to be honest, to 'abide' in Jesus is not especially well-defined. Being a disciple of Jesus is about being joined to him, connected to him;  and it is also to take part in his work, the mission for which the Father sent him: the salvation of the world. If we want to be saved, we have to become a part of Jesus. This is a radical claim, and one I do not pretend to understand fully. The body of Christ is not a metaphor; it is the reality of our existence as Jesus' disciples, and it is a very great mystery.

Because it is such a great mystery, we have a lot of argument about what constitutes Church, and what marks Christians as Jesus' disciples. It is tempting, on the one hand, to claim particular features that identify Christians--circumcision was useful that way. Either you're circumcised, or you're not. It's a nice, clear marker. The temple in Jerusalem is equally handy--if you want to be sure you're worshipping the Lord, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, go to Jerusalem. That's where he hangs out. We Christians have some similar, but not so obvious ways of recognizing those who belong to our 'tribe'. The other temptation is to deny any such markers, to say that Christian faith and practice can look different according to history, culture and person--infinitely so. The Spirit (who keeps us joined to Christ's body) moves where it wills.

It's a tricky business, this being the body of Christ. How do we know we're still attached to the vine? How can we trust that others are a part of the same vine? 'Abide in me' sounds good, but it's impossible to quantify. Here's where I can't stop being a theology teacher. I think that the two questions about the vine are very different ones. In discerning our own hearts, I think we have to be ruthless in 'taking every thought captive to Christ'. Hold on, and don't let go; and when you can't hold on, ask Jesus to hold you. (Colossians 1: 17 says he's doing just that.) In our relationships with others, we have to trust God and pray. It's not up to us to tell the wheat from the tares, but to pray for the harvest. And to remember that the One whose body we are came into the world not to condemn the world, but to save it.

Deo gratias.

St Catherine of Siena

If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves,
     and the truth is not in us.
But if we confess our sins, God who is faithful and just,
     will forgive us our sins, and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.
                                                                           1 John 1: 8-9

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy-laden,
     and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me,
     for I am gentle and humble in heart,
     and you will find rest for your souls.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
                                                                           Matthew 11: 28-30

.         .        .

I remember the words from 1 John by heart. They are a part of the Brief Order for Confession and Forgiveness, with which the Lutheran worship service began. I never really thought much about them, and didn't even know they were from the Bible (terrible, I know) until I was in college.

If I had known that they were in the Bible, and been acquainted with the passage in 1 John from which these two verses are taken--well, I don't know. Now I read them and see this amazing parallel with the light (a few verses above) and the word (a few verses below). Reading it in that light (no pun intended), it seems even more grave to refuse to admit our sin, because it shows that the Truth is not in us, that we do not abide in the Light, and that the Word is not in us.

And then we are heavy-laden indeed, burdened with the weight of our sin and the distance from God it signals. From Jesus we learn how to receive from God--mercy, forgiveness, righteousness; even as he receives everything from the Father (all he says and does, as John's gospel records it), he invites us to receive from the Father. It is an invitation to live in the Truth, in the Light, and by the Word, and the only requirement is that we confess that we fail to allow that Truth to dwell in us richly, and we turn to the darkness for fear that our puny and corrupt hearts will not be able to bear the Light.

But this Truth purifies, it does not condemn; and this Light cleanses, it does not scorch: et lux erat bonum.

Deo gratias.

St Mark

...and all of you, clothe yourselves with humility toward one another, for God is opposed to the proud, but gives grace to the humble. Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your anxiety upon him, because he cares for you...resist [the adversary], firm in your faith, knowing that the same experiences of suffering are being accopmlished by your [brothers and sisters] who are in the world.
                                                                                     1 Peter 5: 5-9

.      .      .

What more could I possibly have to say? Humility marks Christian life above all else. There is more to to be said (Peter goes on to say a good deal), because humility is difficult to practice and impossible to 'achieve.' Just at the moment we think we've become humble, we find ourselves taking some small satisfaction (not to say pride) in that knowledge, and down we've slid once again.

