3 Kings 17:8-16 / Matthew 23:1-12
One of the most difficult aspects of repentance is holding to two important truths at once. The one is having and unfailingly honest and unsanitized account of one's own sins. The other is to have an equally robust confidence in divine pardon. Generally, we end up finding our way to the first without taking full account of the second, and we do so to our own spiritual peril. Some people, for example, become so aware of their own sins without appreciating God's mercy that, despite continuing to serve others generously among their neighbors or within their community, they are withering away inside, confident only of their own failures. They become convinced that if anyone knew what they knew about themselves, then they could never lift up their heads again.
Others, however, find themselves unable to bear the weight of awareness of their own sins, and so they project their own grave disappointment in themselves on others. They might start out by lashing out at the Church's teaching that point out their sins, but they slide all too easily into pointing out the moral failures of the Church's own leaders and teachers, hoping thereby to avoid paying attention to their own crimson faults.
Jesus, however, counsels us otherwise: The scribes and Pharisees have sitten on the chair of Moses. All things therefore whatsoever they shall say to you, observe and do; but according to their works do ye not; for they say and do not. Jesus is fully aware of the ways that those who teach us the Gospel and who proclaim it from pulpits in churches across the world have failed, and failed to their own peril, to live up to the Gospel they preach. All the same, this is not and cannot be an excuse for us to avoid attending to the truth of their proclamation. To fail to heed what the authentic teachers of the Gospel proclaim is to plug up one's ears against having and honest, true, and illusionless understanding of oneself. It is also, and this is the graver harm, to fail to hear the proclamation of divine pardon which these same ministers are authorized to announce to every creature.
Taking moral criticism from men with feet of clay can be a bitter pill to swallow if we insist on holding to unrealistic and deceptive stories about our own virtue. What Jesus Christ recalls for us is the royal road to hearing the Gospel worthily and well: the way of humility. It is in humility that we can receive a right sense of who we are and how we have lived our lives. It is humility that empowers us to hear God's voice in the broken and sadly sometimes shrill voice of his disciples. It is humility that will soften our hearts, and in that softening let us believe in the full depth of God's pardon, a pardon not of a false and paper-thin replica of our sins, but even of the worst of our betrayals.
He that is the greatest among you shall be your servant. And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be humbled; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
Monday of the Second Week in Lent
Daniel 9:15-19 / John 8:21-29
And they understood not that He called God His Father.
A not uncommon critique launched by those who disbelieve against the Christian confession that Jesus Christ is God, the Son of God, begotten of the Father before all ages is what they take to be the manifest absence of a clear admission on Jesus' part of this core part of our creed. A typical example is found in John's Gospel. They therefore said to Him: Who are Thou? Jesus said to them: I am the beginning, Who also speak unto you. Now, unbelievers in a generous mood might admit that a believer could, after some unpacking of this claim, and already inclined to see in Jesus Christ, regard this as an admission of his full divinity. Even so, they wonder whether any neutral reader would be remotely inclined to hear his claim this way. Furthermore, since the cost of failing to believe is, by Christ's own admission, quite high — Therefore I said to you that you shall die in your sins: for if you believe not that I am He, you shall die in your sin. — those not of the faith complain that Jesus really ought to have been more direct in his answers, that at least the guilty could not, with some justice, assert that they did not realize that this was what he was saying.
Even so, it is far from clear what kind of admission the unbeliever wants. In the face of the Christian confession of Christ's Sonship, Islam of old and of today quite often retorts that Jesus cannot be a son unless God had a wife, and the idea of God producing offspring sexually is ridiculous. Latter-Day Saints, of course, make just the reverse claim, and take Jesus' admission to be God's Son to mean just that, namely that he is the natural offspring by God the Father from a heavenly Mother. Presented with the claim that he was from all eternity, his own contemporaries quipped that he was not even fifty years old. The pagan world, and the Medieval Jewish world, sneered at the notion that the infinite and holy One should be implicated in the finite and carnal life of the world. It is hard to believe, then, that the problem is a lack of clarity on Jesus' part.
Yet, on this score, we who enjoy the gift of faith cannot afford to be proud. We, who know and believe that Jesus in the Son of God, the beginning, have no excuse not to live as he has told us. However hard his commands may seem to us, however difficult to receive what he says of God his Father or of the life to come and how we can be made fit for the kingdom here and now, we are bound by our own creed to attend to his every word. Many things I have to speak to you and to judge of you ... and the things I have heard from Him, these same I speak in the world. It is all to easy to dodge around our difficulties in living out the Christian life by claiming a faulty transmission: by the evangelists themselves, by the Church, by our catechists, and the like. Either we accept that Jesus is the Son of the Father, and that he rightly and effectively spoke his words not just in a remote way as the beginning, but right here in the world, and that the truth of these words was affirmed in his being lifted up on the Cross, or like the rest in unbelief, we are of this world and will die in our sins.
