The original follower of Jesus

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

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Today’s gospel (Luke 2: 41-51) recounts the episode of the finding in the Temple. After the Passover visit to Jerusalem, the twelve year-old Jesus stays in Jerusalem while his parents travel back to Nazareth. Realising He is not with either of them, Mary and Joseph rush back to the city to search for Him, a task that covers three days of utter anguish for them. They finally find Him asking questions in the Temple and amazing those who heard His questions and His own answers. Rebuked by Joseph and Mary, Jesus returns with them to a life of submission and obedience in His own hometown.

This gospel marks the feast of St Joseph, and we will come to him shortly. Yet in passing, let us wonder who could have heard Jesus speak during this episode twenty years before His public ministry. Was Nicodemus there? Does the gospel record without our knowing it the first stirrings of Nicodemus’s vocation when he perhaps shared the amazement of Jesus’ listeners? Did a different, ambitious man, a Sadducee named Caiaphas, look on and long to be the centre of attention like this young Nazarene upstart? Who knows whose paths intersect with this scene that is pregnant with meaning for the Old Testament and the New?

Yet amid the tumult of these three days, we find the fleeting figure of a father fraught with anxiety, accompanied by his even more distressed wife, both looking desperately for signs that their child was still alive and still here somehow in a capital city from where strangers from all around the Mediterranean World were departing again for their distant homelands. Apart from the usual fleshpots and dens of sin where Jesus might have been detained, who know what ghastly fears crossed the minds of Mary and Joseph as they watched the foreigners leaving, accompanied perhaps by retinues of young slaves? How could their lovely boy have disappeared? Surely, He was taken against His will? And how the three days, one by one, must have ground that niggling anxiety to a sharpened, gleaming sword of sorrow!

Yet, we may wonder if Joseph’s anxiety was different from Mary’s, and not only because he was a man, and men worry differently. Mary’s soul was full of grace at all times. Yet because of this, we see in this moment that the fullness of the gifts of the Holy Spirit cannot signify that God moves them constantly into action. In these three days, Mary lives by the theological virtue of faith, a faith unsupported by human emotion or the connatural stirrings of affection that the Paraclete’s gifts share with us, a faith that knows the greatness and goodness of God, but also that He can sometimes permit the most terrible things to happen. Perhaps for Mary, the anxiety lay in not knowing which explanation applied to Jesus’ absence. There was no human accounting for it; only a gulf, an absence, a vacuum, where normally there was union, presence, and a silent fullness in her soul.

Joseph’s experience was likely very different. By tradition a man without personal sin, he was not preserved from the wounds of original sin, and how these wounds must have bitten deeply in the three days of searching. What thoughts of self-doubt that tortured his mind with the help of demonic profiteers: Joseph the prudent become Joseph the fool who lost the Son of God; Joseph the strong rendered Joseph the weak by failing to do his duty towards his Son; Joseph the obedient rendered a rebel by his lack of attention. Did Joseph go to bed fitful each night, hoping against hope that another dream would visit him? Was the third morning worse than the others, precisely because no dream had come now for two nights? Did he fear punishment because, like Eli who failed to restrain his sons, he, Joseph, had failed to care for His?

All we know in the end is that St Joseph survived these three days, and that Jesus was submissive to His authority from that moment forward. Yet surely, in this moment, Joseph proved himself attentive to the Father’s forming action. What was the Father teaching St Joseph in these days of chaos and crisis if not that his own role was only for a time? Joseph had a job to do, but it did not exhaust who he was. Joseph had responsibilities but these did not define his life entirely. At all times, Joseph’s experience was one of the need for utter dependence on the provision of God, communicated to him often through angelic messengers. This experience must then have driven him forward in that calling that lay within his exterior calling as the foster father of Jesus. In the end, God gave Joseph a job only because He wanted Joseph for His own, granting him a role in that work of salvation.

What are any of us called to when the circumstances escape our capacities, other than to offer ourselves again to the loving kindness of the heart of our God who has all things in His care? How deep the space that these days of apparent separation must have carved in the heart of this just man! Yet in this, he is our model and example, like his spouse Mary whose own experience of these days we may reflect on another time. Mary, our mother and our model, is yet different from us in a way that we cannot comprehend, due to her unwounded human nature. Yet Joseph is like us, a man born in sin, a hero of silent fidelity, of union with God’s purposes, of obedience despite the cravings of his lower nature.