And yet humility is the way forward, the way of resistance, the evidence of our firmness in faith. It is also a virtue we practice in solidarity, suffering together with those all around the world. When in doubt, try humility; when it is difficult, remember that you are not alone. When it seems impossible, cast yourself upon the Lord, and remember that Jesus has gone this way before you.

Deo gratias.

Wednesday of the fourth week of Eastertide

'Whoever believes in me believes not in me but in the one who sent me,
     and he who sees me see the one who sent me.'
                                                                              John 12: 44

.         .        .

Transparency. It seems to me that Jesus is talking about complete transparency here. And not only that, but he's talking about unity. The one who sees Jesus sees the Father. Jesus shows us God, so truly, that to see Jesus is to see God.

It still blows me away, in those moments when I stop to think about it. Today it was at the forefront of my mind because I had been talking about the way that Jesus conceals God even as he reveals God, that God is hidden in the flesh of Christ. (This, by the way, is an idea of Karl Barth's, and I hope I have got it more or less right.) But this verse in John's gospel emphasizes the revealing rather than the concealing, reminding us that Jesus is truly God. If he is, and if he is so completely transparent, then what is he hiding?

I don't think he is hiding anything. It's just that what he reveals is mystery: the mystery of the God who created the world from nothing, for the sake of love; the mystery of the God who chose Israel, for the sake of love; the mystery of God who became incarnate for the sake of love.

And the task of Christ's disciples, as far as I can see, is to be united to that Love, so that through us also that Love may be seen truly.

Monday of the fourth week of Eastertide

When they heard this, they had no further objections and praised God, saying, "So then, even to Gentiles God has granted repentance that leads to life."

Acts 11: 18

 

I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved. They will come in and go out and find pasture. The thief comes only to steal and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.

John 10: 9-10

 

. . .

I love the places in Scripture where the surprise comes through clearly. The believers at Jerusalem were suspicious of Peter. He had been hanging around with the wrong people. So when Peter tells them about his vision and about the Spirit being given to Cornelius and those with him, they accept it with some bewilderment. Imagine the murmurs of amazement!

 

How is this possible? We find out in John's gospel: Jesus. (Funny how so often Jesus is the answer...) The thing that ties the two passages together (and probably the psalm along with them) is life. God grants the Gentiles "the repentance that leads to life," and Jesus came "that they may have life."

 

And still we're surprised. The grace of God, when we glimpse it in its enormity (I love the translation of the Benedictus that refers to the "bottomless mercy" of God--I think that captures it nicely), has the power to sweep up off our feet. Other authorities lord it over their subjects; false shepherds lead the sheep to the slaughter; but this shepherd is different; this Lord is different. Jesus gives life rather than taking it, and gives his own life for the sake of the sheep, rather than the other way around.

 

It looks for a moment as if God is turning everything upside down. But that's not quite it. We turned it upside down--or our first parents did--and we've got used to it being this way. Jesus comes along to set it to rights again.

 

Deo gratias.

 

 

Thursday of the third week in Eastertide

When Philip ran up, he heard him reading the prophet and asked, 'Do you understand what you are reading?' 'How can I,' he replied, 'unless I have someone to guide me?' ... Starting, therefore, with this text of Scripture, Philip proceeded to explain to him the Good News of Jesus.
                                                          Acts 8

Come and hear, all who fear God;
    I will tell what he did for my soul:
to him I cried aloud,
    with high praise ready on my tongue.
                                                        Psalm 65 [66]

'It is written in the prophets:
They shall all be taught by God,
and to hear the teaching of the Father
and to learn from it,
is to come to me.'
                                                       John 6

.          .         .

