Being Complete

There is a contrast between our first reading and the gospel. In the first reading (Genesis 18:1–15) Abraham is praised for his generous hospitality to the three visitors who are often interpreted as angels or a theophany of God. In the gospel (Luke 10:38–42), Martha is busy serving Jesus but is gently corrected for being “anxious and worried” rather than sitting and listening to the Lord like Mary. It might raise the question: why is Abraham’s activity in service to the guests rewarded while Martha’s service to the guests is gently admonished? Let’s explore that question.

Abraham’s hospitality is framed as a model of ancient Near Eastern virtue. He rushes to provide water, organize bread, meat, and rest — crucial life-saving gestures in a desert setting. That is what Abraham offers. Did the visitors offer anything other than their presence? Yes, in the end they offer the divine promise of a son in response to that hospitality. The reading underscores the virtue of hospitality as a means to encounter God – and in the encounter to enter more deeply into the covenant promises and so step on the path to completeness.

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Your Choices and the Coming Kingdom of God

There was a time in the history of the Franciscans where we were a raucous, contentious, squabbling bunch – each group claimed to know St. Francis’ real intention about the way to follow Christ. The minister general of the day, St. Bonaventure, gathered the friars together- and like Moses, gave a sermon that was not too mysterious or too arcane. In a way, he simply told them that to truly follow the intention of St. Francis they had to choose. Choose what each friar would become as a result of their choices and, just as important, consider what the world becomes because of their choices. They were becoming a religious order noted for internal infighting.  And because of it, the world was becoming darker because of their example of following Christ.

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Invited in a miracle

A reflection from Dr. Susan Fleming McGurgan


Today, we read about a miracle—a miracle of bread and fish and of hungry people, fed by the providence of God.

Scholars have long tried to explain this miracle away. Most people of that era travelled with a bit of food tucked away in their cloak or pouch; the force of Jesus’ personality inspired people to share what they had saved for themselves alone. 

This story is a metaphor for the ways God provides for his children; we are not supposed to take it literally. We don’t really KNOW what happened on that hillside, but it doesn’t really matter whether it “happened” or not, the miracle is in the telling of the story.  

It’s ironic. We trust our lives to a technology that few of us understand. We believe in microbes and nanobots we cannot even see. We sneak a good luck charm into our son’s pocket on game day, and fear mythical demons that go bump in the night….. but when it comes to Biblical miracles, we wrap our sophistication around us like a shield  and tell each other that it really “doesn’t matter” if it happened or not.

Yes, it does.

That day, on a hillside in a remote corner of the world, thousands of people were fed from five little loaves and two small fish. Despite the size of the crowd and the doubts of the disciples, and the scarcity of the fish, everyone ate and was satisfied.

That miracle of the loaves and fishes was not simply effective pastoral care, or a dramatic way to grab people’s attention.

It was nothing less than a foretaste of heaven. That impromptu meal pointed to the time when our Lord’s body would be broken and shared and his blood would be poured out for our salvation. This miracle has been repeated every time God’s people gather to celebrate the Eucharist and remember God’s mercy.

This miracle lies at the very heart of our faith. It matters what we believe.

Yet, still, we have this urge to explain it away—to make it “less than”—to tame it and explain it and cut it down to size so that we can force it to fit into our world rather than expanding ourselves to fit into God’s.  

Maybe it’s because we have been duped by snake oil salesmen far too often. Maybe it’s because our woundedness makes it hard to trust in anything, let alone a miracle involving bread and fish. 

Maybe it’s because we fail to leave space for silence and time for awe. Maybe it’s because we are afraid—afraid that if we open ourselves up to miracles, we will be forced to admit we are not in control, and never have been. 

But the truth is,  this miracle of the bread still happens every day.

It happens right here and around the corner and across the ocean and anywhere hungry people gather in His name.

The Bread that comes down from heaven continues to be broken and shared. The Blood of our salvation continues to be poured out for us all. Like the hungry people on the hillside that day in Galilee, we are invited to eat our fill full measure, packed down, overflowing.

Like the hungry people on the hillside that day in Galilee, we are, quite simply, invited into a miracle.

