What does it all mean?

An audio version of today's gospel and reflection can be accessed here.

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Today’s gospel (Luke 9:18-22) is a scene in the gospel that is better known to us under its version in the gospel of St Matthew. St Luke, who unlike St Matthew did not witness the moment personally, only gives us the bare bones: Jesus’ inquiry about who people thought He was, the disciples’ varied responses, and finally St Peter’s reply that He was the Christ of God. From this episode, we may be tempted to retain only Peter’s profession of faith, but what follows is also instructive and not only because it foretells Jesus’ sufferings to come.

Of course, there is a vast contrast in the two messages: one moment, we hear the faith of the Fisherman on whom the future Church is built, and the next moment, we hear Jesus explain the sufferings that will be the very lifeblood of that Church. So far, so much may we assume that this is all about the Church. Yet the way in which these two messages come together is also an instruction on how far the disciples had to go to be aligned with the will of God, to live in that will, and to learn to say in their own turn the fiat that challenges us all.

On the one hand, imagine how inspired they must have been to hear Peter make his declaration. Surely, they must have discussed it a little among themselves: exactly who is the Master? Now, Peter moved the game forward, committing himself and them too in a way to something that would change all their futures. Moreover, Jesus’ confirmation of Peter’s assertion, implicit in His declaration about Peter, must have turned this moment into a transformative one for all of them. Until now, they were just following this extraordinary Man. From now on, they would be building a future with Him for all His followers with Peter as the foundation. How much they must have felt that the future was now clear, the direction was confirmed, that there was certainty ahead, and that all would be well. The Jews of the first century anticipated a conquering Messiah, and so surely what they now knew of Jesus would have come together with their expectations: this was it, the triumph was imminent and – wonder of wonders – their little band was right at the heart of the action. Everything made sense, not least because they were at the heart of it all.

And, in our own discipleship, isn’t this very much like ourselves? We want to know what God wants of us, and then we seem to learn or discover something clarifying that points the way to the future. Here is the will of God for us, we say: full steam ahead. Like the disciples, there is clarity, there is meaning, and the meaning seems to make sense to us. My spouse and I used to call this the spirituality of spoons. It is the kind of discernment that comes about when people find that two soup spoons fit together and declare this fit to be a revelation of the plans of God. The mistake is easily made; how nicely these things fit together. Surely, this is what is meant to be! And yet, spoons as eating implements don’t go with spoons; they go with forks. And if the implication isn’t obvious, just ask yourself when you last saw anyone tucking into dessert with two spoons in their hands. Humans calculate meaning in sometimes very limited ways, but as God tells us in the Book of Isaiah, My thoughts are not your thoughts and my ways are not your ways.

And what comes next in today’s gospel shows Jesus giving this lesson to the disciples. For having confirmed His identity and filled their hearts with joy, Jesus then shows them the desperate vision of His future passion and death: His rejection, His sufferings, and His death. They were probably too shocked to hear at the end His prophecy of the resurrection. But surely, it cannot be this way, Lord. Being the Christ means riding out in triumph, breaking the power of the enemy, cleansing the temple, restoring God’s order. How could rejection, suffering, and death be the route towards a better future?

And, is that not just like us at the crossroads the good Lord brings us to, perhaps each day? We thought we knew what He wanted, but then things do not work out. We thought we knew the meaning of the pleasant joke, but Jesus’ punchline seems literally like a punch.

Why is this so? Because, unwittingly, we had begun to write the next chapter in our own heads, instead of allowing the author of all things to show us His draft. Reverting to our best animal instincts, we had believed that our future required a tangible and visible reduction of uncertainty. To make God laugh, they say, tell Him our plans. Yet to make God weep, we tell Him implicitly all the time that our plans are much better than His.

We don’t mean to do this of course. Our head can say a thousand fiats a day. Yet it is deep down in the darkest recesses of the heart, well away from the holy images we keep of ourselves, that our human vanities and insecurities lurk, that our wounds are at their deepest. Perhaps our outer peripheries have been evangelised but what about our inner self? Like Peter, we are unconsciously confident about our fidelity, and we forget that in the gospel of Matthew, when Peter, the newly minted pope, rebukes Jesus for His prophecy of future pain, the Good Lord turns a withering eye on His Petrine Holiness and calls him Satan to his face. We are all worthy of the accusation, not that that makes us especially bad. Jesus came to rescue us from the fate of being delivered exclusively into our own wretched hands!