Next in the gospel come the middle, hidden years when Jesus becomes an adult man, and who does He choose to learn under but this humble carpenter from a despised Galilean town? God achieved many purposes in these events; the refining of Joseph’s soul for the road ahead was not the least of them. For in teaching him that he was not the master of his destiny, that nothing but the deepest reliance on God would do, the Heavenly Father taught Jesus’ earthly father to be a follower of Jesus before there was even such a thing. 

From the archives: on NOT falling like Satan

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

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Today’s gospel (Luke 10:1-12, 17-20) sees Jesus sending out the seventy-two disciples. He gives them many counsels which they should follow as they carry out their ministry and preach the gospel. We dwelt on most of this passage in October 2024 where the theme of the blog concerned the difference between the wolves and the lambs. Today’s passage also includes the return of the disciples and Jesus’ advice about how they should reflect on their recent actions in which they had exercised extraordinary charismatic gifts. The lessons he gives them then are stark and concern us all today:

I saw Satan fall like lightening from heaven

He tells them. The disciples are elated, filled with wonder at the things they have done. They know it has come from Jesus’ power, and yet in that corner of the human mind that is always looking for a glimpse of itself in the minds of others, there is always the danger that their wonder could evolve into vainglory: an egocentric passion that attributes the good done to ourselves, rather than to our maker.

This is the point of Jesus’ recollection, for recollection it is; not a human recollection but a thought from God’s mind, a thought that was there even before Satan used his freewill against his maker: this creature has turned against me and my reign of love.

There is no pain in God, for God has no emotions in the sense that we understand them. And yet in these words, do we not hear the pain of Christ, the incarnate God, one who has been sent as redeemer to the human race but who cannot save the fallen angels? It is surely not beyond God’s power to have offered them redemption of course, but the angels as pure spirits knew precisely what they did when they revolted against God. It is only our susceptibility to ignorance and deceit that means our wills are not locked in a state of malicious, self-destructive rebellion.

What is the antidote to this calamitous revolt of Satan? What lesson can the seventy-two draw from it? Jesus offers it to them not in parables but plainly:

Do not rejoice in this, that the spirits are subject to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.

In other words, what they accomplish is less important than what they are by God’s choice and election: His children, beloved of the Father, invited to the eternal banquet. Some of us may do great things from a human perspective; others may accomplish little, humanly speaking. Some may know renown; others may be little thought of or dismissed. Little of this matters in an eternal perspective, though it feels so terribly important to us now. 

What matters rather is placing ourselves in the arms of our Saviour who has come to help us carry our burdens, even or especially those we inflict on ourselves, for whose fault was it that we sinned? I return here to a line of Shakespeare oft quoted on this blog:

Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once;

And He that might the vantage best have took

Found out the remedy.

Rejoice that our names are written in the bosom of the Father; rejoice that before we loved Him, He first loved us. This is our glory: the care, the condescension, the favour and abiding affection of the King.

From the Archives: a loving yes

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

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Today’s gospel (Mark 12: 28b-34) sees another of those dialogues between Jesus and a private individual – in this case, one of the scribes. Which is the greatest commandment? he asks Jesus, and Jesus replies by citing part of the Shema Yisrael, a key text in the morning and evening prayer of the Jews that declares God’s oneness, our duties to Him, and notably the duty to love God and love one’s neighbour. Yet it is the scribe’s response to this reply that strikes us: before Jesus, he declares this law to be much more than all the burnt offerings and sacrifices of the Temple. Jesus offers him an answer, but the scribe – as if he knew full well the answer – then gives us perspective on that answer. Not only is this the best commandment but it is better than all the liturgical grandeur of Temple sacrifice. Jesus in turn blesses his reply, declaring: You are not far from the kingdom of God. What are we to make of this exchange, for many of us no doubt offer up our prayers, works, sufferings and joys every day to God? Have we mistaken the wood for the trees? Should we simply be trying to love God and do what we will?

But that would be too simplistic a way of understanding what is being said here. This dialogue is not a reason to neglect sacrifice but rather to understand it in its true context. This dialogue is not a reason to pretend we are not material beings for whom the physical representation of religion is nothing but a mirage. Our God became incarnate, and our religion is incarnate in order for us creatures of flesh and blood to reconnect with the transcendent and divine. This dialogue then is an invitation to understand the true heart of our liturgy and prayer and to assimilate all our actions into it. In a way, it is another reason why the Colwelian yes must run deep in all our actions.