The Gift of Silence

Suddenly two men dressed in white garments stood beside them. They said, “Men of Galilee, why are you standing there looking at the sky?…” We are never told of the immediate reaction of the apostles.

I suspect it was one of those moments of silence which quickly became a bit uncomfortable and perhaps awkward.  Maybe they looked around at each other, waiting to see who would say something or move. Maybe all eyes turned to Peter who was desperately trying to think of something to do or say.

Finally someone cannot endure the silence, “So guys, what do you think we should do?” “I don’t know, what do you think?”  “Maybe we should go back to Galilee”  “I think we are supposed to go back to Jerusalem”   “Jerusalem? And do what?”  “Wait.”  “For what?”  “For the power of the Holy Spirit.”  “I don’t know…..”   And then there is another period of silence…until someone finally begins to move off towards Jerusalem and the grand silence.  The days between the Ascension and Pentecost when they are without the presence of Christ among them. 

I do not think it would be too much of a stretch to imagine one of the disciples saying in joy, “He is risen, alleluia…,”  only to have the following alleluia kinda’ fall off into a question mark, not of doubt, but of what’s next. One of them plaintively offers: “Jesus was always there to lead, to teach, to show…. And now we have silence and waiting.”

Silence and waiting are definitely an acquired taste.

When I was a child in the days between the end of school and Christmas, silence and waiting were definitely not part of my skill set.

Years ago when I was first working in the commercial sector, my company sent me to a sales training seminar. I did not want to go, but it was actually quite helpful. I learned the skill of asking a question and waiting in the silence while the person hems, haws, processes, or ponders the question. If you want to be truly helpful to the prospective client, you need to hear what they have to say.  

Plato taught that often precedes insight. Søren Kierkegaard held that silence was necessary to develop authentic individuality. Simone Weil saw silence as a form of attention and spiritual receptivity. For her, silence allows one to truly attend to the presence of God, the needs of others, or the reality of suffering without rushing to fill the space. Across time, great thinkers have held silence in great esteem.

I find the same patient waiting in silence to be a valuable skill for hearing Confessions, talking with couples in marriage preparation, grief counseling, and a whole host of other pastoral settings. It is indispensable in preparing homilies.  I can’t tell you how often I have sat in silence, waiting for an idea. …And I find it invaluable in my life of prayer.

“Men of Galilee, why are you standing there looking at the sky?…

Perhaps the apostles should have said, “Hold your horses, I am looking at the sky, because I am taking this all in.” Maybe in the silence and the waiting, they realized that for the first time: “…in the Ascension, humanity has entered Heaven.  Jesus, true God and true man, now sits at the right hand of the Father. In the Ascension, we have been shown our destiny.  We have been shown the desire and hope of the Father in heaven, that all people will come to their inheritance, to their home.”

Maybe their thoughts continued “And Jesus just spent three years teaching and showing, caring and loving, and more. I can’t resurrect anyone, but I can lift people up. I can help them ascend in this lifetime to be ready when the power of the Spirit comes to them. I need to sit with all this a while and figure it out….”

And maybe they needed more time and silence to begin to contemplate the implications of the Ascension. “We are called to be witnesses to the end of the earth. We have to wait for the power of the Spirit to come upon us.” 

The “Spirit of wisdom and revelation” as it says in the second reading. The wisdom and revelation that need to be pondered and considered, and to sit with , so that … “May the eyes of your hearts be enlightened, that you may know what is the hope that belongs to his call, what are the riches of glory in his inheritance among the holy ones” (Eph 1)

Silence can be awkward or welcomed. But I would offer that the wisdom and revelation of God is best served in the silence and the waiting.  We don’t have enough of it in our lives. So, be it life or angels, don’t let anyone rush you past the silence and the waiting.

“Men of Galilee, why are you standing there looking at the sky?…

Because from time to time, we are supposed to – it is a gift of God.

Find some time this week to enjoy the gift.

Amen

Memory

Memory is an interesting thing.  I always secretly chuckle when someone asks me, “Father, do you remember your homily from five weeks ago?”  I generally respond, “What did you find interesting about it?”  as an alternative to the simple, “No.”  