So, what is the meaning of it all? For us, there is only one meaning, and that is the following of Christ. Today’s gospel extract breaks off after the prophecy of the resurrection, but St Luke’s gospel continues with words that cast a light on Peter’s fate and on the fate of us all, at least those of us who are prepared to admit that God’s plans might just be better than ours. The message is ominous all the same:

And he said to them all, If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me.

Always keep ahold of nurse

An audio version of today's gospel and reflection can be accessed here.

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Today’s gospel (Luke 8: 19-21) gives us once more the scene in which Jesus’ mother and relatives arrive to see Him but cannot gain access. When He is told they are there to see Him, He announces that His mother and cousins – called here brothers and sisters by Jewish custom - are those who hear God’s word and do it.

The obvious lessons of this passage are easily grasped and are a constant consolation to us. If obedience to God makes us the near relative of Christ, we can be sure of two things. First, nobody was closer or more pleasing to God than Mary who by her obedient fiat at the Annunciation counterbalanced in a sense the disobedience of Eve. This was the second chapter of her role in the restauration of humanity and made the way for Jesus’ own supreme and triumphal actions by which she was saved and, with her, those who do the will of God. The second thing we can be sure of is that this obedience of which Jesus speaks is at the heart of our conformity to Him through whom we become the adopted children of the Most High. Baptism in His death and resurrection is only the beginning of that conformity, which is meant to break forth in a glorious growth and flourishing by our transformation in Him. Thus, like all relatives, our kinship is signalled by our very likenesses. This is how they will know we are Christians: by our love for one another, for the obedience of the Lord makes us like the One who is Love Divine, all loves excelling.

Yet, these are not the end of the lessons in today’s gospel. On earth Jesus was content to appear a man and even tolerated the judgements – let us say the misjudgements - of the crowd as part of His earthly state. Thus, we can quite imagine that some of the onlookers in this scene, hearing or seeing that He did not instantly welcome the arrival of His mother and relatives, might easily have assumed He felt about them as we often feel about our own relatives. On a quiet country road near where your blogger lives, one sign proudly hangs at a front gate: Relatives by appointment only. Seeing a man dodge his nearest and dearest is practically a joke because it is so very understandable, and so very unlike the customary honour we rightly pay parents and family, the former by ordinance of the Most High.

But if the crowd would have been wrong to judge Jesus thus, the truth remains that, as everyone knows, our families can sometimes hurt and wound us in ways that nobody else can. Jesus came for this too. In humanity’s severed branches and crooked timber, the wounds of those who are meant to be our dear ones can be savage, probably because they go back to our earliest days. These wounds are manifest in us through those parts of the inner man that withdraw and hide away, caught as it were in an ancient amber of the soul that has immobilised them, making them less sensitive to pain perhaps, but also less apt for healing. These wounds are protected by other inner guardians, the defensive behaviours that experience claims can protect our deepest, most damaged selves.

And all the while, as in all damaged conditions, we are not free to respond to God’s love in the fullest sense of our fiat, and we do not love others as we are called to love them. Parents can wound us through breaching the unwritten and yet deeply intuited contract binding their state in life and ours. These wounds we are capable of carrying forward into our relationship with God who, we struggle to learn, is not as imperfect in His parenting as they were. Yet, siblings can wound us also. Many years ago, I visited the Royal Courts of Justice in London and entered a public gallery during a civil case that I chose merely at random. The theatre was extraordinary. Two brothers were suing each other, angry and relentless in a mutual persecution over a disputed heritage. These two had stopped opening the door to each other some time before, and I was hardly surprised by a later newspaper report explaining that their dispute had helped eat up much of the disputed estate in legal costs.

Because that is what all wounds do: they consume us from the inside. At worst, they become infected and suppurate, poisoning the system. Perhaps more commonly, they recondition the heart, blocking the arteries of love. They change and chill our behaviour to those we should love best. We hug them less closely; we leave their calls unanswered. We act to protect ourselves, and all the while we fail the vocation of love.

For the vocation of love, our obedience to the Father, would call us to be present to them, even in our discomfort. Contradicting every instinct to protect an old wound from further damage and pain, we are called to renounce the malign spirit that drives us to withdraw. In that moment, we must enter the mystery of Christ by enduring the presence of the people and the things that most seem to threaten us, for in the end, our safety always did lie in God, our harbour and haven.

