Little ones and beggars all

 Today’s gospel (Luke 10: 17-24) is full of little glimpses of Jesus in His Divine nature: how He watched Satan fall, how He gave power to the seventy-two disciples, how He relates to the Father, and how prophets and kings would have longed to see His day. The mysteries of the faith teach us to embrace the paradoxes that God’s revelation has shared with us: that God is one and three, that Jesus is man and God and that He died and rose.

At the heart of this gospel, however, is Jesus’ prayer of thanks to the Father for revealing His truths to the little ones, the children. Jesus does not aim to condemn cleverness but only the sense of power and independence that it can give rise to. He does not mean to slight learning, but only the self-aggrandizement that some learned people indulge in. Who then are the children of this passage? They are the ones who surrender themselves to Him: the ones who say ‘yes’ and echo His prayer of thanks. Mary, Mother of God, is the first of these. We are all called to follow in her wake.

When the COLW Book of Life invites us to be the anawim of the Lord, it is inviting us to this attitude of being children before the Lord, beggars of His grace who hope that in His mercy He will reveal to us the mysteries of the Father. When we desire to make this surrender, it is no doubt because He has been there before us, clearing the obstacles that prevent us, and smoothing the path for our small steps. When He invites us to do some of the clearing work, we find ourselves subjected to the ‘Father’s forming action’. That said, the greatest thing we can aspire to accomplish by that grace is to surrender ourselves to Him, begging every day for our names to be written in heaven like the names of the seventy-two.

We are so poor – so poor, says the French writer Fabrice Hadjadj, that we must even sometimes beg a voice with which to offer up prayers. In such a moment, however, it is worth remembering that even while we hate our sins, grace does not mean hating ourselves; it means forgetting ourselves. Even if we suddenly have power over the devils, therefore, we cannot rejoice in our competence but rather in our dependence on Him.   

Nearer my God to Thee

 Another gospel (Matthew 18: 1-5, 10) and another pair of mysteries that complement each other. When we read the gospels, we are often dumbfounded by how transparently vainglorious the disciples can be. Today they ask Jesus, “Who is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven?” We just know that this is not a simple, objective question posed by honest and peaceable minds reflecting on the things of God. This is a question most likely about their own status. Who knows, they might even have established a pecking order amongst themselves before approaching Jesus on the question.

                As is so often the case, Jesus’ response entirely wrongfoots their assumptions and turns the disciples’ attention to one of the ways in which our path back to God mirrors the path He took towards us. As the second person of the Trinity lowered himself to become man, so we must ‘lower ourselves’, putting aside all our wrongful pretensions of independence and swagger, to become instead who we really are: children of the loving Eternal Father.

                That littleness that Jesus praises in this gospel passage seems to evoke several things. Many would associate it with the action of the gift of Piety which enables us through the Holy Spirit to embrace God as our father. This gift was most active in the life of a saint like St Therese of Lisieux. Yet it seems to me that this littleness also evokes the importance of even very small things.

Nothing under God's heaven or in the reality that God created is meaningless. Meaningless has only ever been created by human beings. Curiously enough, modern science has shown how important the microscopic level is. The microscopic is not a blank and faceless dimension but one that is full of detail and ingenuity. Likewise a child that has truly learned how to play (not one inanely gawping and swiping at a tablet screen) enters a world of miniature drama and happiness. Jesus’ praise of the child is a reminder that only a world seen with childlike eyes reveals the rich symphony of meaning that God's love planted in the world. Here is an antidote to all the resentment that simmers in our fallen hearts. When we have these eyes, not only can we do the humble and unimportant things with gusto, but they make our hearts sing for joy because done through love. My friends - the relief! We no longer need to seek the glory of being the greatest because we now realise that God invests our smallest actions with a glorious eternal dimension. We realise that one day spent in the courts of the Lord is worth more than a thousand days spent in the courts of men.

The second mystery in today's gospel that complements this mystery of the greatness of little things is what Jesus says about the angels of the little ones (today being after all the feast of the angels). It is a wondrous enough thing that we have angels as guardians in the first place. It is a truth revealed in the gospel that is oddly honoured in secular culture just as it has become a dead letter in much of Christian culture. When was the last time you heard any senior Christian figure talk about the angels? But if it is a wondrous thing that we have angels in the first place, it is a still more wondrous thing to my mind that those very angels possess the beatific vision of God. As they accompany us through life, they are never deprived of the vision of the homeland of us all. As they perform their duties by our side, their minds remain wrapped in joy by seeing the Blessed Trinity in all its glory.