"How can I...unless I have someone to guide me?" Indeed. I am conscious, as I reflect on the words of Scripture, of my own training. Not my professional training, but my formation as a Christian. What I have learned from the theologians I have read and studied does influence my reading of the Bible, but that reading is shaped much more profoundly by my upbringing in Christ, from the influence of my mother to the conversations around the table as I studied the Gospel according to Mark in college. I continue to be guided by the picture of Jesus that has been imprinted in my mind and embellished and corrected through the years. No matter whether I am alone or in company when I am actually reading the Bible, I am always surrounded and guided by the many witnesses to Jesus who have led me on the way.

And the witnesses have all, in some way, done for me what Philip and the psalmist have done: to tell the Good News of what God has done. The words Jesus speaks in John's Gospel seem even more enigmatic in this context: how is it that we can be 'taught by God,' except through the words of God's witnesses? One could certainly make the argument that the eunuch in Acts 8 is taught by God, who uses Philip for the purpose. Philip is instructed by the Holy Spirit to approach the chariot, and then is spirited away after baptizing the eunuch. What, exactly, Philip says, we don't know. (Ok, so I don't know. Maybe there are commentators who are fairly certain. But that's not really my point here.) Presumably, Philip connects the passage in Isaiah 53 to Jesus, and explains Jesus further with some reference to what has been going on in Jerusalem recently. Maybe he gives his own testimony as a part of that.

The real mark of the eunuch's having been 'taught by God', though, is in the response. He comes to Jesus by his baptism. This seems to me to be the heart of Christian formation, of all the guidance that we ought to give and receive on the journey of faith: to be led to Jesus, again and again. However far we stray, however short we fall of our intention to follow him, we can be restored by Jesus.

So it is right that the psalmist calls out in his need, making supplication to God, and at the same moment is ready to praise him: he 'cried aloud' in hope that God would save him, and so afterward proclaims what God did for his soul. I pray that hope will live in me, as it has been formed by the witness of so many like him. For those who have taught me by word and deed, I will always be thankful.

Deo gratias.

Wednesday of the third week in Eastertide

Saul then worked for the total destruction of the church; he went from house to house arresting both men and women and sending them to prison.
Acts 8: 3

.          .          .

Well, then. If the apostle whose writings have taught, encouraged and exhorted Christians for almost two millennia began by intending the total destruction of Jesus' followers, then there's hope for anybody. There's even hope for me.

He came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.

Deo gratias.

Tuesday of the third week of Eastertide

'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.'
                                        Acts 7:51

.          .            .

So says Stephen, as he is being stoned to death outside the city. He follows it up with a second prayer, his final words being, 'Lord, do not hold this sin against them.' Stephen doesn't interact with his accusers and executioners any longer, but with the Lord. To the extent that he relates to the people stoning him, he does so through Jesus. His attention is riveted on the scene opening up before him, as he gazes into heaven and sees the Lord.

There is something in that--Stephen no longer responds to those who are attacking him. Instead, he casts himself onto the Lord. Perhaps in so doing, he finds the freedom to pray for his attackers. Perhaps. But I think there is something more here, or, rather, that this passage points to a feature of Christian life more generally. That is, as we cast ourselves onto the Lord, we are in him, and relate to those around us through him. Indeed, we relate to the whole human race and to God the Father through Jesus.

This is a no-brainer, right? It's a basic Christian truth, the idea of being in Christ, and it's not my idea but St Paul's. Of course. Yet I think the implications of this are bigger than I had imagined. Last week someone (in one of those coffee-time-at-a-conference conversations) suggested to me that people with severe cognitive impairments cannot be self-giving agents. By this, he meant that the Christian way of life, of a life given entirely to others, is not in fact open to people whose sense of 'self' is limited or non-existent. But this misses the point of self-giving, I think (if I may be so bold as to say so). If we take Stephen as our model, what we find is that our given-ness is first to Christ. Our primary self-giving is a being given to Christ; it is then the Lord who gives us to those who need us. We are like the Eucharist, offered up to God and then (having been blessed and transformed) given into the world as Christ's body.