Is love of God greater than burnt offerings? We must distinguish. Love of God transcends the sacrifices of the old covenant. In the new covenant, however, there is only one sacrifice, and it is the sacrifice of the Son who offers Himself to the Father: behold, I come to do your will. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus prays that this ‘cup’ of the Father’s will, this path He requires Jesus to walk, should pass from Him, and yet in the end, your will be done.

In us, sacrifice and will seem separate and potentially at odds. Sometimes by God’s grace we offer sacrifice for the right reason; sometimes, we may be trying to prove something to ourselves; and sometimes, God help us, we may be engaging in an exterior performance, doing the right thing while never really truly surrendering to God in our hearts, in danger of becoming hypocrites. Genuine hypocrites – if we can get our head around that idea - pretend to make sacrifice only for self-interested reasons. But in Jesus, despite the struggle in the garden – a struggle He allows His human nature to feel to the point of sweating blood – there is no true distinction of self and sacrifice at least from one perspective: Jesus as the God-Man offers His sacrifice, but in some mysterious way He is His sacrifice too: it is in a sense one with His being, for He is the Paschal Victim. His sacrifice is His total yes to the Father in heaven. All His efforts are subsumed in this action of love and submission to the Father and bring the gates of hell crashing down, opening the floodgates of grace to the world again if only the closed hearts of men could receive it.

And this is why the scribe is not far from the kingdom of God: he senses in the order of liturgical sacrifice a greater order that proceeds from love and submission to the will of the Eternal Father. For us living under the conditions of the new and eternal covenant, the lesson is clear: every one of our sacrifices only makes sense when it is plunged in the reality of Jesus’ sacrifice, Jesus’ yes to God, a yes He was only able to make because Mary first offered her yes at the moment of her annunciation.

Thus, our prayers, works, sufferings and joys are not independent sacrifices looking for their own justification before the throne of God. What brings them to life is the sacrifice of Jesus, represented for us in the Eucharistic sacrifice, where through the actions of the ministerial priesthood acting in the person of Christ, the Church as it were tunes again into that eternal yes of Jesus. Every liturgical action and every daily action is animated by this life force of the will of Jesus which is a will to love God and love neighbour. Nothing now is alien to us, other than sin. And, we need not be afraid of our failures, for our sufficiency comes from Jesus. His life becomes ours; His action informs ours; His yes can become ours as a gift of His grace.  

O Mary, teach us to say yes to the Lord every moment of our lives

From the Archives: Sweet conceit

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

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Today's gospel (Luke 4: 24-30) should be sobering for us.

We read in this gospel of an attempt that was made on Jesus’ life. Until the moment of His passion, this is the only event in which His life is threatened during his adulthood and in which the hands of the would-be murders are placed upon Him. But the really shocking thing is that this happens in His own hometown. And not only is His life threatened, but the townspeople lead him towards a cliff to throw Him down it. One imagines this place to be the scene of countless childhood games for the youth of the area, for children are always drawn towards danger. And now, it is set to become the place of a brutal and murderous assault.

What is most concerning here is that the people laying hands on Him are those who have known Him for the longest time. It is His neighbours and perhaps even some former friends who are suddenly filled with this violent compulsion against Christ. How skin-deep the appearances can be! Those who have known Him best have the dubious distinction of being those who have threatened Him most. Was this simply because of His identifying Himself with the prophecy of the Messiah a few verses before today's extract begins? Yet it is not that which sparks their anger but the implications He makes by saying He will work no miracles in Nazareth as He had done in Capernaum, just as the earlier prophets had been selective in their missions. He offends their sense of entitlement; He contradicts the implicit story this people tell themselves about their closeness to the Lord.

The lesson for us is simple: we should beware of shallow familiarity with Christ. Familiarity breeds contempt. Easy acquaintanceship is a trap, a counterfeit of true intimacy. We are called to something much deeper and much more alive. We are called to a friendship which would defy the madness of crowds and the bullying self-justifications of a mob who find their reassurance in the fact that everyone shares their inclinations and their outrage. What has Jesus told them that makes them so mad if not that they must not stand on their privileges?

Every one of us, and especially the most powerful, should give serious thought to the dangerous seductions that our supposedly sweet but secretly self-congratulatory intentions give way to. What defenders of the honour of the prophets must these violent neighbours of Christ believed themselves to be! How much steadier and more sensible was their view when compared to that of this young upstart Jesus! How much more respectable were they than a man who had broken every rule of good sense and respectability by tipping over the tables of money changers in the temple!

Like these Nazarenes, however, we should beware of sweet conceit. 

