Monday of the Twentieth Week in Ordinary Time

Lectionary: 419

“If you wish to be perfect, go,
sell what you have and give to the poor,
and you will have treasure in heaven.
Then come, follow me.”

Today's readings from the Prophet Ezekiel and the Gospel of Saint Matthew describe a ready, severe obedience almost beyond comprehension. We know God makes demands of people, and many do this sort of thing, but we hope it's never asked of us. 

Ezekiel's loss is staggering. I remember a volunteer reader who arrived in the sacristy just in time to glance at the reading before Mass. When he read, "I am taking away from you the delight of your eyes," he said, "The doctor says I am going blind and there's not much they can do for me. This passage is about me." 

But as he read on he realized the passage was about the death of the prophet's wife, "the delight of his eyes." This, he admitted, was worse than blindness. It was more than he wanted to think about.

And yet it was the suffering Ezekiel would endure for the sake of delivering a severe warning to Israel. The death of his wife and his refusal to wear the customary clothing of grief foretold an immanent catastrophe. The destruction of Jerusalem would be so devastating, the horror so overwhelming, and it would go on so long, they would not be able to grieve. They would only go about in shock and stunned silence. There would be no rituals of grief, nor would they be consoled by any promise of a return to normalcy. They would only watch helplessly as the enemy sacked the city, herded them like cattle, and drove them away from their native Judah to a foreign country, never to return. 

But some modern regimes, with their unreasonable demands, are not much different from the sack of Jerusalem. I think first of the Stalinist purges in Russia. Hundreds of thousands of people disappeared. Many men went to work in the morning as usual, but never returned. Their wives did not dare to report their absence to the police for they knew, or suspected, that the police knew what had happened and would do nothing. Children were told to tell no one about their missing parents; they too must hide their grief. Any outward show of sadness might trigger more disappearances. They could trust no one; even the priest-confessor might be spying for the KGB. Or his confessional was bugged. 

Sometimes the missing returned. A week later, or a year, or ten years later. They said nothing about their absence, neither apology nor explanation. Don't ask, don't tell. Nothing.

There's a different way of mishandling grief in the United States; we have no time for sadness. Now that burials of bodies have become interment of ashes, a memorial service might be held a week or a month later -- "to be announced" -- but there might not be a service of any kind. Without ritual, mourning garb, or music, we don't know how to grieve. It's better not to weep; and if you cry, no one will cry with you. They might urge you to "Be strong!" and save your sadness for a later time, when you're alone and no one sees you. 

If God's demand of Ezekiel seemed unreasonable, what do we make of modern life? It's too much to think about. As is the Lord's demand of the rich young man. He could not think about it and he went away sad. 

The Lord's poverty teaches us to let go of possessions, positions, and people. We belong to him and he belongs to the Father. Letting go is never easy but there are ceremonies to make it better. And always there is the reassurance of the Shepherd who goes before us. We reflect upon his love for Jerusalem, his fear in Gethsemane, and the brutal treatment he endured. We're chastened by the story of the disciples who, like us, were afraid to follow. And we're encouraged by his resurrection to wait for a new form of life, "a new normal," to appear. 

Grief never goes away, we learn to live with it and to rejoice. Because we have our solidarity with the Church, we endure our sad moments together and wait for the new life of grace to appear. And it is better than anything we ever imagined.