Our mothers, brothers and sisters stand without; it could of course be much, much worse, as it is for our persecuted Chinese or Nigerian brothers and sisters. But then whatever stands without, we are called to give our fiat to embracing whatever and whomever the Lord asks us to be present to today.

And in being thus present, in refusing to anesthetise ourselves to their very resonance, we will be walking the path of obedience to our Father in heaven and taking on more and more the likeness of our Brother who came to save us all.

From the archives: along the path

An audio recording of today's gospel and blog can be accessed here.

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Today’s gospel (Luke 8: 1-3) is a text of great simplicity. At a first read, there seems almost nothing for our edification. Unlike certain parts of scripture, we can feel that we might even bounce off its surface, uncertain of why the Church asks us to read this passage. And yet, in spite of appearances, every sentence is pregnant with mysteries that light our way and draw us towards the One who has called our name.

Jesus made his way through towns and villages preaching, and proclaiming the good news of the Kingdom of God. For Jesus is the teacher, and He comes to reveal to us who God really is, how much He loves us, and how we can find our way home to Him. Jesus is the way, the truth and the life; by grace He becomes our way, our truth, and our life. Jesus is the path. No name is given to us under heaven or on earth by which we can be saved. And our obedience to God begins, as the roots of the word obedience suggests, in listening: listening to Jesus’ voice, listening to His preaching, listening to His tales of the Kingdom. When we consider this Jesus who walks the paths through the towns and villages of Israel, we have a glimpse of what Saint Patrick saw when he wrote those beautiful words: Christ on my right hand, Christ on my left hand, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ within me.

With Him went the Twelve, as well as certain women who had been cured of evil spirits and ailments. In this line also, we find truths that run deep and that console us. The Church is not one of cheap, doe-eyed anime saints, no matter the horrors committed against their memory by vacuous contemporary Church art. Down the ages, we have seen many kinds of Saints; some, like Saint Joseph or St Therese of Lisieux, seem logical and obvious invitees to the glories of heaven; others, like Saint Augustine of Hippo and of course St Didimus, whose cross stood beside Jesus’, are less likely candidates, humanly speaking. But this is only to see things in a very worldly way, like St Peter, the first pope, trying to block Jesus’ path to the cross. Jesus, who, as we have said, walks through the towns and villages, comes in search of His lost sheep, to fix that which was broken, to restore that which has failed, to redeem that which is captive. We know from the gospel of the woman with the alabaster jar earlier this week that such women were regarded with suspicion, not to say loathing in the time of Jesus. It is not so long ago in our own culture that certain moral failures brought down shame and social exclusion, while, it should be recognised, other moral failures, perhaps even worse ones, went overlooked. In truth, all sin is shameful, for all sin disfigures in us the image of our Creator, and mortal sin robs us of the life of grace. These damaged women with their unsavoury histories, not to mention the Twelve disciples too, are the first fruits of the harvest that Jesus wishes to offer to the Father. Like our Blessed Mother, they are masterpieces of His grace, although they are restorations of another kind. The loving John who stands by the cross at the end begins his apostolic career with vile ladder climbing. And Mary Magdalene who meets Jesus in the blessed Easter garden reverses in that instant the many wayward and unholy trysts of her wretched past. As the saying goes, every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.  

The last clause of this very short gospel reads: Mary surnamed the Magdalene, from whom seven demons had gone out, Joanna the wife of Herod’s steward Chuza, Susanna, and several others who provided for them out of their own resources. On the surface, such details reveal something of the sources that Saint Luke was able to draw on as he wrote his gospel. Saint Luke had names, places, and timings. Whoever reported these things to him was an eyewitness of what had happened.

Yet, on another level, this line is a reminder to us that the Jesus who seeks us along the paths of the towns and villages of the world, calls us by name, knows us already intimately, and bids us listen carefully to that call. For COLW, this line is a reminder that we must read the gospel through a vocational lens and allow the Holy Spirit to show us little by little the next steps along the path.

For the path goes on, through those towns and villages, and for us the path continues along the secret ways of our heart where, as Francis Thompson says sadly,

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;

I fled Him, down the arches of the years;

 I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind.

But where, please God, little by little and by His grace, our flight will at last cease, so that we may sit at the feet of Jesus in the cell of our heart to learn His gospel afresh.

The missing link

 An audio version of today's gospel and reflection can be accessed here.

