Friday of the Fourth Week of Lent

Lectionary: 248

The wicked said among themselves,
thinking not aright:
"Let us beset the just one, because he is obnoxious to us;
he sets himself against our doings,
Reproaches us for transgressions of the law....

 T he Book of Wisdom describes the thoughts of the wicked; it sounds both accurate and familiar. But we might wonder, How is it that the Divine Author, who is apparently a wise and God-fearing person, knows the thoughts of the wicked so well? 

What I notice about this passage is how fixated the wicked are on the thoughts of the just one. "He sets himself against our doings and reproaches our transgressions... He judges us debased; he holds aloof from our paths as from things impure."

They say nothing about themselves or their own thinking. They do not call themselves more just or righteous than the good man. They're simply angry at him for what they suppose is his thinking. But they are hardly aware of their own thinking. Or rather, anger does their thinking for them, and they do not see it. 

How does the Divine Author come to such an insight about the thoughts of the wicked? Obviously, he is one of them. He knows their thoughts because he thinks, or has thought, the same way. He too is among the wicked. He knows their thinking because it is his own. 

Which of us hasn't thought that way about someone, especially if they pointed our faults and we were upset about it. And was I aware of my thoughts at the time? 

No, I can't say I was. I was pretty sure I was the just one who had been offended and had a legitimate reason -- an iron-clad reason! -- for being upset. "By God they did me wrong!" 

That offense was my proudest possession, and I wasn't about it give it up. It proved that I was a just man because I had been offended by the wicked. And in my polarized world there can be no middle, grey area; there was only just and wicked and I was clearly on the side of the just. 

The perspicuity of this passage from Wisdom demonstrates the thinking of the holy sinner, the wicked saint, the reconciled person. He knows his own thoughts and where they originate. 

There is power here, as in John 1: 12-13: 

"...to those who did accept him he gave power to become children of God....

This is a power that can say to my own wicked thoughts, "Be uprooted and thrown into the sea." As Saint Mark says,

Amen, I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be lifted up and thrown into the sea,’ and does not doubt in his heart but believes that what he says will happen, it shall be done for him. 

Therefore I tell you, all that you ask for in prayer, believe that you will receive it and it shall be yours. When you stand to pray, forgive anyone against whom you have a grievance, so that your heavenly Father may in turn forgive you your transgressions.”

Thursday of the Fourth Week of Lent

Lectionary: 247

"I do not accept human praise;
moreover, I know that you do not have the love of God in you.
I came in the name of my Father,
but you do not accept me;
yet if another comes in his own name,
you will accept him.
How can you believe, when you accept praise from one another
and do not seek the praise that comes from the only God?

 T he Lord's explanation to his first century opponents and our explanations to our contemporaries are met with the same incomprehension and refusal. Our faith begins with the Love of God and neighbor where their opinions begin with human reasoning and long histories of complex, unresolved grief. Our love and our doctrines remain the same throughout the centuries where theirs shift like quicksand under the struggle of a doomed animal. 

I rediscover our assurance as I read and reread the second reading of the Office of Readings. Whether they were written by second century bishops or the Second Vatican Council, they remain reliably edifying, evocative, and instructive. Saint Ignatius of Antioch might have sat down with Saint Ignatius of Loyola and Saint John Paul II and shared the same truths which the Lord Jesus revealed in his day.  Had they been surrounded by a crowd of critics from any century, they would have heard the same taunts. 

The world must always experiment with new ideas, and they're often pressed upon us with, "Keep an open mind about this!" But they're not new ideas! 

• The spirituality that is supposed to replace religion is the same monophysitism which was condemned by the Council of Chalcedon in 451. 
• "It doesn't matter what you believe so long as you're sincere!" is foolishness blessed and wisdom made suspect. The bible has little sympathy for fools. 
• Today's hatred and fear of immigrants is the same dualism of Gnosticism and Manicheanism. 
• Adultery always smells the same.  
• Some might hope ignorance is bliss but we cannot accept it.

We must always return to the wisdom of the cross. On Calvary we see the Love of Jesus for his Father, and the Love of God the Father for his beloved Son. Our wisdom begins in the silence of that intensely beautiful moment. 

Wednesday of the Fourth Week of Lent

 Lectionary: 246

"Amen, amen, I say to you, the Son cannot do anything on his own,
but only what he sees the Father doing;
for what he does, the Son will do also.