In other words, the reality of the angels who see the Father even now shows us the nearness of the eternal – that nearness that we only grasp when we can become like little children. It is as if we are climbing a hill with them and they have already reached the crest from where they turn to us and urge us on, so that we too might see what they can see.

               

Yes!

This is an extra blog reflection for today because apart from being the 26th Sunday in Ordinary Time, it is also the feast of St Therese of Lisieux, one of our Carmelite patrons. Fittingly, today's gospel (Matt 21: 28-32) is rather Colwelian in its implications.

              Jesus tells a parable about two sons who are asked by their father to go and work in the vineyard. The first one says ‘no’, but later thinks better of it and goes to do his father's will. The second one says ‘yes’ but then does nothing about it.

              Right at the heart of the charism of COLW is the mystery of our ‘yes’ to God in imitation of Mary. Our minds dwell on the mystery of the Annunciation, that point in history when humanity, who had heard God's commands and failed to keep them, now yielded in the person of Mary and said ‘yes’ again to the creator. Mary’s ‘yes’ becomes the antidote for Eve’s ‘no’, paving the way for our second Adam, Christ. And in this mystery, we find a symbol and a source of our own calling to say ‘yes’ and ‘thank you’ to God in every moment of our lives.

We know that there is always the potential to betray that ‘yes’. St Philip Neri’s favourite prayer was, “O Lord, don't trust Philip.” This was no humble braggadocio. Philip knew he was not reliable. None of us are really, not wholly. In other words, Philip knew - and we ourselves need to come to realise the same thing about ourselves - that we must be like the tax collectors and prostitutes who, Jesus said, believed in the message of John the Baptist. We know that Jesus told sinners to go and sin no more. We cannot imagine that Jesus held any other position on this point than the position of John the Baptist who continued to preach repentance to Herod, even at the cost of his own life. The tolerance of Jesus for those who are slow to say ‘yes’ (pretty much all of us at any given moment), and his inclination to dine with those shunned by the Pharisees, is not accommodationism but a necessary condition of the quest of the Good Shepherd for the sheep who are lost. The terrible moment for Herod was not the preaching of John but the determined silence of Jesus during his passion.

The moral map of Jesus and the moral map of the Pharisees were quite different in some regards. Both Jesus and the Pharisees would have condemned the traitors’ injustice of the tax collectors and the money-getting impurity of the prostitutes. But Jesus sets aside the ritual shunning of the sinner which seems to class the sinner as out of the reach of any compassion. Instead, Jesus’ actions anticipate the words of Saint Paul. How will they hear without a preacher?

But, if it thereby becomes necessary for Jesus to spend time with the tax collectors and prostitutes, it is all the more important for the tax collectors and prostitutes to spend time with Jesus. We tend to see ourselves in this gospel scene as the ones who are meant to follow Jesus' example, and of course that is true. But we are also the tax collectors and the prostitutes. We are! We have to listen to Jesus. If we do not listen to Jesus - if we surround ourselves with the voices who do not speak his truth or who twist his truth – then, who exactly are we listening to and what will become of us? This is why Lectio Divina is such an important practice for COLW members. We cannot say our ‘yes’, however slowly and hesitantly, if we do not listen to Him day by day.

We say every day: O Mary teach us always to say ‘yes’ to the Lord every moment of our lives. If Mary teaches us to say ‘yes’, one of the things that helps us extend that ‘yes’ to every moment of our lives is the Little Way of St Therese of Lisieux. It is our Carmelite sister St Therese who show us in her Little Way the infinite value of every moment. We are given so many moments, like so many grains of sand, that it might seem they have no value. But the Little Way of St Therese tells us to invest every moment with the infinite love of God – even this moment, right now, which is passing through my fingers and before your eyes. When we invest every action in every moment with that love through our repeated intention, then by God's grace we turn every little ‘yes’ into a perfect echo of the ‘yes’ of Mary. Mary’s ‘yes’ paved the way for the infinite, obedient ‘yes’ of Jesus to the Father which itself becomes the source on which we all must draw to say our ‘yes’.

  

The two mysteries

Today's gospel (Luke 9:43-45) contains two mysteries: first there is the mystery of God, and then there is the mystery of man.

The mystery of God lies quite simply in this: that despite all the glory and spectacle of Jesus’ miraculous progress through Israel, He knew very well and He told His disciples that he was going to suffer. There must be a cross. As the English poet Francis Thompson put it,

Must all Thy harvest fields be dunged with rotten death?

Thompson was a Manchester lad. As Manchester lad myself, I think I would have to answer him, “Yes, our Frank, they must.”

