The month of November in the Northern Hemisphere brings many changes in the appearance of nature, the outside temperature, and the emotions that many people experience. Christians throughout the centuries have chosen to "go with the flow" of these changes by taking time to pause and consider the reality of loss, the waning of the vigor of life, and the inevitable end of all things. During this time of year the Church chooses to ponder loss, diminishment, death, and the end through the lens of various Gospel teachings concerning how to be prepared for such eventualities. One reason for doing this, perhaps, is to reshape our personal and collective sense of fear of the greatest unknown associated with life: death and what happens beyond it.
The first reading and Gospel for this past weekend's liturgies both explicitly mention the word fear and the role that it plays in the life of faith. However, the manner in which the word is used is quite different between the two readings and therefore offers us the opportunity to compare and contrast a "healthy" and empowering sense of fear versus one that debilitates and cripples. The first reading from the book of Proverbs speaks of the praiseworthiness of the woman who "fears the Lord." The Gospel tells the parable of the talents and describes how one of the three servants entrusted with the Master's talents (an ancient sum of money) tucks it away in the ground out of fear. Why is it that fear in the first reading is praiseworthy and in the Gospel text the fear of the servant towards his master (i.e., God) is the grounds for punishment?
The first reading and Gospel are obviously dealing with two very different meanings of the word fear. The basic distinction could be described as the fear that empowers (as in the first reading) versus the fear that incapacitates (as in the Gospel). The type of fear that we are to have of God and the mystery of God is one that empowers; however, what is sad is the fact that the Christian tradition has very often used the fear we see in the Gospel to manipulate belief in God or to cajole compliance with dogma, doctrine, or moral teachings. True "fear of the Lord" according to the Judeo-Christian scriptures implies not a "slavish" fear of punishment, but a sense of awe and wonder at the grandeur of God, God's Creation, and God's plan of salvation. Such a "fear" motivates through inspiration, not intimidation. The importance of having a proper understanding of the role of "the fear of the Lord" in the life of faith cannot be understated.
I was recently having coffee with someone of staunch Christian belief when the topic of heaven and the life of heaven was raised. I explained my reflections and musings on the subject and expressed my conviction that life here on Earth likely won't change significantly unless Christians give serious thought to the program of the Kingdom (meaning, life in the "New Creation" or "heaven") and than work to enact this program here on Earth (this is truly what it means to proclaim the Good News). My counterpart stated that she hadn't given much thought to heaven and, rather, focused more on fearing God in the sense of avoiding God's judgement and punishment. This example, I believe, throws into relief what's at stake in how we understand "the fear of the Lord". One sense of fear leads to contemplating the divine mystery embodied in God, Christ, Holy Spirit, and God's plan of salvation and than being empowered to envision and enact the possibilities of New Creation in the here and now. The other approach to fear stifles creative thought and incapacitates the imagination from being able to see and strive for the possibility of God's will being done "on Earth, as it is in Heaven".
In the Gospel for Mass two Sundays ago, Jesus issues his most poignant and succinct teaching about how humans are to live in the world: "You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and the first commandment. The second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself." Since everything in the Christian and truly human life hinges on love of God, love of self, and love of neighbor, it would be worthwhile to ponder what this "looks like" in the concrete. One way of approaching the "greatest commandment" of total love for God, self, and other, is to think of this love as an energy that is "reactive and proactive"and "receptive and responsive."
When one thinks of the word, "reactive", one usually doesn't arrive at a positive valuing of the term. To be "reactive" can cannote being impetuous, impulsive, and "reactionary." However, this word can also refer to equally positive behaviors, especially when connected with the Great Commandment of love. When a person is reactive according to this commandment, they respond relatively easily and immediately to the needs and dignity of other persons. An example would be if someone were to buy lunch for a homeless person standing on the side of the road. To love "reactively" means being open and ready to meet the needs of others. Another way of fulfilling the Great Commandment is by loving "proactively." According to the Judeo-Christian tradition, it isn't enough to simply wait until someone in need comes across one's path; rather, the "bar of loving" is set at the height of looking, and even searching, for those in need of love. A number of stories told by Jesus in the New Testament depict God as a restless searcher for the lost, the lonely, and the needy. Chapter 15 of Luke's Gospel offers dramatic examples of how love at it's height is not only about reacting to the needs of others but proactively searching for the needy other. In a society that has gone to great lengths to create suburban enclaves of safety, security, and a facade of total well-being, searching for the needy other is absolutely imperative, especially since the truly desperate will rarely cross our paths while "holed up" in such places.