Whether or not someone who lacks a real sense of 'self' can be 'given' to Christ in the same way is not open to view. But there is in people whose needs are so very great a fine example of given-ness. We tend to think of self-giving as something we do for others. We don't see how being given, being broken, is itself a gift. Jean Vanier understands this, and this realization has borne fruit in his amazing life. He writes:

 

When I…welcomed Raphael and Philippe, I invited them to come and live with me because of Jesus and his Gospel. That is how L’Arche was founded. When I welcomed [them], I knew it was for life…My purpose in starting L’Arche was to found a family, a community with and for those who are weak and poor because of a mental handicap and who feel alone and abandoned. The cry of Raphael and of Philippe was for love, for respect, and for friendship; it was for true communion. They of course wanted me to do things for them, but more deeply they wanted a true love; a love that seeks their beauty, the light shining within them; a love that reveals to them their value and importance in the universe. Their cry for love awoke within my own heart and called forth from me living waters; they make me discover within my own being a well, a fountain of life.

St Joseph

For today, nothing will do so well as to thank God for Pope Francis. All around the world, people have begun to see him as a sign of hope for the church, the whole church. And that's what he spoke about in his homily this morning: hope.

We watched his first appearance with surprise, with curiosity, and then with great joy. As he asked the crowds in St Peter's square to pray for him, I was overcome with gladness. I hope that my sons will remember that moment all their lives, and will recall the tears in my eyes. We prayed for him before the conclave began, without knowing for whom we prayed. We have prayed for him since, with happiness in our hearts.

Read his homily. I have nothing anywhere near as inspiring to say.

Deo gratias, Deo gratias.

Fifth Sunday of Lent

Brethren, I do not regard myself as having laid hold of it yet; but one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, (Philippians 3:13 NASB)

 

. . .

[Today I knew that because my youngest was quite ill, I wouldn't get to Mass. But Thomas, who is 9, would. So when I read the Mass readings, and a theme immediately suggested itself, I thought I'd write something to keep him occupied while the grown-ups (including his dad) were listening to the priest. Here it is, my first-ever 'homily'!]

 

 

A homily for Thomas

 

Gregory of Nyssa, who is one of my favourite theologians, would really have enjoyed the readings today. St Gregory lived a long time ago; he was born about 300 years after Jesus died (and rose again!!). Philippians 3:13, which we heard in the New Testament reading, was his favourite verse, and he mentioned it often in his writing. He wrote a lot of stuff--homilies, letters, and some longer things--and I haven't read it all. But I've read a good bit, and I have read what he wrote about this verse in a few places in his writings. I want to tell you why it was one of his favourite verses, and it just so happens that the readings for today are all about that theme: redemption.

 

I bet you have learned that word in RE [religious education]. It means God's saving work. All of the readings are about that, so I will tell you a little bit about each of them, and then I'll tell you why Gregory liked Philippians 3:13 so much. If you read all the way to the end, you'll see how it all fits together and why it's so important that I wanted to tell you about it.

 

Today the Old Testament reading came from Isaiah. I especially liked the bit where Isaiah says (and it is the Lord who speaks) to forget the former things, and look to what the Lord is doing: a new thing. God is generous and creative. He made the world and all that is in it--the huge variety of animals and plants, the landscape and the weather, sun and snow and strong winds. But God hasn't stopped. All that fruitful, loving power that is God keeps on moving, keeping the universe together, holding us and keeping us alive with his life-giving breath. God's saving work is going on all the time.

 

It isn't always easy to remember that. So in the psalm the people are calling out to God, asking God to rescue them, and at the same time, they're remembering the right stuff: God's faithfulness to them in the past. Remembering God's faithfulness helps them to pray with trust in God. In Isaiah, what God wants the people to forget isn't the good He has done for them, but their sin against God.