“Dives, when you and I go down to hell”

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

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Today's gospel (Luke 16: 19-31) is the parable of the rich man and the poor man. The rich man is given no name in the parable, but I follow here the tradition of calling him Dives which means ‘rich’ in Latin. On the surface, this is a simple story in which Jesus points to the dangers of wealth and the mercy of God on those who suffer. Yet it is also a kind of anti- ghost story for it denies the possibility of communication between the living and the dead, at least in this sense: that there are no missions of mercy that originate in hell. Lazarus, who in this life suffered constantly poverty and ill health, now finds all his cares relieved. Dives, who in this life never missed a moment of pleasure and satisfaction, finds himself in torment. There is also a sting in the tail of this parable, for the lesson that Abraham gives to Divas is a foretelling of the unbelief of the Pharisees who, like the family of Dives, will not believe even if someone comes back to them from the dead.

Our last reflection on Tuesday concerned an uncomfortable truth about this life, i.e. corrupt religious authority. Our reflection today concerns an uncomfortable truth about the next life and what used to be called one of the four last things: death, judgement, heaven, and hell. Why is Dives in hell? If we read the words of Abraham carelessly, we might imagine that his punishment and the reward of Lazarus are simply meant to balance the scales against their fates in this world. Yet this would be a misunderstanding. Dives did not go to hell because he wore fine linen in this life; Jesus wore a fine tunic that was woven in one piece. Dives did not go to hell because he ate sumptuously; so too did Jesus and in the houses of sinners. So, how do we explain their respective fates?

Lazarus was in the bosom of Abraham, the limbo of the Fathers until the coming of Christ the Liberator, for the same reason that any human being escapes the punishment due to sin: simply because he was the beneficiary of the mercy of God. The parable does not tell us enough about his interior life, but since the Author of the parable is the one who tells us that what makes a man good is what comes from his heart, Lazarus’s virtues do not consist in his having sores and being poverty stricken. Somewhere in his soul, Lazarus belonged to God, longed for God; and like Job, he turned his heart to God despite his ill fortune.

In contrast, Dives was in hell for the same reason that any human being may go there: because he chose creatures over his Creator. But what do I mean by saying he made this choice? Dives’s crimes should trouble us all, for they were not crimes of commission but of omission; not so much about the bad things he did, as about the good things he left undone, the evil that he allowed by his failure to act.

Who can understand his errors? Cleanse me from secret faults

as the psalmist prays. Jesus will return to the reality of this kind of sin in His foretelling of the last judgement when He says:

insomuch as you did not do these things to the least of my brethren, you did not do them to me.

We cannot see this as a punishment for ignorance, as if God were to punish those who simply do not think. The punishment goes rather to the root of that ignorance, for Dives’s ignorance and his inaction arise from a heart that is turned in on itself. Self-indulgence is only a superficial risk for the wealthy; the greater risk is the inner wounding that comes from selfishness and covetousness, the psychological grasping for the safety that our fallen human nature attributes to our environment and possessions. Nobody speaks today about the figure of the miser who has become something of a caricature. But there is a miser who lurks in every one of us. This miser has the desire to build our safety out of the things of this world and to cling to them tightly, if unwittingly, in an absurd communion of the damned and the perishable.

But the parable of Dives and Lazarus is not a tragedy, even if Dives’s damnation is a calamity for him. In the end, like the thieves crucified either side of Jesus, Dives received his just desserts. There is no consolation for him from the mouth of Abraham, either from the spiritual torment evoked by his unbearable thirst, anticipating the physical punishments of the damned after the Resurrection of the Dead, or the moral torment of his inability to warn his family about the dangers that awaited them.

We rely on the infinite mercy of God, but it seems that this infinite mercy is not an unconditional mercy expressed in the bromides of a thousand liberal do-gooders. There is a time given to us, and then there is a time when there is no more time. There is a day in which we can act, and then the light is lost, and our account must be paid. There is a morning when we will rise for the last time, when we may draft a diary that will have no following chapter, and in which plans laid will not be fulfilled. There is an hour of our responsibility in which we will be required to give our response.

Then, on that day, as on the day of the Last Judgment, let us pray now that we are spared what we may deserve and receive the gift given to Lazarus.

Humbly, I submit …

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

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Today’s gospel (Matthew 23:1-12) sees Jesus launch a scathing attack on the Pharisees for their hypocrisy. They must be obeyed due to their authority – they sit in Moses’ chair - but their example must be utterly shunned. Jesus lays emphasis on the fact that they burden others with duties that they themselves neglect, but especially that they seek their reward in the admiration or veneration of others. Not so should it be among Jesus’ disciples, neither overburdening each other, nor vying for the first place, but giving way to each other, ever decreasing as Christ increases in them. Resorting to hyperbole, Jesus tells His followers not to seek any honours whatsoever, for in the end only those who humble themselves will be exalted.