This is, all the same, Good News. If we are alive in Christ, then we are conformed to him, and if conformed to him, then it is in our suffering for the sake of the Gospel our being lifted up, that we will see that truth he came to reveal about his Father. It also means that, being made like to him, we are also not left alone, and that in the presence of God himself, we too may be confident to do always the things that please Him. In the light of this comfort, we may also say with the Psalmist: Be tHou my Helper and my Deliverer: O Lord, make no delay. Let mine enemies be confounded and ashamed, that seek my soul.
And they understood not that He called God His Father.
A not uncommon critique launched by those who disbelieve against the Christian confession that Jesus Christ is God, the Son of God, begotten of the Father before all ages is what they take to be the manifest absence of a clear admission on Jesus' part of this core part of our creed. A typical example is found in John's Gospel. They therefore said to Him: Who are Thou? Jesus said to them: I am the beginning, Who also speak unto you. Now, unbelievers in a generous mood might admit that a believer could, after some unpacking of this claim, and already inclined to see in Jesus Christ, regard this as an admission of his full divinity. Even so, they wonder whether any neutral reader would be remotely inclined to hear his claim this way. Furthermore, since the cost of failing to believe is, by Christ's own admission, quite high — Therefore I said to you that you shall die in your sins: for if you believe not that I am He, you shall die in your sin. — those not of the faith complain that Jesus really ought to have been more direct in his answers, that at least the guilty could not, with some justice, assert that they did not realize that this was what he was saying.
Even so, it is far from clear what kind of admission the unbeliever wants. In the face of the Christian confession of Christ's Sonship, Islam of old and of today quite often retorts that Jesus cannot be a son unless God had a wife, and the idea of God producing offspring sexually is ridiculous. Latter-Day Saints, of course, make just the reverse claim, and take Jesus' admission to be God's Son to mean just that, namely that he is the natural offspring by God the Father from a heavenly Mother. Presented with the claim that he was from all eternity, his own contemporaries quipped that he was not even fifty years old. The pagan world, and the Medieval Jewish world, sneered at the notion that the infinite and holy One should be implicated in the finite and carnal life of the world. It is hard to believe, then, that the problem is a lack of clarity on Jesus' part.
Yet, on this score, we who enjoy the gift of faith cannot afford to be proud. We, who know and believe that Jesus in the Son of God, the beginning, have no excuse not to live as he has told us. However hard his commands may seem to us, however difficult to receive what he says of God his Father or of the life to come and how we can be made fit for the kingdom here and now, we are bound by our own creed to attend to his every word. Many things I have to speak to you and to judge of you ... and the things I have heard from Him, these same I speak in the world. It is all to easy to dodge around our difficulties in living out the Christian life by claiming a faulty transmission: by the evangelists themselves, by the Church, by our catechists, and the like. Either we accept that Jesus is the Son of the Father, and that he rightly and effectively spoke his words not just in a remote way as the beginning, but right here in the world, and that the truth of these words was affirmed in his being lifted up on the Cross, or like the rest in unbelief, we are of this world and will die in our sins.
This is, all the same, Good News. If we are alive in Christ, then we are conformed to him, and if conformed to him, then it is in our suffering for the sake of the Gospel our being lifted up, that we will see that truth he came to reveal about his Father. It also means that, being made like to him, we are also not left alone, and that in the presence of God himself, we too may be confident to do always the things that please Him. In the light of this comfort, we may also say with the Psalmist: Be tHou my Helper and my Deliverer: O Lord, make no delay. Let mine enemies be confounded and ashamed, that seek my soul.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Second Sunday in Lent
1 Thessalonians 4:1-7 / Matthew 17:1-9
Towards the end of the Bhagavad Gita, the prince Arjuna, having been instructed in deep wisdom by his charioteer, Krishna, has all but resolved his earlier despair about going to war against his unjust foes and being the cause of so many deaths, however righteous his cause. So deep and mysterious has been Krishna's wise counsel that Arjuna intuits Krishna to be far more than he appears to be, indeed that he is, as he claims, the Godhead. So, the prince asks his charioteer to unmask himself: So it is, O Lord Supreme! as Thou hast declared Thyself. Still I desire to see Thy Ishvara-Form, O Purusha Supreme. If, O Lord, Thou thinkest me capable of seeing it, then, O Lord of Yogis, show me Thy immutable Self. Krishna obliges, and begins to transform before Arjuna's eyes — Behold, O son of Prithâ, by hundreds and thousands, My different forms celestial, of various colours and shapes ... See now, O Gudâkesha, in this My body, the whole universe centred in one,—including the moving and the unmoving,—and all else that thou desirest to see.