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Today’s gospel (Luke 2: 33-35) gives us a brief moment in the lives of Mary and Joseph but one in which Jesus takes centre stage, identified as Saviour by the words of Simeon who is, so to speak, the last but one prophet of the Old Testament, followed only by John the Baptist. Yet, as brief as the moment is, how many truths these lines contain.

First, we have a glimpse into the interior lives of Joseph and Mary for, as Saint Luke tells us, they marvelled at what was said about the child. One of the fundamental virtues that they both exercised throughout their lives was the virtue of faith, utterly necessary insofar as the immense prophecies that surrounded their son were often contradicted by the difficult and thankless circumstances in which they often found themselves. Faith was the virtue that Saint Elizabeth most praised in Mary for she was blessed in having believed the words that had been spoken to her.

Next, we hear the words of Simeon's prophecy about the role Jesus would play in the life of Israel. Here, we must understand Israel both in a concrete and in a spiritual sense, in the sense both of His own people and of the spiritual Israel constituted by His mystical body:

Behold, this child is appointed for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign that is opposed.

Why is this so? Why is not everything done and finished, indeed accomplished, with the action of Jesus alone? Quite simply because redemption is not yet salvation; quite simply because, as paradoxical as it is, there is something lacking in the sufferings of Christ, as Saint Paul tells the Colossians. There is a portion to be made-up, and that portion is seen in our transformation in Christ by which we become the adopted children of the Father and bear the duties of the First Born with a true co-responsibility. To be a Christian is not simply to profess His name and recognise Him as our personal Lord and Saviour; if that were sufficient, than, all those who say Lord, Lord would indeed enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

More is needed. The rise and fall of many in Israel will come about because some will follow Him into death and resurrection, and some will choose not to. Some will recognise that the mystery of His passion and His glory must become their own mystery, and some will not. Some will accept that their own story must be written into His story, and some will not. And This is why He is opposed. We should not be surprised at those who reject Him, and neither should we despair; God alone keeps the secret of all hearts. This is the mystery of iniquity, and we have been warned to expect it.

Lastly, this gospel draws back a curtain on the extraordinary mystery of how Mary herself enters the passion and resurrection of her Son. At the wedding feast of Cana, Jesus asks her directly:

What is that to you and me? My hour has not yet come.

In other words, what Simeon's prophecy anticipates – the piercing of Mary’s heart by a sword - is in fact Mary's vocation to be associated with Jesus in the fall and the rise of Israel. How could we doubt that in this prophecy we hear Mary's personal vocation: not her active vocation to mother the Saviour of humanity, but her personal vocation that means of all human creatures she is the one most closely associated with the hour of the Saviour.

And this too is why the purpose of the piercing of her heart is that the thoughts of many may be revealed. For in our personal vocations, that particular dimension of the inexhaustible beauty of God which He has appointed to us to reflect is shown forth to the world. In this moment, Mary is shown not only as His mother but also as the spouse of the Holy Spirit, the human creature who is drawn most deeply into God's outpouring of Himself: in His creation, in His work of redemption, and now down the ages of the Church in His work of sanctification.

Jesus is the bridge maker but Mary is the bridge head: His first conquest, His greatest masterpiece, and His most intimate cooperator, working then, and even now, to make up in her own sufferings, her own sorrows, the sufferings that are lacking to the passion of Christ for the sake of His body, the Church.

None so blind

 A recording of today's gospel and blog can be accessed here.

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Today’s gospel (Luke 6:39-42) presents us with Jesus’ teachings on the connection between purity of intention and clear moral vision. The blind cannot lead the blind. It is a teaching which comes into even greater focus when applied to the criticism of others and when, Jesus tells us, we are in even greater danger of hypocrisy. 

First, take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take out the speck that is in your brother’s eye.

In this conclusion, not only does Jesus tell us what we must do – i.e. wash our own laundry before criticising others for not washing theirs - but He also reminds us how our perceptions of the faults of others are often distorted. Yet the problem of hypocrisy and the challenge of reforming ourselves before trying to reform others only arise from the difficulty that Jesus pinpoints at the outset: 

can the blind lead the blind? 

Yet, what does He mean in this?

The scholastics used to say: every comparison limps except in the point of comparison. What blind people lack in vision, they often compensate for by some other extraordinary facility or other. Still, Jesus’ comparison here is apt. By saying the blind cannot lead the blind, what He means is that those who lack moral and spiritual insight cannot effectively enable others to see morally and spiritually. Very few people intentionally blind themselves; but when it comes to a loss of moral vision, we face three difficulties.