There are many lessons on which we could dwell in this gospel passage but let us go to an uncomfortable one today. For this gospel is a commentary on what direction our path should take in the face of corrupt religious authority. The Pharisees were the keepers of the law and readily reminded others of how they were failing in that regard. Yet their rigidity and pedantry were only a secondary fault. Their primary fault was in defacing the image of God in themselves and warping it in others, even as they feigned to serve Him. Yes, this was a matter of hypocrisy, but there are many hypocrites out there whose peccadillos are known to them alone. In the case of the Pharisees, their faults were obvious and public, and there they were, acclaiming themselves the voice of the divine while preening and congratulating themselves on looking so holy and so refined. Both saintliness and devilry proceed by imitation: either we become perfect like our heavenly Father, remembering at all times our lowly status as disciples, or we arrogate to ourselves privileges that do not belong to us, in imitation of the Father of Lies. The devil, says St Jerome, is the ape of God i.e. his insincere imitator.

Thus, corrupt religious authority, which has the appearance of godliness but departs from it in tone, manner, or substance. And let us not indulge in the fantasy that its presence is limited to a few books of Scripture and the remote and misty depths of history. The story of the Church is uncomfortably filled with the ranks of Pharisees in every generation, betraying their duty to reflect the image of God to others, from the traitor who was first appointed within the ranks of the apostles, to those who turned the church of Corinth into a chaotic community; from Pope Alexander VI who hosted notorious orgies to Pope Leo X whose excesses finally stirred Luther’s temper to breaking point; and more recently, from clergy who have destroyed the innocence of the little ones by a depravity that is itself a profound mockery of sexuality, to the religious superiors who wreck subordinates with their destructive models of leadership and the burdens of their own inner wounds. Shakespeare in Measure for Measure, a play which is all about the abuse of authority, found the right formula for such individuals:

But man, proud man,

Drest in a little brief authority,

Most ignorant of what he's most assured,

His glassy essence, like an angry ape,

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven

As make the angels weep.

Incidentally, Pharisees would not prosper were it not for a band of individuals who stand, as it were, between them and the people, who flatly refuse to accept that the Pharisees are corrupt or wrong, either out of wayward respect, or out of wayward charity, or out of an unregulated sense of their own need for safety. Yet they too become in their turn Pharisees, or at least pale imitators of the holy and humble restraint that filled St Catherine of Sienna, even as she warned Pope Gregory XI. Prophets speak truth to power, and we are all baptised priests, prophets, and kings.

Yet this passage in the gospel today also offers a lifeline to every Pharisee and to those who look on in horror at their actions.

Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.

How often has it been said, by saint after saint, that the true foundation of the spiritual life is humility? Humility, the virtue by which we recognise that we are hummus of the earth:

Remember, man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.

But hummus is not a poor soil; it is a dark, rich, nutrient dense material, made of decomposing plant and animal matter. In that sense, it is a surprisingly apt metaphor for us, for our self-knowledge is like the breakdown of all that happens to us, all that we experience, as we ruminate on God and on our lives in the light of the gospel. With humility’s energy, we grow, please God, day by day, in an awareness of how much we depend on God, of how weak we are on our own, of how much real life comes not from ourselves but from His seeds planted in us that long to spring forth with new growth and fruit in abundance.

Humility is then the only answer to the Pharisees and to those who are corrupt in the exercise of their religious authority. For humility is integrity, as is daring to speak the name of evil when we are faced by it. Humility is, in other words, the surest way to keep a grip on the truth, and not to be satisfied with any of its many phoney replacements.

This is a lesson which is good for us, regardless of what level of authority we may possess. In this regard, we can read and reread the words that Georges Bernanos, author of Diary of a Country Priest, wrote about the differences between St Francis and Martin Luther in the following terms:

It is quite possible that Saint Francis of Assisi was no less disgusted than Luther by the debauchery and simony of prelates. We can even be sure that his suffering on this account was fiercer, because his nature was very different from that of the monk of Wittenberg. But Francis did not challenge iniquity; he was not tempted to confront it; instead, he threw himself into poverty, immersing himself in it as deeply as possible along with his followers. He found in poverty the very source and wellspring of all absolution and all purity. Instead of attempting to snatch from the Church all her ill-gotten goods, he overwhelmed her with invisible treasures. And under the hand of this beggar the heaps of gold and lust began blossoming like an April hedge…

 

Ask, seek and knock

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

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Today's gospel (Matthew 7: 7-12) gives us another extract from the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus commands His listeners to ask God for what they need. At the same time, He assures them that they will receive what they ask for. To prove this, He reminds them that no parent refuses food to a child who needs it, and that since God is so much better than them, He is bound even more to do good to his children. Likewise, as God is good to them, so they must be good to others.