Yet, more is necessary for Arjuna to take in this vision than his natural eyes with their native power to see. As Krishna notes, But thou canst not see Me with these eyes of thine; I give thee supersensuous sight; behold My Yoga Power Supreme. And, so empowered, the form of Krishna expands, to the delight, and then the awestruck wonder of the prince: With numerous mouths and eyes, with numerous wondrous sights, with numerous celestial ornaments, with numerous celestial weapons uplifted; Wearing celestial garlands and apparel, anointed with celestial-scented unguents, the All-wonderful, Resplendent, Boundless and All-formed. If the splendour of a thousand suns were to rise up at once in the sky, that would be like the splendour of that Mighty Being. There in the body of the God of gods, the son of Pându then saw the whole universe resting in one, with its manifold divisions. Moreover, the vision does not stop there. Arjuna sees his once-mortal charioteer take on a terrifying aspect, into whose world-consuming, tusked and blazing mouth are consumed all of Arjuna's enemies, the mightiest warriors of all. Krishna reveals that he is Time itself, and that all Arjuna's enemies are already defeated in him; he need have no fear to go to battle.
Although comforted by the words of the Almighty himself, and empowered by divine grace to behold the myriad, even infinite forms of God, Arjuna nonetheless humbly requests that Krishna reassume his more accustomed form, because in the face of such a vision his mind is filled with terror. Krishna obliges, noting that Arjuna has seen what no amount of human contemplation or austerity could ever bring one to see, but graciously presenting a more pleasing appearance: Be not afraid nor bewildered, having beheld this Form of Mine, so terrific. With thy fears dispelled and with gladdened heart, now see again this former form of Mine. Faced now with God's human appearance, Arjuna becomes once again himself: Having seen this Thy gentle human Form, O Janârdana, my thoughts are now composed and I am restored to my nature. Yet, what might look like a narrowing of vision, a loss of understanding God's fullness through his reduction to a human scale, turns out to be instead a privileged way by which God himself can be known: Very hard indeed it is to see this Form of Mine which thou hast seen. Even the Devas ever long to behold this Form. Neither by the Vedas, nor by austerity, nor by gifts, nor by sacrifice can I be seen as thou hast seen Me. But by the single-minded devotion I may in this Form, be known, O Arjuna, and seen in reality, and also entered into, O scorcher of foes. He who does work for Me alone and has Me for his goal, is devoted to Me, is freed from attachment, and bears enmity towards no creature—he entereth into Me, O Pândava.
Why spend so much time on this classic piece of Indian literature and religious wisdom? Why, when preaching the clarity of the Gospel would we turn to the relative darkness of human efforts, however noble, to speak of the mysteries of God?
We do so because just as we might turn to philosophy of ancient Greece to make better known to us what has been revealed by God, so too we might make good use of the philosophical mythology of India when it suits us. In this case, the comparison seems apt, and the differences will be telling. As Krishna made his revelation to Arjuna alone, to his special companion, so our Lord Jesus Christ is transfigured not before all his disciples, nor even before all the Twelve, but only before his dearest companions, Peter, James, and John. Both Krishna and Jesus find their forms altered in dramatic ways, and both visions stretch our capacity, we who have not been graced with the same vision, to imagine. Where Krishna's universal form involves countless arms and stomachs and mouths, fire and tusks, embracing the whole of the cosmos, Jesus' is less descriptive, but no less mysterious, including his face shining like the sun, which suggests unbearable, and even to the eye ultimately invisible because all too visible, light; overshadowing, which would seem to imply darkness; and something which is both at once, namely, a bright cloud. Both revelations reaffirm the one transformed as the very God, in Jesus' case through the voice of the Father coming from the cloud: This is My beloved Son, in Whom I am well pleased. Likewise, the voice of the Father directs Peter, James, and John, as Krishna directed Arjuna, into an attitude of worship and discipleship: hear ye Him. Even as Krishna's transformation threatened to overturn Arjuna's mind, Peter finds himself confused how best to respond: Lord, it is good for us to be here: if Thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles, one for Thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias. Furthermore, the final, conclusive revelation of Jesus as God's own Son, like the ultimate disclosure of Krishna as Vishnu, however inclining the disciples to worship, is also a source of dread: And the disciples hearing, fell upon their face and were very much afraid. Finally, as Krishna reassured Arjuna and condescended to return to his more pleasing form to remove his fear, Jesus likewise restores his disciples through resuming his more accustomed appearance: And Jesus came and touched them, and said to them: Arise, and fear not. And they lifting up their eyes saw no one, but only Jesus.
The parallels between the mythical transformation of Krishna and the mystery of Jesus Christ's transfiguration are striking. More striking, perhaps, is the likeness in the reason for transformation. In both cases, the recipients of the vision can be said to know the true identity of the one transformed. Arjuna has come to know Krishna as the Supreme One, and the disciples know Jesus to be the Christ. Now, to be sure, the transformation both deepens that knowledge to new and unanticipated depths and reveals the need for divine grace and mercy to disclose with certainty was had been dimly intuited by reason. Yet, more than that, this transformation also serves to ease and strengthen the heart of those to whom it has been granted.