The first is that a certain moral blindness is one of the wounds of original sin; to be human is to be born blind in a sense. 

The second is that we rarely know all the facts around another’s case and need to be wary of prejudging their situation. Going after the log in our brother’s eye is interference, but it is almost always an error of judgement to begin with.

The third difficulty is that our own moral failings create, as it were, our own moral and spiritual cataracts of various hues and colours that block our vision. Our minds easily turn rose tinted with blind optimism, perhaps dark and sombre with sour pessimism, or even a jaundiced yellow from world-weary cynicism. We fall into folly through thoughtlessness, or perhaps into wilful depression through a lack of hope. God forbid we lapse at times into cynical scorn, knowing the price of things without weighing their value. All of these denote in themselves barriers that we unwittingly erect to the fruitfulness the Holy Spirit wants to bring forth in us.

How different we are then from those visionaries Elizabeth and Mary who meet and greet each other in a spirit of faith. Where we fumble in our pride, they perceive God’s ways in humility; while we unconsciously revel in our mistaken superiority, they let go and let God, waiting for His light in patience, rather than rushing to simulate their own.

To try to pick out the speck in our brother’s eye before removing the log from our own is, from a COLW perspective, to place mission before contemplation; it is to favour activity over reflection, or to deny to the apostolate the benefits of the knowledge of God and the knowledge of self. After all, if we knew ourselves like Elizabeth and Mary did, we would not appoint missions to ourselves, but wait in joyful hope for the beginning and end of all mission, the coming of our Saviour Jesus Christ. Only in that school can we learn assuredly the lessons that Dom Chautard shared with the Church a hundred years ago: that contemplation is the soul of the apostolate, that faith is the condition of knowing God and coming to the truth about ourselves, and that overreaching activism and frenetic doings should be recognised for the blindness that they are.

Late summer recess

 The blog is now on a late summer recess until 11 September. God bless all readers.

Fools rush in

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Today’s gospel of the wise and foolish virgins or bridesmaids (Matthew 25: 1-13) relates the familiar parable of the five wise and five foolish virgins who fall asleep while awaiting the arrival of the bridegroom; when they awake only the wise ones can enter the feast, while the foolish are left in the outer darkness for the bridegroom does not know them. 

For all the apparent simplicity of this parable, however, the wise and the foolish virgins are not so clearly distinguished as in the parable. Jesus makes it easy for us by labelling some of them wise and some of them foolish, but what if He had not? What if we had to distinguish the wisdom and the foolishness for ourselves? 

If we did not know the end of the parable – if we had to write it ourselves – who would enter the banquet? Some might imagine, for example, that the foolish virgins (in Jesus’ eyes) were in fact the wise ones, and that the wise ones (in Jesus’ eyes) were nothing less than foolish. How is that? In a spirit of competition, let’s call them Team Foolish and Team Wise and see how they fare.

First, Team Foolish brought no oil with them. Well, of course not. Jesus had invited them to consider the lilies of the field who neither sow nor reap. Why take additional oil, they might have said, when Jesus has told us not to store things up like the rich fool in Luke chapter 12?

Moreover, is Team Wise, who take extra oil, really thinking about the bridegroom? They seem to be plotting and planning the material ‘what ifs’ of life, unlike Team Foolish who only have eyes for the bridegroom. Team Wise seem like the overly busy Marys of this life, whereas Team Foolish seem like the wise Marys.

Lastly, Team Foolish expect the necessities from the hands of others, as Jesus bids the 72 disciples whom He sends out on mission in Luke chapter 10; surely if a worker deserves his wages, so too does a bridesmaid. Team Wise in contrast disobey Jesus’ command during the Sermon on the Mount that if someone asks for your shirt (or your oil), give them your cloak as well…

Does Jesus have this all wrong then? Does He confuse the wise and the foolish virgins? Why does Jesus praise Team Wise who depend on themselves, who calculate, and who refuse to share? Why is it Team Wise who enter the wedding celebrations while Team Foolish - who did not store things up, refused to plot, and only begged for what they needed - were excluded?