So much is this the case that when Peter tried to oppose Jesus’ plan to go to Jerusalem to suffer, Jesus even called him “Satan”. I’m sorry, my friends: it must be like this. We lost the opportunity for it to be any other way when we fell from grace. And so, Saint Paul glories in the cross of Christ - a scandal to the Jews and madness to the gentiles. Are we suffering? Let us take it as a sign He has not forgotten us.

Thus far one mystery.

The other mystery in today's gospel seems these days no less difficult for us, and it is the mystery of the human being. Jesus says he is going to be handed over into the power of men. We should stop and reflect on what a terrible indictment this is.

That said, some people might want to believe that this is the way forward for Jesus. Of course, he should approach men, dialogue with them, smoke pipes of peace with them, gather round with them in a circle holding potted plants, and sign peace accords between God and man, demonstrating that now they are in common cause. Isn’t that what a prophet who turns over tables in the temple really needs to think about?

But what all such diplomatic recourse would fail to understand is that the human being is a mystery even to himself. Like Richard Rich in A Man for All Seasons, man cannot account for his own actions, even so much as tonight. There are many good individuals in the world, but they are all tainted by sin. There are many good hearts that intend good things, but there is not a one of them who is not at some moments of the day a liar and a thief.

This is why we need a Saviour. This is why we should treat every scheme of false peace as something to put behind us.

St Jerome, pray for us.

COLW Lay Branch "Book of Life" Series 2023-24

If you are interested in joining the "Book of Life" Series, beginning on Wednesday, 4th October at 7.30pm, please drop us a line at laybranch@walsinghamcommunity.org  

The meetings are held monthly on Zoom and all sessions begin at 7.30pm.

Each month we will send you a pre-recorded talk on a chapter of the book for you to watch and some questions to ponder as you prayerfully read through the text.  At our meetings we will share, discuss the chapter and have the opportunity to ask questions and explore the various subjects covered.

Series schedule:

1. 4th October 2023

    Introductory Session 

    Reading before November meeting - pp. iv-ix and 1-15

2. 1st November 

    Origins and Identity 

    Reading before December meeting - pp.16-23

3. 6th December 

    Mary Our Model 

    Reading before February meeting - pp. 24-31

4. 7th February 

    Fiat in the Divine Will

    Reading before March meeting - pp. 32-38

5. 6th March 

    Vocational 

    Reading before April meeting - pp. 39-47

6. 3rd April 

    Incarnational 

    Reading before May meeting - pp. 48-58

7. 1st May 

    Contemplative 

    Reading before June meeting - pp. 59-75

8. 5th June 

    Apostolic

    Reading before the July gathering - The COLW Rule of Life

This information is also listed on the fixed page on this blog, so you can find the dates easily again in future. 

Let there be light

 The challenge of today's gospel seems more acute in our current age. We must not hold our light under a bushel, a bowl, or a bed! We would like to speak openly about our faith, but oftentimes the ground around us seems as stony as that field in the parable where the seeds took root only to wither away. We struggle to shake off the stereotypes around us.  It sometimes seems we cannot escape the pre-set ideas that so many of our contemporaries have about religion. They see faith as a kind of placard announcing doom, or like the kind of carry all tray from which people used to sell ice creams in cinemas. If one talks openly about religion, it is thought one must be trying to sell it, with all the self-interest of any salesman. This is not a new problem. Catholics in Great Britain had centuries of trying to keep their faith under wraps, but as one of the characters in Evelyn Waugh’s novel Brideshead Revisited says, “They try to keep it secret, but it comes out in so many ways,” or words to that effect.

                It might ease our anxieties about this to consider that being such a light is not primarily an exercise in communication, but a response to the vocation we all have to be faithful to God. To be such a light in a world that seems to strangle truth at every turn, fidelity to what we are meant to be is eloquent witness. We do not have to be the clever barrister who convinces the court that they are hearing the truth, but rather the honest witness he speaks out of the fullness of belief that what they have known and loved is true.

Maybe it is useful to remember that people cannot hear the answer to a question they are not asking, and they are more likely to ask such a question - the necessary question that all human beings must consider - if they are given the chance to be curious. There is all the difference in the world between not hiding our light underneath a bushel and shining it in someone's eyes directly. Discretion without zeal leads to indifference; if we hide our light, we salt the fields of the gospel. Zeal without discretion, on the other hand, leads to repugnance; if we blaze away enthusiastically, we rely too much on ourselves, putting our capacities front and centre. But why should anyone buy ‘us’?