Yet, it is here that the parallel ends and the depth and beauty of Gospel truth come to the foreground. In the Bhagavad Gita, Arjuna's fear and despair stem from his duty to slay his enemies who, though unrighteous, are nonetheless kin. The assurance of Krishna, while at one level the revelation of the path of devotion to God in human form as the royal road to a true knowledge of God, is all the same a counsel to go to battle, to fight and slay victoriously. The assurance of Jesus Christ in the Gospel is altogether different. Here he aims to sustain his disciples not through their victorious battle with their enemies, but through his own Passion, his own agony, betrayal, defamation, mockery, torture, and painful and horrid execution. More than that, he seeks to comfort them in his abandonment by all who love him, indeed, in their own abandonment of their Savior and Lord. Theirs is not the burden of bloody glory which they need the courage to undertake, but rather the burden of their weakness, not so much physical as moral and spiritual, and the burden of being witness to the Passion of the Lord.
This is the glory of Christ's transfiguration, and it is the grace it offers us. It is not meant to promise victory over our foes. Quite the opposite, it all but assures us not only that we will be opposed on our journey in this dark valley, but that we ourselves will be among those, even chief among those, who oppose and distress us along the way. The light of Tabor is a reminder that even this darkness, even the darkness of our own hearts, cannot stand in the face of the glory of the Son of Man risen from the dead. More than that, it assures us that the royal road to that risen glory is not to be found seeking the bright cloud or visions bright as the sun. Rather, it is to be found in the gentle body of the Lord Jesus Christ, in his reassuring touch, and in his being broken upon the Cross out of love for us. This is the light by which we can see God with the greatest clarity. This is our Tabor: Christ crucified. May we, too, here his words, Arise, and fear not, and when we lift up our eyes, let us look to no one else to save us, but let us, too, see only Jesus.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Saturday of Ember Week in Lent
Deuteronomy 26:12, 13, 14-19 / Deuteronomy 11:22-25 / 2 Maccabees 1:23-26, 27 / Ecclesiasticus 36:1-10 / 1 Thessalonians 5:14-23 / Matthew 17:1-9
As always, we live in trying and unusual times for the Church. Especially in the West, in Europe, North America, and Australia, rapid changes in our society over the past two generations have tested the openness and hospitality of the Christian people. The end to institutionalized discrimination based on race has led, at least in principle if not always de facto, to the integration of our Sunday congregations, but most certainly to the color of our hierarchy. The increased and ever-expanding role of women in society at large has led to a different kind of prominence of women in ecclesial life. Even if all do not think that this latter transformation has been in every way for the best, and even if for some there is still much more inclusion to be done, what is undeniable is the marked change of the presence of women in the Church. In most recent years, the pressure has been to include and embrace not only homosexual persons in a warm and public way, but also to embrace their legal union as a civil good, even to advocate for their spiritual union to be a good for them and the Church on the order of sacramental marriage. Opposition to this has been, from some quarters, accused of being mere bigotry, something which later generations will at best puzzle at, more likely decry, as do latter generations the overt racial segregation supports by our forefathers in the faith.
Those who insist on increased inclusion see themselves, no doubt, supported by Paul's words to the Thessalonians. The Church, they insist, is called upon to support the weak. It is her moral and spiritual duty that none render evil for evil to any man: but ever follow that which is good towards each other and towards all men. In the sometimes bitter words of those who would not see the Church embrace homosexuality as a social or spiritual good, these advocates see a betrayal of Paul's exhortation that we always rejoice. Seeing homosexuality, or women's ordained ministry, or any number of other concerns as a gift from God, they assert the admonition of Paul: In all things give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you all.
Yet, Paul's exhortation does not stop there. After what looks like a stance of radical and uncritical openness, Paul adds a sage bit of advice: But prove all things: hold fast to what is good. Paul does not imagine that everything which comes before the Church will be for her good, the good of her members, or the good of the world. Moreover, he notes that it may not be immediately clear whether what has been proposed to the people of God is a blessing or not. For this reason, we can never just receive something, especially something which looks either simply right, nor reject something which looks simply wrong, without proving it, which is to say, without putting it to the test. We may, to our surprise, come to conclude that what seemed objectionable need not be so. Of course, and here's what may be the more bitter pill to swallow, it may be that what seemed innocuous, or what our society at large has come to embrace, is nonetheless not for our good, nor the good of God's holy Church.