What is this gospel saying to us today? Sometimes, if we look at our prayers, it seems that we think that this passage is Jesus’ invitation to us to write the Father a Dear Santa letter.  We even secretly hope that since in our estimation we have been very, very good, the good Lord should really do the right thing and answer our prayers. I am not saying that we think these things consciously, but do they not look like this in the back of our mind, revealed perhaps by that niggling resentment that arises when what we so hoped or prayed for does not materialise?

Yet this is not the meaning of Jesus' words today. His words offer us so much more than Dear Santa ever could. At the heart of His message are these words:

Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.

Ask for what? we wonder. Ask for the Kingdom of God; this is what Jesus had just told them a few moments before: Seek first the Kingdom of God. We seek then, and it is His righteousness that we will find. And when He bids us knock, there is only one door that He intends for us to approach.

Can we not, therefore, ask for the temporal and material things that we need? This anxiety too Jesus answered just a few moments before:

Do not be anxious about your life, what you should eat or what you should drink, nor about your body, what you should put on.

Of course, we should ask, but only with our eyes on this other, wider horizon. Sometimes, our human pains are great, but even then they are a reminder that we have here no abiding city. We stand in the material world and in so many ways belong to it. Our sinful human nature inclines us, likewise, to choose the privileges and pleasures that other creatures can offer us, rather than the happiness that God holds in store for us. And in all these ways, we stop up our ears to the call, the vocation, that echoes incessantly around us. We are dupes for the fool's gold of temporary satisfaction and misuse those gifts that bring us to the eternal shore. All of us could say these words with Saint Augustine of Hippo:

Before thy eyes, O Lord, we bring our sins, and with them compare the stripes we have received. If we weigh the evil we have done, we find what we suffer to be much less than what we deserve.

And yet, at every moment, we hold the solution in our hands, and here it is in today's gospel:

Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.

What are these words of Jesus if not His simple invitation for us to be sensible of our burdens and to come to Him to seek our rest? What should we ask for but His help? What should we seek but Him? On whose door should we knock but heaven’s door? If we seek for a salve to ease the pains of all our anxieties and human frustrations, is it not to be found here in this command of Jesus: ask me?

For He knows full well that all our misguided searching or mistaking the things of this world for our destiny is a sign that beneath the ugly agendas we have given ourselves, there can be discerned all the promise that He associated with us from the moment of our conception. He knows us already by name. And He calls and calls us continually to die with Him so that we might rise with Him. When Jesus commands us to ask, He is in fact telling us to answer Him. For we only seek Him because He has first sought us. We only ask after His name because He has been asking everywhere for us. And we only knock at His door in answer to the knock that He gave at ours.

Liberty, equality, patriarchy

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

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Today’s gospel (Matthew 6: 7-15) sees Jesus teaching the disciples how to pray. In this scene, we hear for the first time the words of the Our Father, the Lord’s prayer, as it is called. We listen again to the seven petitions in which Jesus formulated our dependency on the Father in heaven. And finally, we hear Him underline at the end the parallel structure of forgiveness. We cannot ask forgiveness if we ourselves do not forgive. In that case, let forgiveness be done on earth as it is in heaven, for He is not only our Father but the judge of the universe.

How many petitions could Jesus have included in this prayer! Could He not have had His disciples pray for the blessing of always following Him, or always being born again each day in the Spirit, of always being perfect as the heavenly Father is perfect? No doubt He could. Yet in many ways, all such petitions are already summed up in the petition He gave us. For what is it to follow Him and to be born again in the Spirit if not for the kingdom to come in our hearts?