The great command to love can also be approached in terms of being "receptive and responsive." To be receptive implies an openness toward all, especially those who are in greatest need. To revert back to the example of the homeless person standing on the side of the road, it means withholding judgement and allowing ourselves to be moved with pity and compassion. Receptivity, in it's greatest expression, is really about hospitality: setting a long and wide table within ourselves for the divine mystery and sacred story which is at the heart of every person and creature who graces the face of the earth. As important as it is to be receptive to others in fulfilling the great command to love, hospitality only deepens in it's richness and beauty when we have an abiding awareness of those in need of our service. Just as it is necessary to not only be reactive but proactive in one's loving disposition toward God, self, and others, so it is essential that we not only provide hospitality but extend it through a responsiveness that reaches out to others both near and far. To be truly responsive requires an attentiveness to the heartbrokenness of the world. However, what makes such responsiveness exceedingly difficult in our society is our obsession with being entertained. Karl Marx once said that "religion is the opium of the masses." Today we might revise this by saying, "entertainment is the opium of the masses." To allow one's self to be entertained to the point of distraction deadens the capacity for sharing in, and responding to, the broken heartedness and struggle that is representative of the vast majority of the world's population.
The great command to love can be approached and understood in various ways. However it is approached and understood, to be truly effective in our lives it must be appropriated in as practical a manner as possible. We practically appropriate the command to love God, ourselves, and neighbor, when we form dispositions and attitudes that are reactive, proactive, receptive, and responsive to the world around us, especially that large swath of the world that is broken, needy, and crying out for justice.
There has been much talk in our contemporary U.S. society about the presence of God in daily life and how Christians are called to bear witness to it. "God talk" and public testimonials about people's relationship with God have become relatively commonplace, frequently arising in the U.S. sports and political arenas. Just this past weekend I heard a college football coach give thanks to God (after a victory, of course) for being blessed to be a part of his particular program. Last week a Republican party front runner for the presidential nomination and Baptist minister spoke of the need to "make room for the Holy Spirit." All of this very public God talk begs the question of God's presence in our lives and world and how to witness to it in a way that is God honoring (meaning, in a way that draws others to God rather then repel them).
The first reading and Gospel for the 29th Sunday in Ordinary Time reflect different attitudes about God's involvement with the world and how we give honor and glory to God. The first reading is quite fascinating, and, even astounding because it states that God favored a pagan, Cyrus, King of Persia. The reading from Isaiah goes so far as to state that God is the one who has manipulated circumstances to ensure that Cyrus would prevail over his enemies. The attitude conveyed by Isaiah is that God is the one directly responsible for all that unfolds in history, to include military conquest and domination. In the Gospel, Jesus has a different take then Isaiah, seemingly contrasting "secular" powers with the power of God by stating, "give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God." So, which reading is correct? The first, or the second? Is God directly responsible for all that unfolds in history as Isaiah asserts, or, are there two "parallel" realities as seemingly suggested by Jesus?
This dilemma is perhaps irresolvable. There is no way of knowing for sure precisely how God is involved in the processes of the world or human affairs. It is fair to say, however, that our modern day approach to Christian theology asserts unequivocally that God is not a God who backs the powerful and ruthless but has sided with the poor, the vulnerable, and the defenseless. However, the more pressing and important question that is presented by this weekend's readings is: what exactly "belongs" to God? What belongs to God is space.
In his classic book, "Man's Search for Meaning", the famous psychologist Victor Frankl relates the following account of what he did soon after his release from Auschwitz: "One day, a few days after the liberation, I walked through the country past flowering meadows, for miles and miles, toward the market town near the camp. Larks rose to the sky and I could hear their joyous song. There was no one to be seen for miles around; there was nothing but the wide earth and sky and the larks' jubilation and the freedom of space. At that moment there was very little I knew of myself or of the world - I had but one sentence in mind - always the same: "I called to the Lord in my narrow prison and he answered me in the freedom of space."
The God of Jesus Christ is almost certainly a God of tremendous spaciousness. When we think of one of the characteristics that defines God par excellence, it is the spaciousness of God: space between Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, to be themselves and to carry out their respective roles in history. Space between God and creation: so that creation can grow and flourish in and for itself. And, finally, space between God and the human person: so that humanity can find its way in history and grow in the image and likeness of God. Far from something ostentatious such as public testimony, we give to God what belongs to God when we simply give to God the same thing that God gives us: space.
Last week I attended a conference on professional guardianship that was chock full of useful information about this practice by experts from fields that spanned the spectrum from geriatrics to animal hoarding. As relevant and insightful as the presentations were, they were all bested by the final keynote talk given by two diminutive nuns who spoke about the importance of self-regard, self-care, and self-love in seeking to provide guardianship services to persons who are truly vulnerable and at the mercy of their caregivers. After the hour-and-a-half talk which included a number of practical exercises and a great deal of laughter, one could perceive a palpable, positive energy coursing through the room - it was truly a great way to end the conference.