Indeed, it is in the face of the discover that something which we hold dear might need to be let go, might need to be abandoned, that Paul is concerned for the Thessalonians, as he is also concerned for us. Whether what we encounter is a change, the abandonment of a more ancient practice or discipline we hold dear, or what we encounter is a reaffirmation of what is old, a rejection of a proposal coming from the world at large — in either case, we are in all things to give thanks. This is the core of God's message to us through Paul. He is not telling us that we are to accept lightly and blindly anything that comes our way, as though the Gospel were a slave to fashion. Rather, he is reminding us that the Gospel will necessarily stretch and challenge us, demand we open doors we think ought always to remain barred and to bar doors that we might well think ought to be opened.
Even so, there is no need to be anxious. The difficulties that face our Christian life, as individuals and as a whole, are not meant to disturb our souls. We need not fear because, as Paul reminds us, the God of peace Himself will sanctify us in all things that we may be preserved blameless, for the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. So, it must always be with joyful and thankful hearts, not bitter and angry ones, that we entertain and test whatever challenges come before the Bride of Christ, and in constant prayer, hold fast to what is good.
As always, we live in trying and unusual times for the Church. Especially in the West, in Europe, North America, and Australia, rapid changes in our society over the past two generations have tested the openness and hospitality of the Christian people. The end to institutionalized discrimination based on race has led, at least in principle if not always de facto, to the integration of our Sunday congregations, but most certainly to the color of our hierarchy. The increased and ever-expanding role of women in society at large has led to a different kind of prominence of women in ecclesial life. Even if all do not think that this latter transformation has been in every way for the best, and even if for some there is still much more inclusion to be done, what is undeniable is the marked change of the presence of women in the Church. In most recent years, the pressure has been to include and embrace not only homosexual persons in a warm and public way, but also to embrace their legal union as a civil good, even to advocate for their spiritual union to be a good for them and the Church on the order of sacramental marriage. Opposition to this has been, from some quarters, accused of being mere bigotry, something which later generations will at best puzzle at, more likely decry, as do latter generations the overt racial segregation supports by our forefathers in the faith.
Those who insist on increased inclusion see themselves, no doubt, supported by Paul's words to the Thessalonians. The Church, they insist, is called upon to support the weak. It is her moral and spiritual duty that none render evil for evil to any man: but ever follow that which is good towards each other and towards all men. In the sometimes bitter words of those who would not see the Church embrace homosexuality as a social or spiritual good, these advocates see a betrayal of Paul's exhortation that we always rejoice. Seeing homosexuality, or women's ordained ministry, or any number of other concerns as a gift from God, they assert the admonition of Paul: In all things give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you all.
Yet, Paul's exhortation does not stop there. After what looks like a stance of radical and uncritical openness, Paul adds a sage bit of advice: But prove all things: hold fast to what is good. Paul does not imagine that everything which comes before the Church will be for her good, the good of her members, or the good of the world. Moreover, he notes that it may not be immediately clear whether what has been proposed to the people of God is a blessing or not. For this reason, we can never just receive something, especially something which looks either simply right, nor reject something which looks simply wrong, without proving it, which is to say, without putting it to the test. We may, to our surprise, come to conclude that what seemed objectionable need not be so. Of course, and here's what may be the more bitter pill to swallow, it may be that what seemed innocuous, or what our society at large has come to embrace, is nonetheless not for our good, nor the good of God's holy Church.
Indeed, it is in the face of the discover that something which we hold dear might need to be let go, might need to be abandoned, that Paul is concerned for the Thessalonians, as he is also concerned for us. Whether what we encounter is a change, the abandonment of a more ancient practice or discipline we hold dear, or what we encounter is a reaffirmation of what is old, a rejection of a proposal coming from the world at large — in either case, we are in all things to give thanks. This is the core of God's message to us through Paul. He is not telling us that we are to accept lightly and blindly anything that comes our way, as though the Gospel were a slave to fashion. Rather, he is reminding us that the Gospel will necessarily stretch and challenge us, demand we open doors we think ought always to remain barred and to bar doors that we might well think ought to be opened.
Even so, there is no need to be anxious. The difficulties that face our Christian life, as individuals and as a whole, are not meant to disturb our souls. We need not fear because, as Paul reminds us, the God of peace Himself will sanctify us in all things that we may be preserved blameless, for the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. So, it must always be with joyful and thankful hearts, not bitter and angry ones, that we entertain and test whatever challenges come before the Bride of Christ, and in constant prayer, hold fast to what is good.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Friday of Ember Week in Lent
Ezechiel 18:20-28 / John 5:1-15
Wilt thou be made whole?
We hear in the Gospel today of Jesus' healing of the man by the pool of Bethsaida who had been waiting for thirty-eight years, unsuccessfully, to be healed in the pool when the angel of the Lord came upon its waters and he that went down first into the pond after the motion of the water was made whole of whatsoever infirmity he lay under. The man, as we know, comes to be healed not by the miraculous waters, but by the words of Jesus: Arise, take up thy bed and walk.