Still, there is another logic in these petitions that comes from their order in this august prayer and through which we experience once again the pedagogy of the Father. Adopted by God in Christ, we are taught by the first petition to call upon God as our Father. So familiar are we with this idea that we forget the remoteness of the gods in the old pagan religions – remote, that is, unless they were coming to earth on some self-serving adventure of their own or else to trade favours with useful, favoured humans. In Judaism, in contrast, the benign tenderness of God is a tangible thing, as is suggested by the Song of Songs alone. But the emphasis remains on the distance that separates us from God: Uzzah is struck dead for touching the ark of the covenant, and even the High Priest could only enter the Holy of Holies once a year. Now, by Jesus’ own invitation, God becomes our Father – Abba in Aramaic, the word for Daddy. There is the first logic of the gospel: we are invited to the feast to celebrate our return to the arms of our loving Father who is in heaven. Christianity is a homecoming, a reconciliation, but only for those who recognise they are far from home and stand in need of reconciliation.

Thereafter, in the Our Father we honour His name. Who among us offers the prayer of praise as much as we ought? It is the one prayer the angels never tire of which is why their example is held up for us in each Preface at Holy Mass. This is not just a rhetorical flourish before the Eucharistic Prayer; God our Father is also the Lord of all, the One who is above those who are not, to paraphrase His words to St Catherine of Sienna. He is the One on whom all are dependent for existence, even those who deny Him, even – mystery of mysteries - the very devil himself. Holy be the name of the Lord then, and here the Old Testament can teach us much by its legacy of reverence and humility before the ineffable God for whose kingdom we pray and whose will we beg to be done.

For now, we move from God to His creation where we discover the great laws of alignment and communion in His will. Creation is not a world of chaos without order; rather its intrinsic structure points towards the Intelligence who orders it continually; who holds it in being; and in whom all Creation fulfils its purpose. This is the coming of the kingdom, the realisation of God’s purposes in the order of Creation and in the human order – political, social, and individual. Psychological freedom involves the freedom to sin. But authentic freedom, a freedom which is consistent with its own grounding in God’s being, is not freedom to sin but freedom to use our powers to choose what is good, i.e. to return to God

For when He evokes the will of the Father, Jesus is already hinting at the task of redemption and His incarnation. Mankind had sinned and destroyed the order of God, but by the will of God a path of salvation was reestablished:

And He who might the vantage best have took

Found out the remedy.

And, so deep was the logic of that reordering that Jesus said the will of His Father was the very bread He lived on. Not my will by thine be done.

Thereafter, all the other petitions of the Our Father are further petitions of alignment with His holy purposes: His purposes for our material good and our daily bread; His purposes for reconciliation which cuts both ways between God and man and among men; His purposes for our spiritual safety which we obtain through the trial of temptation where God alone can deliver us from the hands of the evil one.

One of the most sinister tendencies in contemporary culture is the contempt for patriarchy; not that men have not been abusive, yet what we might call patriophobia is, so to speak, an attempt to throw out the father with the bathwater. All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. But in a return to our Father in heaven, there is the hope that fatherhood on earth can be redeemed along with all the other elements of redemption. Of course, there is a lot of hypocrisy spoken about equality too, but it is often the way that those who feel themselves most hurt by patriarchy are the very ones who unwittingly reassert power in some other form, backed up now by their own grievances. What would it take for us all to realise our own humble condition before the Father and Lord of all?  

Jesus is not ultimately a revolutionary so much as a restorationist, not to restore human dreams of phoney glory and habits of subtly abusive power, but to build sure paths for all to return to the glory of God and the harmony of creation from which they fell by sin. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Saying yes to death

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

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Today’s gospel (Luke 9: 22-25) offers us one of Jesus’ starker prophecies: the foretelling of His passion and death. It also contains an explanation of the implications of one of His first commands to the disciples: follow me. Follow me in living…well, why not, Lord? we reply…Follow me to my death…hmm, did we hear that right, Lord? The sufferings of the Lord will be multiple: rejection, slaughter, but then… He will be raised up. We are likely not to hear this last part, not least because Jesus punctuates it with the paradoxes of our discipleship: whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it. Why so much loss? we wonder.

After the rigours of yesterday’s fast, maybe we crave an easy time on the first morning. Some might think they are being humble by not aspiring to too much this Lent: the lower you aim, the less distance you can fall, perhaps? Given the paradoxes of Christianity, it might be that the lower you aim, the wider you miss.

Some may even think of Lenten idealists as they would of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s hero in the famous poem:

The shades of night were falling fast

When through an alpine village passed

A youth who bore, mid snow and ice,

A banner with this strange device,

Excelsior.

If what happened to him happens to Lenten enthusiasts, the risk is that they end up frozen by their own idealism and the bitter winds of pride.

The gospel here, however, is neither idealistic nor bitter.