The metaphor that the nuns wrapped their talk around was the notion of having a positive, loving impact on one's little corner of "the vineyard." This is a scriptural metaphor that can be found in both the Old and New Testaments. The readings for the 27th Sunday in Ordinary Time (two weekends ago) actually focus on this metaphor. What is interesting about the metaphor is that it refers to both a place (Mt. 21:33-43) and a people (Isaiah 5:1-7). In other words, the Lord's vineyard is both the world in which we work and live and our very selves. We are not only called by God to cultivate, tend, and transform the world but to be cultivated, tended, and transformed as a part of the world. We are not mere laborers working on a project but equally a project that is labored upon.
The value of suggesting that our lives are akin to a vineyard and project that is being cultivated by God is that it can help us to approach all the events of our lives in a spirit of hope - especially the challenging ones. Just as a grape endures the intensity of the sun in order to mature and ripen, so our lives mature, ripen, and deepen when we allow them to be exposed to all that life has to offer. If one reflects on the events of ones life that led to growth, maturation, and depth, it is likely the case that the events were intense, difficult, challenging, or, perhaps, even painful. When we grow in the awareness that we are not mere laborers in the vineyard but a part of the vineyard itself, we needn't shy or back away from the intense, challenging, or even daunting aspects of life: it is precisely such conditions that will lead to the full-maturation of our lives and produce a vintage of unequaled beauty, depth, and richness.
"The enormity of this space and the multitude of names that form this endless ribbon underscore the vast scope of the destruction. Standing there at the water's edge, looking at a pool of water that is flowing away into an abyss, a visitor to the site can sense that what is beyond this curtain of water and ribbon of names is inaccessible." Michael Arad and Peter Walker, artists of the Ground Zero Memorial, Reflecting Absence
I cannot remember in my lifetime a day of remembrance as solemn as 9-11-11: ten years removed from perhaps the most horrific, and even apocalyptic, tragedy to strike America. For those of us who remember 9-11-01, the images of skyscrapers ablaze, bodies free falling, and people screaming in terror in and around New York City are indelibly etched in mind, heart, spirit, and soul. So powerful and defining was this moment that it hardly seems like ten years ago. The way that it so profoundly changed our lives and sense of security, it might as well have been ten days ago. One of the questions this ten-year anniversary of 9-11 poses is, of course: how to remember?
In posing this question, it is more than a little ironic that the scripture readings for all the major Christian denominations this Sunday focus on forgiveness and mercy. The unmistakable connection that can so easily and readily be made is that in remembering the victims of 9-11, those who survived them, and those affected by the two wars fought because of 9-11, we are called to consider the role of forgiveness and mercy in this process. The standard of forgiveness set forth by Jesus in the Gospel is not about how many times we forgive, but how deeply we forgive. Jesus turns Peter's question about "how many times should one forgive" on it's head by answering that forgiveness isn't merely about quantity but quality: we are to forgive from the heart - meaning, we are to forgive at depth.
The human heart is very much like the Ground Zero memorial in the sense that it is akin to an abyss. The human heart is virtually unbounded in it's capacity for receiving and containing innumerable experiences along with all the emotions associated with those experiences. And, while we cannot control all that we experience in life (such as the terrorist attacks of 9-11), we can regulate what we receive into our hearts and what we let go of.
A great example of the role that mercy and forgiveness can play in remembering 9-11 comes from many of the victim's loved ones who volunteered to read names at the Reflecting Absence memorial. As the names of the victims were solemnly read, sentiments of love, fond memories, and longing were also expressed. It is clear that many of these persons have chosen to remember 9-11 by holding on tightly to love and letting go of hatred, bitterness, and vengeance.
Far from a mere moral or ethical teaching on the praiseworthiness of the act of forgiveness, in telling us to forgive from our hearts, Jesus is giving us direction on what to cling to in our lives and what to let go of so that our hearts, like his, can become an "abyss of forgiveness" and an abyss of love.
The quest for Jesus didn't begin with 20th century scripture scholars, nor did it begin with Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. It began, as a matter of fact, with Jesus himself! Now, I know what you might be thinking: Jesus knew exactly who he was from very early on and it was just a matter of everyone else finding this out! The problem that this poses, however, is that no human person can come into an absolutely precise awareness of his/her identity without the aid of others. No one is born with a script! To suggest that Jesus was born with one undercuts his humanity and sets him far above those of us mere mortals who have to struggle day in and out with the basic and gut-wrenching question of, "who am I?" and "what does my life mean?"