We might find Jesus' question to the infirm man a bit puzzling — Wilt thou be made whole? Why should he not want to be made whole. Indeed, the man's reply asserts that it has not been for lack of willing it, but a lack of friends to help him, that he has, for more than the span of a generation, been unable to reach first to the waters. We sympathize with such a man, anyone so friendless for so long, to have been so close to God's making his creation new, sending has angel upon the water as even in the beginning his Spirit hovered over the deep, and yet unable to take advantage of this echo of the first creation and shadow of the new.
Yet, Jesus asks the question just the same, and at the end of the story, we see that there is more to his question than meets the eye. Having been healed, the man follows Jesus' command, picks up his mat, and walks away. However, as it is the sabbath, he is criticized for doing what appears to be servile labor, and is asked who it was that healed him and told him to pick up his mat. While the man did not know Jesus' name, we can well presume that those who interrogated him were perfectly aware that it was Jesus, and it was not out of curiosity, but in an attempt to catch him as a violator of the Law, that they sought to induce this man into serving their cause.
So, when Jesus meets up with the man a second time, he presents what looks to be a new command, but turns out to be merely an imperative of what was before posed as a question. That is, when Jesus says, Sin no more, lest some worse thing happen to thee, he knows this man's heart, even as he did when he asked him, Wilt thou be whole? The man wanted physical integrity, yes, but did he indeed want to be made whole? Did he want to be upright, not merely in the positional sense of standing on his two feet, but in the moral and spiritual sense as well? Did he want to remain forever paralyzed, passive in the face of the evil which seeks to oppress him, as he had been for thirty-eight years, or, when loved into health by Jesus his Friend, will this once-friendless man walk in the new power of that friendship? Sadly, we see that the man, despite his answer to the contrary, does not want to be healed. Despite Jesus' warning, he went his way, and told the Jews that it was Jesus Who had made him whole.
We have been made new in another pool, in the waters of baptism which not merely the angel of the Lord, but God himself, the Holy Spirit, has sanctified. In Christ Jesus, we have been made whole. Even so, is this what we want? In the face of the wickedness which preceded our baptism or those evils into which we have fallen since our being made members of Christ's body, do we in fact want to arise and walk?
In Lent, the Church reminds each of us especially of this fundamental truth of which Jesus reminded also the man he had healed: Behold thou art made whole. In the light of that truth, in the light of the glorious wholeness and dignity to which we have been restored by our forgiveness and new life in Jesus Christ, why would we desire to sin any more? Ought we not rather arise in the newness of our Christian dignity, take up the mat on which we have lain for so long, and walk into the glorious beauty of life with our Triune God.
Wilt thou be made whole?
We hear in the Gospel today of Jesus' healing of the man by the pool of Bethsaida who had been waiting for thirty-eight years, unsuccessfully, to be healed in the pool when the angel of the Lord came upon its waters and he that went down first into the pond after the motion of the water was made whole of whatsoever infirmity he lay under. The man, as we know, comes to be healed not by the miraculous waters, but by the words of Jesus: Arise, take up thy bed and walk.
We might find Jesus' question to the infirm man a bit puzzling — Wilt thou be made whole? Why should he not want to be made whole. Indeed, the man's reply asserts that it has not been for lack of willing it, but a lack of friends to help him, that he has, for more than the span of a generation, been unable to reach first to the waters. We sympathize with such a man, anyone so friendless for so long, to have been so close to God's making his creation new, sending has angel upon the water as even in the beginning his Spirit hovered over the deep, and yet unable to take advantage of this echo of the first creation and shadow of the new.
Yet, Jesus asks the question just the same, and at the end of the story, we see that there is more to his question than meets the eye. Having been healed, the man follows Jesus' command, picks up his mat, and walks away. However, as it is the sabbath, he is criticized for doing what appears to be servile labor, and is asked who it was that healed him and told him to pick up his mat. While the man did not know Jesus' name, we can well presume that those who interrogated him were perfectly aware that it was Jesus, and it was not out of curiosity, but in an attempt to catch him as a violator of the Law, that they sought to induce this man into serving their cause.
So, when Jesus meets up with the man a second time, he presents what looks to be a new command, but turns out to be merely an imperative of what was before posed as a question. That is, when Jesus says, Sin no more, lest some worse thing happen to thee, he knows this man's heart, even as he did when he asked him, Wilt thou be whole? The man wanted physical integrity, yes, but did he indeed want to be made whole? Did he want to be upright, not merely in the positional sense of standing on his two feet, but in the moral and spiritual sense as well? Did he want to remain forever paralyzed, passive in the face of the evil which seeks to oppress him, as he had been for thirty-eight years, or, when loved into health by Jesus his Friend, will this once-friendless man walk in the new power of that friendship? Sadly, we see that the man, despite his answer to the contrary, does not want to be healed. Despite Jesus' warning, he went his way, and told the Jews that it was Jesus Who had made him whole.