The answer perhaps lies in the fact that all the bridesmaids were there for the mission. It is not that Team Wise were being calculating and selfish. Team Wise are the team that had their eyes fixed on the purpose of their role; not simply on themselves, their own status, their own arrival at success and recognition. They understood they were part of a bigger scheme; that their service was not just about their own perfection and fulfilment, but about how they disposed all things for the service of the bridegroom. 

Team Foolish in contrast could not see beyond the achievement of being named as bridesmaids; in a sense they were a breed of female clericalists who confused their office with their value in God's eyes. As bridesmaids, they had finally made it, so to speak ... and they became complacent. All their superficial obedience to Jesus’ commands was out of context; they were logical, but as Chesterton says: life is not illogical but it is a trap for logicians. When Team Wise calculated about the oil, it was not due to personal anxiety; it was the wisdom of stewardship applied to their role. If their lights went out, it was not that they had to sit in darkness; it was rather that the bridegroom’s entry and feasting would be threatened with darkness. The same applied to their refusal to share their oil. It was not theirs to share but the bridegroom's. Right now, there is a lot of fuss in parts of the Church about the status of women, whereas the gospel teaches that the value of women or of men, or indeed bridesmaids, lies not in their office but in their loving service, wherever they may be. 

Team Foolish knew what they had to do up to a point, but Team Wise knew what was their purpose. And because they knew their purpose, they were not focused on themselves but on the carrying out of their mission which was, after all never their own to begin with but something gifted to them. Not all those who say, ‘Lord, Lord’ will enter the kingdom of heaven.

Jesus’ conclusion to this parable is, nevertheless, a warning. Stay awake! He admonishes all. The success of Team Wise is not really to their credit; like Team Foolish they fell asleep on the job. When all is said and when our duty is done be it ne'er so humble, we are only ever unprofitable servants, raised by His mercy to a blessed estate. Nobody, therefore, can afford to be complacent, not the wisest among us.

My song is love unknown

An audio version of today's gospel and reflection can be found here.

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Today’s gospel (Matthew 22: 34-40) should be a moment of joy, but casting a long shadow over it is the malice of the Pharisees whose intention is not remotely to discuss the greatest commandment but rather to disconcert Jesus. In this simple exchange we find a gulf between the interlocutors, despite their commonly held religion. Yet as Jesus says elsewhere, judge not according to appearances but according to justice.

On one side of this gulf stand the Pharisees who hold themselves to be the most faithful adherents of the Law. Yet they cannot see the wood for the trees, nor that the Law forbids the malice with which their question is put. They are, in other words, so absorbed in the pursuit of material conformity with the Law that it has become a tool in their hands – a tool for self-aggrandisement and a tool to exercise power over their neighbours, rather than their path towards God. Instead of directing them towards salvation, therefore, the Law condemns their entire modus operandi, and every step entangles them deeper in the mire.

Yet, let us not do as the Pharisees do and consider ourselves above their example. We could very well ask in what ways we are guilty of turning our religion into a means of self-service, rather than the service of God. Do we use it unconsciously to prop up our dissonant needs or wounded sense of self? Do we revel in material conformity with its exacting standards, forgetting that God calls us to a life of outward-turning love, rather than self-admiring perfection? Does it become in us a fashionable fetish, rather than a call to faithfulness? In other words, do we really follow Him, or have we unconsciously erected our own discreet idols in His place? Are we serving our Maker, or are we in some subtle way on the make? Only the quiet contemplation of God can illuminate who and what we are.

Standing on the other side of the gulf from the Pharisees is Jesus who answers their malicious questioning thus: love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. The second commandment follows from it logically: You must love your neighbour as yourself, although as we know, Jesus gives a new commandment at the Last Supper: love one another as I have loved you – a commandment so sublime, we seldom mention it, and rarely if ever obey it.

How different would we be if indeed we followed these two commandments; if the law of our hearts and minds – our inner movements and our very thoughts - was that ray of light that plunges into us from the contemplation of the God of love? When we love something – this is the teaching of those supposedly bone-dry scholastics of the Middle Ages – we become like it. When we love God – truly loving Him above all other things – then that love becomes an ultimate law that reshapes us from the inside, not like a legal regulation; more like a mass of energy that brings other things under its all-powerful influence. When the love of God is our law, we are like planets to His sun.