In today's Gospel Jesus poses a question to the apostles: "who do you say that I am?" (Mt. 16:15). One way to approach this question is to assume that it was a test of faith for the apostles. Either they "get it" or "they don't." However, what if this question was also a test for Jesus? Certainly Jesus was tested: he spent 40 days out in the desert prior to beginning his public ministry being tempted by the devil (Mt. 4:1-11). In putting the question to the apostles, "who do you say that I am?" Jesus may very well be looking for an affirmation of what he has long since suspected: he is the anointed one of God and the Son of Man who will ultimately lay down his life for his friends. Why is this a test of faith? It's a test of faith because once the disciples affirm what he suspects, there is no going back. It's one thing to have private beliefs about one's identity, it's quite another to have that identity reflected and affirmed in the eyes of another. Once something like this transpires, than you become accountable to someone else's beliefs about you.
This weekend I saw the movie, The Help. It tells the story of a young, aspiring, white journalist nicknamed "Skeeter" who dares to "go out on a limb" to tell the story of black maids in segregated Mississippi immediately prior to the Civil Rights Movement. However, to tell the story of the maids, she has to find some who are willing to venture out on the same precarious limb. Skeeter initially meets with resistance by many maids who are understandably afraid for their welfare. However, after hearing an inspiring sermon at a Church service, one of the maids named Abileen decides to put her faith into action by telling her story. Soon thereafter, other maids come forward to tell their story. In a very real sense, by telling their stories these maids were posing the question, "who do you say that I am?" to one another, to Skeeter, and, indeed, to the entire U.S. society. The entire movie is really a profound parable about the quest for identity, dignity, and solidarity. The movie The Help illustrates very much what today's Gospel does: to arrive at an appreciation of who we are and what our life's meaning is, we must risk ourselves by asking the question, "who do you say that I am?' and allowing the answer to be reflected and affirmed in the eyes of others. Pat
First Kings, 19:9-13 tells the story of how the prophet Elijah, "on the lamb" and running from his persecutors, tucks himself safely away in a cave at "God's Holy Mountain" (Horeb). While taking refuge, God comes-a-searching for him and asks, "why are you here, Elijah?"After Elijah issues his chief complaint (namely that the Israelites are seeking to take his life), God tells Elijah to prepare to meet him outside of the cave. A strong and heavy wind passed by, crushing rocks to smithereens, but it wasn't God's calling card. Next an earthquake rattled Elijah's cavernous cage - but still no God (apparently, tumults aren't God's style!) Than a fire erupted - but still, no God. Finally, the tiniest "whispering wind" softly swept by the mouth of the cave. It was this that announced to Elijah the presence of the Lord of Hosts. When Elijah came to the mouth of the cave, again God asked him, "Elijah, why are you here?"
What stands out about this, "thick-with-implications-about-God's-revelation" exchange with Elijah are two things, one obvious and one not-so-obvious. Let's start with the obvious: God doesn't announce God's presence in an impressive, awe-inspiring manner in order to put Elijah at ease and dispel the difficulty. Now on to the not-so-obvious: God asks Elijah the question, "why are you here?" twice in the space of only four verses. Interestingly enough, Elijah responds with the exact same answer to God's question both times: "I have been most zealous for the LORD, the God of hosts, but the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, torn down your altars, and put your prophets to the sword. I alone am left, and they seek to take my life." It's important to note that earlier in Chapter 19, Elijah nearly gives up by laying under a broom tree and praying for death. Therefore, if we read between the lines of Elijah's response, we could rightly discern a tone of incredulity and the implied question of, "why don't you do anything and why am I struggling for my life?"
Elijah may very well be speaking to the guttural, primordial question that has tormented the human heart for time immemorial: "why doesn't God do anything and why do we have to struggle so hard for life?" The answer to this angst-laden question really isn't the direction or "moral" of the story (no matter how much Elijah, or we, would like an answer!). The key to unlocking the importance of this story and what it says about God and humanity has less to do with addressing the question of "why" and, rather, considering the issue of "where." When God asks the question, "why are you here?" God isn't interested in the reasons Elijah has for hiding in the cave, God is really asking Elijah, "why the heck are you in a cave at all!" Very little, if anything, can be resolved from inside a cave!
There are many and varied reasons for why we may want to hide in our "caves" and pose the circular, never-ending question of "why" with regard to so much suffering and struggling that beset our lives and world. However, God knows full well that the most difficult questions about life cannot be addressed in isolation and seclusion. So, what does God do when we withdraw? God coaxes us from our caves with the whispering wind of the Spirit who nudges us softly, gently, but firmly into the truth that the most difficult questions of life are meant to be grappled with in the light of day and in partnership with others. Pat