 

It's kind of a strange thing to do during Lent, isn't it? Here we are, having decided to give something up, or to do something extra, which we do to show that we know we're sinful and also to show that we want to do better, with the help of the Holy Spirit. But it makes sense in light of the Gospel reading. Unlike the psalmist or the prophet Isaiah, we know what God's Big New Thing was: Jesus. And the way God rescues day by day looks a lot like Jesus' meeting with the scribes and the Pharisees and the woman they brought to him.

 

They wanted to stone her, because the law said that if you committed that particular sin, you should be put to death. St John the evangelist tells us that they brought her to Jesus to trick him into saying something that would get him into trouble--it wasn't because they really didn't know what to do. But Jesus doesn't say anything to them about her, he just writes on the ground. Nobody knows what he wrote, just what he said then: let the one that is without sin among you cast the first stone. Whatever Jesus wrote made them realize that they were not without sin, so they all went away.

 

When they had all gone away, Jesus (you remember this from the Gospel reading, I'm sure!) asked her who was there to condemn her. 'Nobody,' she answered. Jesus said he wouldn't condemn her either. Now Jesus was the only one who could have cast a stone--he was without sin! But he doesn't. He forgives her.

 

We're just like that woman. Obviously the things we've done wrong are different. But we're caught out just the same, sometimes by others (parents, teachers, friends) and more often (I hope) by our own conscience. So what do we do? Well, here's where the scribes and Pharisees got it right: we take it to Jesus. One really good way to do that is in confession. We hear the voice of Jesus, the one who alone can condemn us, saying, 'I don't condemn you; go and sin no more.'

 

I think this is why St Gregory liked that verse from Philippians so much. He knew that the right direction for us to be headed is always away from our past sin, and toward the future, which God is always making new--right in front of us. When we receive forgiveness, we are living in that new thing that God was doing, we are living in Christ Jesus.

 

Deo gratias. (That means 'thanks be to God' in Latin.)

 

 

 

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Wednesday of the fourth week of Lent

 The  Lord  is faithful in all his words and kind in all his works.
                                                 Psalms 145 [144]:13 ESV

So Jesus said to them,  "Truly, truly, I say to you,  the Son  can do nothing of his own accord, but only what he sees the Father doing. For whatever the Father  does, that the Son does likewise.
                                                 John 5:19 ESV

.       .       .

I've been trying to read the gospel passage in Greek again. The construction, 'Truly, truly, I say to you' helps immensely: the repetition of 'amen' makes it pretty easy to spot. Not so with the rest (something about the Father and the Son...), and I didn't really quite see where I was until I read the English. But in the midst of my back-and-forth, I noticed something. The word for 'do' in the passage is poeisis. A New Testament scholar might tell me that there is nothing special about the use of that particular word here, but I am just a simple lay theologian with very rusty Greek. And that little word reminds me of two (to me) remarkable things.

The word poeisis would not have caught my eye without John Milbank having called it to my attention in an essay called 'A Christological Poetics'. But, thanks to his challenging theological proposal, I read this passage of the Gospel according to John with different eyes. What Milbank says about poeisis in his essay is complex and brilliant, and bears reading. My two things are simple and not at all brilliant.

The first is that the 'doing' isn't a factory-line kind of task. English doesn't have the catch all word for doing and making like one finds in Spanish, for example. Hacer means 'to do, to make'; translating it into English requires that we make a choice. There seems to me to be a sort of creativity here, to the work of the Father and the Son, that 'doing' doesn't quite capture. (Again, Milbank says this sort of thing much better than I do.)

The second thing is that following Jesus means being caught up in this creative work of God. Even as the Son does only that which he sees the Father doing, so we imitate the Son as far as we are able to do. We participate in the divine poetry, the creative and redemptive work of God in and with the world. Being a Christian isn't just about turning up on Sunday and trying to live a 'moral' life. It is about learning a craft, being apprenticed to a master craftsman. And we learn, through our clumsy and feeble attempts to copy the master, that it isn't just about copying: this craft isn't about perfecting our own skill, but allowing his skill to be perfected in us.