Yet the idea of likeness is also important, because if in loving God we become like Him, we cannot but then love others, first because He loves them also and, second, because our hearts seek out in them what reminds us of our first love, God. Thus, it is easy to love a saint in whom we easily see God’s reflection, but a saint finds it easy to love the sinner, even the worst. We do not think enough on this implication of the law of love. So tribal do we become in defending our beleaguered patch of ground in this secular world, we forget that the worst among our enemies are the ones who are most deprived of God, and, therefore, the most to be pitied and indeed loved. Like the first law of thermal dynamics, truth is love and love is truth. We love one another because God has commanded it, and, nevertheless, the truth that everyone, even the worst of us, resembles God in some way, can become the cause of our love for them. The greater their fall from the truth of their being, the more they are to be pitied and loved. This is why the shepherd goes out and leaves the ninety-nine to seek the one that is lost.

Where I am, there must my servant be also, said Jesus in the gospel on the feast of St Lawrence. And the gospel of St John allows us to see exactly where Jesus is: for God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son.

And so, the conclusion is clear: we must love even the malicious Pharisees who would cast the shadow of their ill-will across the pastures that might otherwise be lit by the love of God. Only light drives out darkness. Only God is their salvation and ours,

My saviour’s love to me,

Love to the loveless shown that they might lovely be.

Seeing is believing

A recording of today's gospel and reflection can be accessed here.

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Today’s gospel (Matthew 19: 23-30) allows us to hear four of Jesus’ most notable sayings: first, that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven; second, that with God all things are possible; third, that all those who have left houses, brothers, sisters, etc for His name’s sake would receive a hundredfold and inherit eternal life; and fourth, that many who are first will be last, and the last first.

These conversations must have come back to St Matthew while pondering on his many memories of the Lord. Maybe he discussed them with other disciples. Jesus probably said these things and similar ones many times in many circumstances. For us He dwells in His words, but for those who had actually met Him, He must also have dwelt in these memories, vivid in their mind’s eyes, His accent and the timbre of His voice sounding again on their inner ears. The disciples who slowly learned to live the Sacred Mysteries of the liturgy, founded on the ritual and Scriptural disciplines of their Jewish origins, first lived that Sacred Mystery of His presence on earth, and then lived and relived it how many thousands of times in their memories and minds. We have the following testimony from another evangelist, St John, in the first of his epistles:

That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon and touched with our hands, concerning the word of life— the life was made manifest, and we saw it, and testify to it, and proclaim to you the eternal life which was with the Father and was made manifest to us.

St John is so overwhelmed with His recollection of Jesus and wants to get across to his readers that wonderous thing: that the eternal mystery of the Son living in the Father had dwelt for a time among them, and they had seen and looked upon Him, and touched Him, and now recalled Him in their preaching continually. How true of both St Matthew and St John must be these words from Psalm 1:

Blessed is the man

who walks not in the counsel of the wicked,

[…]

 but his delight is in the law of the Lord,

    and on His law he meditates day and night.

But we might change these words a little and say now:

But His delight is in the mysteries of the Lord,

    and on His mysteries he meditates day and night.

For in the Old Testament, God appeared to Moses, and Moses spent forty days and nights with Him before returning from Mount Sinai with the Law of the Decalogue. Whereas in the New Testament, God Himself walked among us and taught us, before seeming to desert Himself on Mount Calvary, and then, on the third day, returned not from a mountain but from the abyss of death with the Pascal Mystery of Life written not onto stone but into His resurrected flesh. The Law remains but now He is Flesh and Blood.

So, what has all this got to do with the sayings of Jesus today in the gospel? Only that we cannot read these passages like so many sayings and dictums of a sage, or of another wiseman, or another parallel repository of wisdom like the Dharma of Buddha, the Hindus’ Bhagavat Gita, the sayings of Confucius, or the Surahs of the Quran; as if all religions were merely different paths that led to the same God. Jesus is not firstly an ethicist but a divine mystery for the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us. He is not primarily a book but a revelation:

the only Son of God, 
eternally begotten of the Father, 
God from God, Light from Light, 
true God from true God, 
begotten, not made, 
consubstantial, with the Father.

We do not approach Him by pedagogy, like we approach Maths and Physics and Ethics. We know Him rather by a mystagogy which we encounter in the Sacred Liturgy, primarily the Eucharist, source and summit of the Church’s life, and then in the Sacred Scriptures, not as some separate path or province of sayings and doings, but as a reality somehow conjoined to the Mysteries of the Incarnate Lord; a mystery in itself, inspired but not dictated by the Holy Spirit; the work of human hands and yet divine in its origin and in its effects. For with God nothing is impossible.