 B efore we go a step further into Lent and into the Gospel of Saint John, we must ponder the intense relationship of God and Jesus. It is unlike anything we have ever seen; it is far deeper and more mysterious than anything we can imagine. It is beautiful, delightful, joyous, and demanding. If it costs Mary's Son his life and every moment of his life, it also demands much of us -- more than our human flesh is willing to pay. 

But we cannot turn away from it. Having seen the revelations of his baptism, transfiguration, and crucifixion, turning away threatens violence to our human nature. We must know more. We cannot live without asking what it means for us, and how we should respond.

Jesus insistently refers to God as his father. In more intimate moments, he speaks to his Abba, a Jewish child's affectionate word for his papa. We have never heard such language. It is so unusual it must be blasphemous. And yet it's clearly not. Nothing could be more transparently right. 

And so we listen to his words and open our hearts to their meaning and import. His opponents have already decided about them: 

"...he also called God his own father, making himself equal to God."

They cannot and will never accept that. It is ridiculous and scandalous. To paraphrase Saint Paul, "a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles." (1 Corinthians 1:23) 

But his teaching fascinates us, and we're not as eager as Jews and Greeks to make sense of them. We can wait and listen, and allow the Lord to show us what he is so absolutely sure of. Clearly, he must tell us. As one of our children, he has that duty to us. And the relationship -- that is, his sonship -- gives him the right to speak of it to us. 

Quite unexpectedly, Mary's son has become the mediator between God and his creation. We already knew our privileged position as rulers and co-creators of the world. Anyone can see there is no other animal like us; none have our abilities, power, or cleverness. 

But in our sinful condition we have seen ourselves as destroyers of the Earth, an invasive species; and murderers of one another. We have felt more like scum than rightful sovereigns. When the Lord called us worms and maggots we didn't suppose he was joshing us as a father teases his frightened children. We took it literally because it seemed true! 

But Jesus has persuaded us to listen to his words about the One whom he calls my Father. God has been angry with us, but he has not despaired of us. He does not regret our creation, nor the investment of his own image in us. He has not changed his original plan of sending his only begotten son to live as a man in the splendid universe, edenic world, and blessed people he created. 

If anything, our sins have given him the opportunity to prove his goodness, majesty, and beauty far more than a sinless world might have. And so, like Mary of Bethany, we sit at his feet and wonder at his words. 

Tuesday of the Fourth Week of Lent

Lectionary: 245

They asked him,
"Who is the man who told you, 'Take it up and walk'?"
The man who was healed did not know who it was, for Jesus had slipped away, since there was a crowd there.

 W e heard the Lord complain yesterday, "Unless you see signs and wonders you will not believe." The sign he had given on that occasion was the simple instruction, "Go home. Your son will live." 

Today's sign is the healing of an old, disabled man followed by the Lord's immediate disappearance into the crowd. The man has heard the Lord's command and obeyed it, but his faith seems weak as he doesn't know who healed him; and later, when he learns, he dutifully reveals it to hostile authorities. Not knowing the Lord's holy name or its significance, he does not believe in Jesus. And when he has those questions answered, he does not switch his allegiance but returns to the Jewish authorities. 

We might remember the Lord's teaching in Saint Matthew, 

"...your heavenly Father... makes his sun rise on the bad and the good, and causes rain to fall on the just and the unjust."

Clearly the old man has much to learn as do the readers of this Fourth Gospel. The controversy that follows from the underplayed incident opens our minds to the intense and beautiful relationship of Jesus to God his Father. We do well to hear and contemplate this teaching. 

We have heard the complaints of many people about the word father. They cannot relate to God as a father since their own fathers were missing in action. Our engaging in wars in Europe and Asia during the last two centuries have cost the lives of many men, and those who survived the horror were often left spiritually disabled as they tried to return to routine family life. Faced with Achilles's choice between returning home as a failed warrior or dying as a legendary hero, they had returned to the homes with nothing to show for their time but haunted memories and a scarred psyche. Their biological children were spiritually orphaned by men who could not come home spiritually. God the Father sounded more like a dangerous stranger than the Abba whom Jesus knew. 

The Gospel of John, and his fifth chapter in particular, offer an entirely new understanding of the word and its importance for us. Immediately, upon being challenged about his healing of the old man, the Lord explains, 

“Amen, amen, I say to you, a son cannot do anything on his own, but only what he sees his father doing; for what he does, his son will do also."