We have been made new in another pool, in the waters of baptism which not merely the angel of the Lord, but God himself, the Holy Spirit, has sanctified. In Christ Jesus, we have been made whole. Even so, is this what we want? In the face of the wickedness which preceded our baptism or those evils into which we have fallen since our being made members of Christ's body, do we in fact want to arise and walk?
In Lent, the Church reminds each of us especially of this fundamental truth of which Jesus reminded also the man he had healed: Behold thou art made whole. In the light of that truth, in the light of the glorious wholeness and dignity to which we have been restored by our forgiveness and new life in Jesus Christ, why would we desire to sin any more? Ought we not rather arise in the newness of our Christian dignity, take up the mat on which we have lain for so long, and walk into the glorious beauty of life with our Triune God.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Thursday of the First Week in Lent
Ezechiel 18:1-9 / Matthew 15:21-28
It would seem obvious that the experiences and actions of a previous generation should have significant impact on the generation, indeed the generations to come. This is not to suggest that the younger generation can do nothing new, cannot contribute in any way to what it has received, or even improve upon it. Even so, it seems a basic fact of life that the impact of the past is often greater and more lasting than the generation which acted, or refrained from acting, in the first place, for good or for ill. We need only consider, on the one hand, patriotic holidays as celebrations of indebtedness to the past, and on the other hand to our present environmental problems as an unwelcome inheritance. It would appear, then, that the fathers have eaten sour grapes and the teeth of the children are set on edge.
Yet, God tells us through the prophet Ezechiel that, at least in the spiritual life, this is not so. While one generation must pass on God's holy Law, or in Christ the Church, her Scriptures, and her sacraments, God assures us that each and every generation, indeed each and every person, is held accountable for his own actions. The virtuous, whatever the vices of their parents, are rewarded, while the wicked, whatever the virtues of their lineage, will receive their due reward as well.
We might imagine that this claim should be obvious, that God would of course not hold our father sins against us. However, the force of this prophetic utterance is rather in the other direction, namely, that righteousness in one's own life and justice for the poor must be lived, and lived to the full, in each and every person's life, in every generation. We cannot appeal to the greatness of the saints of old and of their merits, trumpeting the great good of the Church, unless we, here and now, each and every one of us keeps free from false worship, is faithful and chaste in our marriage, deals fairly with those in our debt, never submits others to violence or coercion, feeds and clothes the hungry and naked, does not take financial advantage of those who are poor, and has upheld only what is true in all public and legal dealings. There are not optional features of our lives. Rather, they constitute the core of what a life made new in God's grace must look like. Whatever else more there may be in our life with God, these cannot be absent without peril to the truth of our very selves, the truth of a life made new in the waters of baptism and by the power of the Holy Spirit, the life we mean to embrace again in our discipline of Lent.
It would seem obvious that the experiences and actions of a previous generation should have significant impact on the generation, indeed the generations to come. This is not to suggest that the younger generation can do nothing new, cannot contribute in any way to what it has received, or even improve upon it. Even so, it seems a basic fact of life that the impact of the past is often greater and more lasting than the generation which acted, or refrained from acting, in the first place, for good or for ill. We need only consider, on the one hand, patriotic holidays as celebrations of indebtedness to the past, and on the other hand to our present environmental problems as an unwelcome inheritance. It would appear, then, that the fathers have eaten sour grapes and the teeth of the children are set on edge.
Yet, God tells us through the prophet Ezechiel that, at least in the spiritual life, this is not so. While one generation must pass on God's holy Law, or in Christ the Church, her Scriptures, and her sacraments, God assures us that each and every generation, indeed each and every person, is held accountable for his own actions. The virtuous, whatever the vices of their parents, are rewarded, while the wicked, whatever the virtues of their lineage, will receive their due reward as well.
We might imagine that this claim should be obvious, that God would of course not hold our father sins against us. However, the force of this prophetic utterance is rather in the other direction, namely, that righteousness in one's own life and justice for the poor must be lived, and lived to the full, in each and every person's life, in every generation. We cannot appeal to the greatness of the saints of old and of their merits, trumpeting the great good of the Church, unless we, here and now, each and every one of us keeps free from false worship, is faithful and chaste in our marriage, deals fairly with those in our debt, never submits others to violence or coercion, feeds and clothes the hungry and naked, does not take financial advantage of those who are poor, and has upheld only what is true in all public and legal dealings. There are not optional features of our lives. Rather, they constitute the core of what a life made new in God's grace must look like. Whatever else more there may be in our life with God, these cannot be absent without peril to the truth of our very selves, the truth of a life made new in the waters of baptism and by the power of the Holy Spirit, the life we mean to embrace again in our discipline of Lent.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Wednesday of Ember Week in Lent
Exodus 24:12-18 / 3 Kings 19:3-8 / Matthew 12:38-50
Some people look forward to Lent. There is something about the season — perhaps the Lenten music, perhaps the new intensity of prayer, perhaps its coincidence with the end of winter and the beginning of spring — that draws such persons out of the dark days of winter that are now in the past and into a renewed relationship with God and with neighbor. More than it does in any other season, the Gospel makes sense for these folks, appearing before their minds and hearts with a clarity it does not have in the rest of the year. For them, these forty days and forty nights are like those of Moses upon Sinai, who for this blessed length of days was in the very presence of the Lord his God, receiving his holy Law, the clearest expression of God's will and love for his creation outside of the Incarnation of the Word.