To be the rich man condemned in the words of today’s Gospel extract is to be so besotted with the things of this world that we miss the reality of these mysteries. Moreover, to break the bread of Scripture together is to receive already some of that hundredfold that He promised His faithful ones. And to receive His Word and His very self, leaving all else behind, is to overturn the human ordering of our material world where power pushes in for first prize, and the anawim, the little lovers of His great Mysteries, often find themselves pushed out, strangers to their neighbours for the truth has made them strange.

And yet, it still remains that we are called to serve the Sacred Mysteries even in the contorted and impatient faces of the enemy who rail against His teachings, not daring ourselves to grab onto the advantages of a false peace with this world, not raising our hand against its servants (for His kingdom is not of this world), but loving them as the Divine Master loved them, for where the Masters is, there must the disciples follow.

The last who is made first is the Divine Master who in the mystery of His incarnation became

despised and rejected by men;
    a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief

And this is the mystery which, in the end, St Matthew related in the pages of his gospel: not a teacher of ethics, or a strange oriental prophet, but the promised Messiah, unrecognisable except to those who had broken together that fragment of the Book of Isaiah and lived with it – lived with its mystery - in their hearts. And when we now break apart these fragments of the gospel, we hope by the power of His Holy Spirit to see into

the mystery which we have heard in our inner ear, which we have seen with the eyes of our minds, which we have looked upon in our imaginations and touched with our hearts’ aspirations.

Thus is His life made manifest, and we see it, and must testify to it.

Teachability and blind spots

An audio file of today's gospel and blog can be found here via this link.

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Today’s gospel (Matthew 19: 3-12) once again shows the Pharisees coming to Jesus in an attempt to entrap Him, but despite their worst endeavours, this scene offers up several beautiful mysteries for our contemplation: the Christian laws of marriage, as God intended it from the beginning; the union of the spouses in one flesh; the gift of purity as it is given by God. There is here what one writer has called a Mysterierenlehre – a mysteriology in the sense that we may learn something through the mysteries. Yet from a COLW perspective, one sentence stands out amid all the others: that Moses tolerated divorce in the Old Testament because the people of God were so unteachable.

If we think of unteachability as a strictly intellectual limitation, we have not really understood all its implications. Another word for lack of teachability here would be hardness of heart. It was not just that there was a mental blind spot among God’s chosen ones; theirs was a moral refusal to rise to the responsibility enjoined by what God had established from the beginning. In mitigation, we should remember that the age of grace was not yet fully born before Jesus’ death on the Cross.

There is a correlation, therefore, between the higher expectations in the teachings of Jesus and the fulness of grace that His redemption makes available to us. His condescension to our weakness – His mercy on the sinner - is not a ticket for us to wallow in irresponsibility or indulgence. Jesus does not make cushions to put beneath the elbows of sinners, as false prophets do in the Book of Ezekiel. His mercy is a route out of our misery.  But how?

We become more teachable in two ways. First, our minds become more teachable when we allow our imaginations to embrace the breadth of God’s mysteries. In the nighttime discussion with Nicodemus, Jesus leads Nicodemus to see things in new ways. Nicodemus becomes, as it were, a model of teachability, allowing his imagination to become receptive to things beyond his normal ken. It is not that he is a passive listener, far from it; rather, he is an attentive questioner, and Jesus unfolds for him not only the mysteries of the past, but the promise of the new revelation that His own coming signifies. There are more things under heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our normally limited philosophies. In an age when our visions have become narrowed to the limited breadth of our mobile devices, our minds and our Christian imaginations need to find their way back to the soaring breadth and height that our medieval cathedrals still symbolise for us. Like Dostoevsky said of Russia, we need to sit at the feet of Christ again and learn His gospel.

Yet, the second way we become more teachable is through our gradual surrender to the Father’s forming action, shaping now not only our minds but our hearts through His grace, enabling us to rise to the mysteries that He reveals and strengthening our wills to choose the responsibilities these mysteries call us to.

Our greatest tragedy is sin unrepented, but after that comes this tragedy of this unteachability which stunts and limits us, withers God’s work, undoes our best resolutions, even those of half an hour ago, renders us partially fruitless, and makes us spiritually sterile by our own childish hands.

Who will free me from the body of this death, says St Paul – from the blind spots and refusals that mar the work of God in us? Thanks be to God – He concludes - who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!