If the Father gives healing to good and bad alike, so does the Son. Our Catholic website (USCCB) has attached several helpful links to that verse to show its connection to the entire Gospel and to reveal its depth:  3:34; 8:26; 12:49; 9:4; 10:30.

To know the Son is to know the Father. Disciples, regardless of their experience of their parents, must sit at the feet of Jesus and learn about his father. Our parents are sisters and brothers to us, and everything they teach us of life and grace must be purified and refined by the Son of God. Those who were given a stone when they asked for bread, or a snake when they asked for fish, must go with Jesus to be fed at the table of his Father with the flesh and blood of our salvation. 

Monday of the Fourth Week of Lent

Lectionary: 244

Then he returned to Cana in Galilee,
where he had made the water wine.

 L aetare Sunday and this Monday of the fourth week of Lent mark a shift in our approach to Easter. We have been reminded of our penitential way of life; that is, the faithful repent of sin and turn to the Gospel. Now we turn our attention to the saving work of God in the person of Jesus. (It's not about us anymore.) Today's gospel reminds us of where it all began, in Cana of Galilee where he had made the water wine. 

We remember the unmitigated joy of that occasion. Jesus put off the sad, hour of crisis that would come in its time and provided a superabundance of extraordinary wine to undeserving, careless people. Nor did he make a big deal of it; only a few knew where the gift had come from, and only his mother could know its significance. 

Coming to John 5, we hear the Lord's complaint, "Unless you people see signs and wonders, you will not believe.” Signs will follow as he cures on a Sabbath, feeds large crowds, gives sight to a blind man, and raises a dead man to life. Our amazement at God's goodness should lead us to faith in him. We will need enormous faith when we see his glory revealed with a brilliance that blinds and confuses. 

Today's teaching on faith is admirably simple: 

“Sir, come down before my child dies.”

Jesus said to him, “You may go; your son will live.”

The man believed what Jesus said to him and left. 

The Word of God spoke a word of mercy and the royal official believed.

Faith is that simple. We can present arguments for why faith is reasonable, but arguments only persuade people that they should believe. That is not a decision. There is, in fact, a long distance between that should and a life-changing decision. Disciples are those who decide to believe what Jesus says and live with that fundamentally new realization. It changes nothing but ourselves. 

Learning of his son's recovery though he had not yet seen it, he again "believed what Jesus said." He "realized that just at that time Jesus had said to him, “Your son will live and he and his whole household came to believe."

 

Fourth Sunday of Lent Year C

 Lectionary: 33

But now we must celebrate and rejoice,

because your brother was dead and has come to life again;

he was lost and has been found.'"

 T he Prodigal Son may be the most popular of all the Lord's parables, and the most important one for its depiction of God the Father as a merciful, long-suffering, and generous patriarch. The old man must surely have a full white beard and mild, kindly eyes which have seen much, understood much, and forgiven all. 

My friend, Father Howard Hansen, recognizing his alcoholism and turning his life and will over to the care of God, found in this parable a kindly God whom he could love, worship, and serve with all his heart. He was the lost soul who had not expected his God to embrace and kiss him with overflowing and healing love. As he told the story, the boy was restored to full sonship with all its rights and privileges. 

As the oldest son of a large family, I bring a charier eye to the story. I find myself in the resentful, suspicious elder; and see an alternate focal point. The silly old man speaks a different word to me. And his personal invitation to come in and join the party still challenges me. 

To me, it's a story of a dysfunctional family with neither a wife nor mother. The father of two unhappy sons is more merciful than wise. The older son seems to have little say in family affairs and resents it; the other is a wastrel fool. I wonder why the father immediately acceded to the kid's demand and surrendered his share of the family fortune to him. He surely knew nothing good would come of it. He could hardly be surprised at the boy's inevitable return, and his filthy, wasted condition. 

Didn't the universal gossip agree that he would come back empty-handed, pitiful, with shameless remorse and a story of shabby treatment? We can hear the servant's "I knew it!" in his report to the elder son, "Your brother has returned and your father has slaughtered the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound."

Upon his return the ne'er-do-well  has a well-rehearsed story of contriteness and resolve to amend his ways. He knows he should ask for nothing more than a servant's wages and position; which anyone else would know is out of the question. The old man's fool kid as one of the servants? I don't think so.

But, clearly, the fruit has not fallen far from the tree, for the father just as impetuously welcomes him back and calls for a celebration. He doesn't even listen to the kid's remorse, "Forget all that! Kill the fatted calf and let's party!" 