It isn't about us. It's always about Him. Deo gratias.

Monday of the fourth week of Lent

God is our refuge and strength,
  a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear,
  though the earth should change,
And though the mountains slip
   into the heart of the sea...
                                 Psalm 45 [46]: 1-2

.             .           .

Today is my birthday. Snow is falling, and I am trying to work despite having a cold. Luckily I had a guest to teach my class this morning, a session on war and peace in the Orthodox tradition. From him I heard that a renowned mystic (Fr Sophrony) described war as fratricide. He lived through both world wars and the experience shaped him profoundly. In his writing, he seems to regard war as a symptom of the fallen human condition; its opposite is not armistice or treaty but the peace of Christ. Importantly, this peace--like the image of God's presence through the upheaval of our earthly existence--does not depend on the cessation of hostilities between opposing powers, but is always and everywhere present.

Something like this presence of God, this inbreaking peace, must be the power at work in another story that came to my attention today, I think not by accident. It is worth reading this story of two pilots, one American and one German, who 'met' in the sky over Germany in December 1943. The American pilot and those left alive on his B-17 were saved by the German fighter pilot who took to the air to shoot them down.

Peace happens. Deo gratias.

Wednesday of the third week of Lent

Praise the Lord, Jerusalem!
    Zion, praise your God!
                             Psalm 147

.            .            .

The psalmist does recount the deeds for which God ought to be praised, it's true. But those aren't always what present themselves to us on any given day. Some days we hurt, physically or emotionally. Some days we're just exhausted in body and in soul. The future looks bleak, or we feel alone. God may well have 'strengthened the bars of [our] gates', but it doesn't seem to have made a difference today.

The psalmist is right, though, to call us to praise. Praise God, anyway: 'Offer to God a sacrifice of thanksgiving, and pay your vows to the Most High; and call upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver you, and you shall honor me' (Psalm 49 [50]: 14-15). So I thank God for the tree outside my window, its bare branches silhouetted against a white sky. And in the same breath I call upon God, in this day of mundane trouble, of garden-variety joylessness: restore my hope in your salvation. You will rescue me, and I will honor you.

Monday of the third week of Lent

So Naaman came with his team and chariot and drew up at the door of Elisha’s house. And Elisha sent him a messenger to say, ‘Go and bathe seven times in the Jordan, and your flesh will become clean once more.’ But Naaman was indignant and went off, saying, ‘Here was I thinking he would be sure to come out to me, and stand there, and call on the name of the Lord his God, and wave his hand over the spot and cure the leprous part. Surely Abana and Pharpar, the rivers of Damascus, are better than any water in Israel? Could I not bathe in them and become clean?’ And he turned round and went off in a rage. But his servants approached him and said, ‘My father, if the prophet had asked you to do something difficult, would you not have done it? All the more reason, then, when he says to you, “Bathe, and you will become clean.”’ So he went down and immersed himself seven times in the Jordan, as Elisha had told him to do. And his flesh became clean once more like the flesh of a little child.

2 Kings 5

.          .            .

'Go and bathe seven times in the Jordan...' The instruction leaves Naaman outraged. Here he was, expecting a miracle, a spectacular healing. Maybe he'd heard about Elijah's fiery victory over the prophets of Ba'al. (Now there's a story.) Naaman's servants respond to his indignation with reason: if he had asked you to do something extraordinary, you would have done it, wouldn't you? Well, then, why not do the ordinary thing?

Perhaps something like this exchange might take place in the days or weeks leading up to Lent. What extraordinary thing can we give up or take on in order to be healed? This Lent, I really wanted to pray the office. Really. Never mind the fact that I have four young children--one is under two, and the eldest has Down Syndrome--and a half-time lecturing post that involves enough work to occupy me full-time. I love praying the office with the nuns when I am on retreat. The rhythm of prayer and quiet restores my soul in a way nothing else does. 