There are many theories around the topic of memory apart from where the memory is associated with specific events, a general occurrence, personal experience, and more. Whatever the memory, we have to “register” the memory, store it and then recall it.  A recent study proposed there is a six-stage neuro-chemical process that has to occur for a memory to be retained long-term. Want an example. Consider dreams. Why can we remember some dreams in vivid and exacting detail, but other dreams just seem to dissolve into nothingness. Memory is a mysterious thing.

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In just a few words

There was a website called “twenty-twowords.”  The original idea was an on-going challenge of expressing yourself on some topic in 22 words or less. There were different categories, like “my life so far” or “which Star Wars character are you and why.” You have to answer each one with only 22 words. One of my favorites, in the category of “describe your greatest experience,” was, “I am in a hospital. A nurse hands me a screaming baby and I sat there, looking down, and said, ‘Hello son.”

Today’s gospel carries a message of the greatest challenge. Jesus’ response runs 33 words in English, but the effect is the same. For in these 33 words he leaves his disciples and us with as clear a summary of the Christian life as one could possibly want.: “love one another. As I have loved you, so you also should love one another. This is how all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.

In his book Surprised By Joy, CS Lewis describes being at a very proper English tea, standing there with an overly filled cup, when, quite by accident, someone bumped into him, causing the jostled cup to spill some of its content out.  Later, when reflecting on that most ordinary of things, he noted that life is that a lot like that.  If we want to know that with which we have filled our life, we only need to be jostled by life to see what spills out. Would that I could tell you that every bump in the road reveals an outpouring of love from the teacup of my life.

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The still small voice

“My sheep hear my voice; I know them, and they follow me. (John 10:27)

In many ways the stories of the Bible highlight people hearing God call their names and they respond by following. Noah heard his name called, built an ark, and saved lives. Abraham and Sarah heard their names called, traveled to a land not their own, and became our parents in faith. Moses heard his name and set his people free. The prophet Samuel heard his name called and responded, “Here I am Lord. Your servant is listening.” Hosea, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Jeremiah and all the prophets heard their names called and followed.

Mary the mother of Jesus heard her name and said, “Yes.”

Peter, James, John and Andrew heard their names called and followed, leaving boats and nets behind.

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What kind of leader do we want?

Certainly a good question with the papal conclave scheduled to start in four days. I have lived during the pontificates of seven popes and in my lifetime we have certainly had a wide variety of types and styles of leaders. In our history, we have had 266 popes. We have had some spectacularly amazing leaders, saints in the making, and we have had some spectacularly horrific leaders, who would have been quite at home in Game of Thrones (so I hear, I actually haven’t seen it…).  All took up the Keys of Peter, with the same job description given Peter: feed my sheep; tend my lambs. The Pope is the most visible of leaders in the Church, but not the only ones with that same job description. The simple mandate, “feed my sheep; tend my lambs” applies to priests, pastors, parents, principals, police, and anyone who would lead – anyone who would answer the call to minister in the Holy Name of Jesus.

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Doors

There are all kinds of doors in life.  

Doors that lead to new life.  We pass through them and life is changed.  Passing through the doors of high school graduation to the new world called college.  Entering a common life through the doors of marriage – or vows as a Franciscan friar.  What was the most significant/memorable door you have passed through into a new life? I bet almost everyone’s passing was accompanied by trepidation, uncertainty – maybe a tinge of fear – and yet we commit and we pass through to new life.

Not so with all doors.  There are doors that lock us out.  

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A Story in Three Acts

It seems to me that if we have been attentive and following all the events of Holy Week, it is possible to discern a play written in three acts. The curtain rises with a prelude: an intimate act of Mary anointing Jesus’ feet. An act rich in meaning and done in love. Then begins Act 1. It is a scene worthy of a large screen. Palm Sunday as the disciples and believers welcome Jesus into Jerusalem, the royal city, the long-awaited Messiah King.

Act 1 continues with a quiet scene, away from the bustling crowds of Passover, with a last meal with his closest friends and disciples. It is then, at the most sacred table fellowship of the Jewish faith, that Jesus shows the disciples the meaning of the proto-Eucharist just celebrated. On bended knee Jesus washes the feet of his disciples. It was an embodied parable of what it means to be a Eucharistic people: love and service. As the curtain falls on Act 1 and when we consider the meaning of Act 1, it is clear, it is love portrayed.

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