Others are not so enthusiastic about Lent. To be sure, they admit that Lent does them good, and they know that, once it is all over, they will be better for it. They also find themselves supported throughout the journey from Ash Wednesday to the Easter Vigil by a strength not their own, and for this they are grateful. All the same, Lent is for them a struggle and hard work, something which, were it not for the special graces of Lenten observance, they could never mange to sustain. They are like Elijah under the juniper. Disheartened by his own weakness, Elijah is roused from his sleep, as well as his desire to be done with everything, not merely once, but twice by and angel sent by God. On his second waking, the angel says to Elijah what sounds to many like the essence of Lent: Arise, eat: for thou hast yet a great way to go.
I do not suppose that either of these attitudes is more correct. Much of it may have as much to do with bodily temperament as anything else. What does unite them, however, is the need to be on guard that the graces we receive from Lent, whether as pleasant respite or difficult labor, should become fixed features of our lives. That is, we do ourselves no good to become better selves for this span of days leading up to Easter, only to abandon the new self we have received by grace just as quickly. Unless we embrace not merely the joy or the struggle, but rather more the new man into which Christ is making us, we will become like the man from whom an unclean spirit is driven out, which spirit goeth, and taketh with him seven other spirits more wicked than himself, and they enter in in dwell there: and the last state of that man is made worse than the first.
To be truly kin to Christ, to be his brother, and sister, and mother through doing the will of his heavenly Father is the whole point of this season. Whether we become that sort of person more readily by our Lenten fasting, prayer, and almsgiving, or whether these are for us a difficult task, it is being kin to Jesus that must be at the heart of our desire. Lent may be our happiest or most trying time, but either way it opens for us the occasion to make more present to ourselves the happy burden of our baptism and our new life in Christ.
Some people look forward to Lent. There is something about the season — perhaps the Lenten music, perhaps the new intensity of prayer, perhaps its coincidence with the end of winter and the beginning of spring — that draws such persons out of the dark days of winter that are now in the past and into a renewed relationship with God and with neighbor. More than it does in any other season, the Gospel makes sense for these folks, appearing before their minds and hearts with a clarity it does not have in the rest of the year. For them, these forty days and forty nights are like those of Moses upon Sinai, who for this blessed length of days was in the very presence of the Lord his God, receiving his holy Law, the clearest expression of God's will and love for his creation outside of the Incarnation of the Word.
Others are not so enthusiastic about Lent. To be sure, they admit that Lent does them good, and they know that, once it is all over, they will be better for it. They also find themselves supported throughout the journey from Ash Wednesday to the Easter Vigil by a strength not their own, and for this they are grateful. All the same, Lent is for them a struggle and hard work, something which, were it not for the special graces of Lenten observance, they could never mange to sustain. They are like Elijah under the juniper. Disheartened by his own weakness, Elijah is roused from his sleep, as well as his desire to be done with everything, not merely once, but twice by and angel sent by God. On his second waking, the angel says to Elijah what sounds to many like the essence of Lent: Arise, eat: for thou hast yet a great way to go.
I do not suppose that either of these attitudes is more correct. Much of it may have as much to do with bodily temperament as anything else. What does unite them, however, is the need to be on guard that the graces we receive from Lent, whether as pleasant respite or difficult labor, should become fixed features of our lives. That is, we do ourselves no good to become better selves for this span of days leading up to Easter, only to abandon the new self we have received by grace just as quickly. Unless we embrace not merely the joy or the struggle, but rather more the new man into which Christ is making us, we will become like the man from whom an unclean spirit is driven out, which spirit goeth, and taketh with him seven other spirits more wicked than himself, and they enter in in dwell there: and the last state of that man is made worse than the first.
To be truly kin to Christ, to be his brother, and sister, and mother through doing the will of his heavenly Father is the whole point of this season. Whether we become that sort of person more readily by our Lenten fasting, prayer, and almsgiving, or whether these are for us a difficult task, it is being kin to Jesus that must be at the heart of our desire. Lent may be our happiest or most trying time, but either way it opens for us the occasion to make more present to ourselves the happy burden of our baptism and our new life in Christ.
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