But I am not on retreat: I am standing on the banks of the muddy Jordan, with a toddler on one hip and the third edition of The Modern Theologians on the other. (The toddler is heavier, but only just.) There are Lenten disciplines prescribed by the church: special days of fasting and abstinence, the sacrament of reconciliation, opportunities for giving and praying within the parish. Lent isn't about heroic deeds of asceticism, it's about humility. Perhaps my failure to pray the office daily during Lent ought to remind me that Lent is about obedience, not about willpower. 

Time to go and bathe in the Jordan, I suppose: repentance and submission are the way to healing.

Thursday of the second week of Lent

The heart is more decetiful than all else
And is desperately sick;
Who can understand it?
"I, the Lord, search the heart,
I test the mind,
Even to give to each man according to his ways,
According to the result of his deeds."
                                                Jeremiah 17: 9-10

*        *       *

Jeremiah 17:9 might well be a contender for my favorite verse. It is certainly one that I have unintentionally committed to memory. The heart is deceitful above all else--I have found that to be true of my own heart in particular. From time to time I would read the responses of the celebrity of the week in one of the weekend editions of the newspaper. I was always amused at the responses to: 'what would your superpower be?' Easy, I thought: mind control. Then one week I read a response that put me to shame: 'the power to make people's dreams come true.' And I realized that mind control would be incredibly useful: control of my mind.

The heart is more deceitful than all else, but God finds it out. And the interesting thing about it is that God rewards what comes out of the heart: the ways, the deeds. I am the first to admit that my heart is deceitful, and I know my own capacity for self-deception. Yet I, even I, ought to be able to read some of the clues, to interpret the tea leaves of my actions. If I am neglecting my family or lacking in love for them, if I am impatient with people or half-hearted in my work, I can discern something about the state of my heart. And I can look back and see now what I should have seen then: my heart was deceiving me, but the Lord--and probably a number of other people--saw clearly the thread running from the actions back to the misdirection of my own heart.

So there's hope. Even for this deceitful heart: 'Heal me, O Lord, and I will be healed.'

St Peter's Chair

'But you,' [Jesus] said, 'who do you say that I am?'
Then Simon Peter spoke up.
'You are the Christ,' he said, 'the Son of the Living God.'

                                                    Matthew 16: 15-16

.       .      .

Occasionally I try to make out the gospel passage in Greek. Unfortunately, it has been so long since I bothered that usually I am delighted just to spot the odd word, and that often only by sounding it out. Today was pretty much the same. I had already glanced at the English, so I thought I knew what was coming: σὺ εἰ ὁ χριστὸς ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ θεοῦ ...so far, so good--you are the Christ, the Son of God. But there on the next line, the bit I'd glanced past in the English and wasn't really expecting: τοῦ ζῶντος. Rusty as my Greek is, I spotted that zeta (the squiggle at the beginning of the second word, in case you're wondering) and the omega following it, and the word came back to me: 'living'. 

And I had that experience that I long for when reading the gospel: it leapt out at me. The Living God. Peter's affirmation of Jesus' divinity made me sit up and take notice. Something new is happening here; the identity of Jesus is coming to light. This is who Jesus is, and that changes everything. Everything. What does it mean to realize, down to the very depths of your soul, that this is the Christ, the Son of the Living God? 

Lent can seem like puzzling over some Greek text. It isn't always clear how this is going to help. But, like my weak attempts to make sense of this passage of Matthew's gospel, it makes way for new light to dawn in us. Peering through the darkness that attends our every attempt to perceive God, hindered by the frailty of our minds and hearts, we are reaching out. Just when our hearts are most empty and our efforts seem most futile (just like my Greek!), God speaks His Light, and we are filled with His holy brightness. 

Teach my heart to yearn for you, O God.