It is not idealistic because Christ is not an ideal type, but a real person of flesh and blood. He does not invite us to be guided by higher aspirations, like Wadsworth’s youth, but by an inspiration that comes close to the centre of His being: His eternal communion with the Father and the Holy Spirit that pours forth with a torrent of love to His creation and His creatures. And this communion is sweet not bitter, moreover, because it is not secured through our all-conquering elan. Rather, it comes to us as a gift from the Father to the Son and from the Son to the Holy Spirit, overflowing into us through our redemption and sanctification.

So, why must this sweet communion seem so bitter to us, at least until the moment of resurrection? Why is it only reached along the paths appointed by this dreadful prophecy? Because since our fall in the Garden of Paradise, our only way back is through the Garden of Gethsemane. Since our betrayal of God’s friendship before the Tree of Knowledge, the only road home takes us by via the Tree of the Cross.  Since we tried to take our destiny into our own hands, we can only recover through recognising we are in his Hands. As the poet says:

   Is my gloom, after all,

Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?

   'Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,

   I am He Whom thou seekest!’

Francis Thompson could equally have written:

   'Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,

   It is thou whom I seekest!’

For in entering the desert of Lent, we do nothing for the Lord but attend to a call He has already sounded; we mirror the gesture of an already proffered hand that bears on it the mark of the nails.

If we can add to our cooperation a COLWelian skip of joy in our step, all the better. It is not easy to die on the Cross under whatever guise it comes to us this day (stresses, strains, losses, pains). But if we think of it as dying in His arms – His arms outstretched caressingly – then maybe, like Mary our model, we can say yes; yes just this once, as if answering an offer of marriage; yes, yes and thank you this one day and every one of the moments of our life to the end.

The truth of self-insufficiency

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

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Today’s gospel (Matthew 5: 17-37) presents us with a series of injunctions from Jesus who places His demands at the centre of the new law. Be perfect as you heavenly Father is perfect, He tells them, but the details of this injunction are even more startling. Henceforth, justice to others is no longer a matter of merely respecting their life. It is also a matter of not even being angry with them, of exercising patience, i.e. our capacity to bear with others. Purity is not to be thought of only as the avoidance of adultery but also as the purity of mind and heart where even our feelings and imaginations are shaped by a virtuous balance. Finally, truthfulness cannot be contained simply by speaking the truth, so much as in being above the need to swear to one’s veracity. Caesar’s wife must be above suspicion, but Jesus’ followers are supposed to be intrinsic truthtellers.

When we distil these commandments to their bare outlines, they sound like a heavy burden. There is indeed a way of keeping the commandments which is not only wrongheaded but wrong-hearted. This was in part the sin of the Pharisees who only judged things by their appearances. Nevertheless, the heart can go wrong not only when it seeks to seem good rather than to be good, but also when it attempts to meet the challenges of the law by its own resources. If the sin of the former is hypocrisy, the sin of the latter is self-sufficiency. James and John sometimes exhibit hypocritically skin-deep virtue, losing their temper to the point that Jesus called them the Sons of Thunder. Peter, in contrast, is the patron of self-sufficiency, declaring his undying adherence to the Lord until the moment of trial brought a bitter defeat. As he then learned, the burdens of patience, purity, and truthfulness are all the more momentous when we face them all alone.

But this is why no part of the gospel can be read in isolation from the rest. Jesus’ commandments in this gospel extract only make sense when connected with the rest of His teachings, not least the surprising lesson of the Good Shepherd: learn of me for I am meek and humble of heart. Or, If any man thirst, let him come to me and drink – if by thirst we understand the thirst for justice in the disciple who wants to carry out his Master’s wishes.

The madness of our self-sufficiency – for madness it is – comes even more to the fore in the discourse of Jesus at the Last Supper. There, we see that our path of perfection is in point of fact a path towards union. Not only does Jesus promise to dwell with the Father in those who love Him, He also affirms that we are only the branches to His vine. St Paul will say a similar thing later on by calling us all members of Christ’s body. We are not our own, nor are we Romantic heroes who strike a blow for rugged authenticity. Paul longed to be dissolved and to be with Christ, and so should we all, no longer clamouring for our hour in the spotlight, acclaiming our “I” before the world, but surrendering to the author of our existence our readiness to receive the incomparable gift of Himself.

There within, when all the noise dies and God has sculptured His silence within, then, we might know what it is to have the Lord come and pronounce His own Fiat within our hearts and minds, to speak His thank you to the Father in our own members in justice, patience, and truthfulness.