Has the boy changed? What are the odds? I don't think so. So where am I going with this? For me, the focal point of this story: "...we must celebrate and rejoice." 

Yes, we are a dysfunctional family, living in a dysfunctional church, nation, and world. We cannot fix it. As the missing mother might have said, "People don't change! A thief is a thief; a liar is a liar." We can hope that grace might someday fix this family. But in the meanwhile, we should celebrate and rejoice because God is good; we're still family and we still belong to one another; and God will restore us to full integrity in his time. 

Periodically, someone decides the Roman Catholic Church is beyond repair and the only solution is to start another church and begin again. We have a long history of these abortive schisms; they didn't begin with the "Protestant Reformation." Because sinners create and join the new project the reformed church proves no better than the original. If they're not starting a new church, they go off in search of another church with fewer or no problem members. Consumers especially like good preaching and good music; a food-obsessed nation wants to think it's being fed. 

The reformation and purification of the Church begins with penance. That is, with my recognition of where the problem begins. It's not them; it's me. Embracing my own guilt, I recognize and welcome my sinful sister and brother. And more importantly, because of my judgment and condemnation and wish to be separated from others, I am, as Saint Paul said, the worst of sinners. 

This saying is trustworthy and deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners. Of these I am the foremost.

But for that reason I was mercifully treated, so that in me, as the foremost, Christ Jesus might display all his patience as an example for those who would come to believe in him for everlasting life.

When Jesus was baptized and when he took up his cross, he took a place among sinners. If it was not his place, he made it his place. If  he does not belong among sinners, he is nonetheless the only leader who can lead us on the way of penance. We cannot be saved unless we walk with him, acknowledging not only our own particular sins but our sinfulness as a Church, nation, and people.  

We have sinned, been wicked and done evil; we have rebelled and turned from your commandments and your laws. We have not obeyed your servants the prophets, who spoke in your name to our kings, our princes, our ancestors, and all the people of the land.

Justice, O Lord, is on your side; we are shamefaced even to this day: the men of Judah, the residents of Jerusalem, and all Israel, near and far, in all the lands to which you have scattered them because of their treachery toward you.O LORD, we are ashamed, like our kings, our princes, and our ancestors, for having sinned against you. Daniel 9:5-8

The Bible graphically describes the sins of God's people before, during, and after the saving work of Jesus. We have no excuse. We have seen the Mighty Works of God both in Salvation History in our personal lives. We know God's compassion for sinners but we have preferred to meditate on our righteousness. 

The season of Lent insists that we walk with Christ and bear with him the sins of all the world. We are saved because we are sinners. 

Saturday of the Third Week of Lent

Lectionary: 242

What can I do with you, Ephraim?
What can I do with you, Judah?
Your piety is like a morning cloud,
    like the dew that early passes away.

 T ruth is intrusive like water; it goes where it will and destroys what it wants. We may resist it for a while, building walls, weirs, and dams against it. But our roofs, ceilings, foundations, and basements must disintegrate against its relentless pressure, and it has more time than we do. When truth is put off for a while, its strength and vindictive force only increases. What the parents forestall is visited upon the children.

Lent calls us into silence where we must hear the voice of God and listen to his word. We hear God's dissatisfaction in Hosea's complaint, "What can I do with you?" It is the cry of One who has created persons in his own image and likeness, and then recognized his impotence over the freedom he gave them. Within its trinity of persons, God knows the joy of generous, obedient freedom. 

And within that same triune community, God knows the cost of obedience and our human reluctance. We have seen all three -- the resistance, the cost, and the joy of God's obedience -- in the passion, death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus.  Our reluctance arouses this divine patience and God's courage as he still believes in the muddy image of himself. 

Truth is intrusive and invasive, but it's also a person. We believe in a personal God who withholds his wrath while we dither. 

Recently I was told the story of an autistic boy who was clearly fascinated by water. Taken to the pool, he walked around its edge endlessly as he watched other children play. His parents were familiar already with his reluctance. Too much stimulation sometimes aroused mortal terror which required long periods of quiet, silent rest. But after several trips to the pool, and seeing that the child wanted desperately to know what water is all about, his father threw him into the pool. And he's not wanted to get out of it since. He loves the water. 

How long will the Father wait for us? Will he finally throw us into the ocean of his divine truth? And will we panic and perish, or delight in a surrender to all-consuming love?