Then comes the mysterious line at the end of the gospel: to he who has, more will be given; to he who has not, even the little he thing he has will be taken away. This, if anything, should be a warning to us, that the fullness of our light does not come from a sophisticated or robust communication strategy that aims to ensure people hear the Word. The fullness of our light comes from the fullness of our hearts when they relish wisdom, and which – because they relish wisdom – can overflow (when the Holy Spirit guides us) with the sureness that comes not from self-confidence but confidence in God. In this sense the measure of our ability to take that light out to others will be the distance that we travel inwardly towards God.

A seedy reflection

Disciples of Jesus might have the awful temptation when reading today's gospel to think but they represent the seed that has fallen in good soil. The way in which Jesus secretly explains the meaning of this parable could even reinforce such an assumption, because we share in listening to his secret commentary. But that is probably a very dangerous way for any Christian to go about reading the gospel. We always want to be the hero in the story until, that is, we find out that we are the villain.

Worse still, we are usually the villain under the appearance of doing good. The first seed falls on the ground on the edge of the path and it is taken away by the birds. I imagine those seeds like Christians who make themselves so available to others and become so activist that they do not leave time for the one essential thing that is ‘the better part’, as Jesus said to Martha. Laziness is one of the seven deadly sins, but busyness can itself be a source of grief, rather than a proof of our love. This may be an even greater temptation for Christians in our world where so much public and professional life is shaped by incessant and ceaseless toil, often for ends that are less than honourable.

The next seeds fall into shallow ground where they have no moisture and quickly wither away. Perhaps these are like the Christians who simply rely on a superficial understanding of the structures around them. Soil is soil; why should we question it? The soil is in the field; what's the problem? But we have to scrutinise. We have to use our prudence. We have to discern where apparent good disguises a vicious shallowness that would betray us. The seeds that fall in the shallow soil are like the Christians who think Christian conventions will suffice, as if Jesus did not call us to something deeper and more challenging called the Cross.

Finally comes the seed that falls among the thorns ‘and the thorns grew with it and choked it’. Jesus himself tells us that these seed are like people who are choked by the worries and riches and pleasures of life. The thing is, however, that no self-respecting Christian consciously embraces worries, riches and pleasures. So, does this not apply to us? Rather, the risk is that these things become subtly justified. They take on the shape of necessities in a life that can slouch towards increasing infidelity, whereas we only wished to avoid too much rigidity. But what good is salt that has lost its savour? We should not be so rigid that we break; we should not be so indulgent that we unwittingly become spineless.

Perhaps in our relativist world, there is also pressure increasingly to treat the thorns simply as other legitimate forms of life. “The trouble with Jesus,” I imagine one of our contemporaries saying, “is that he thought too narrowly about thorns which are in fact just another type of plant and have seeds of their own, you know! You need to embrace a wider vision of life. Jesus would if he were here today.” If we find the thorns encroaching on us, it is now we who should question our own narrowness, rather than lamenting the thorns' refusal to bear fruit and complaining of their capacity to stifle the gentle life around them.

But it is as Isaiah says:

Woe to those who call evil good

and good evil,

who put darkness for light

and light for darkness,

who put bitter for sweet

and sweet for bitter!   

 

Be the seed that falls on good soil. And God will give the increase.

The necessary resurrection

 The story of the raising of the deceased son of the widow of Nain is one of the most touching stories in the gospel. Jesus’ gestures in this scene are those of compassion. The Lord saw the grieving mother, He felt sorry for her, and He approached the bier of the dead man and put His hand on it. Jesus defies the convention of not approaching the dead because He wants to be with the grieving mother. He felt sorry for her. We don't often think of Jesus feeling sorry for us. We tend to think of our failure to feel sorry for Him and His sufferings.

Many commentators see this scene as a dramatisation of Jesus in relation to the Church and her children who are dead through mortal sin. The Church is the widow who weeps over those who have received the life of grace but lost it. The child lies dead upon the bier, unreachable by human means. There are those who say that the only thing necessary to approach the Eucharist is faith. But that is a bit like saying that the only thing this cadaver needs to perk him up is a good square meal! Before he ever eats again, this son needs the merciful intervention of his creator to restore him to life. He does not now require nourishment; he needs resurrection.

              And in the wake of the resurrection of the son of the widow of Nain, we can taste again the raw joy and awe of people who are blessed enough to witness directly the mercy of God. A great prophet has appeared. This is a prophet who knows how not to hide or deny the dire condition of humanity, but rather to face it down, to raise his hand in blessing, and to restore to life those most in need of his mercy.

The joys of Our Lady of Sorrows

 There are for me two surprising things about today's gospel. On the one hand, we see what looks like a farewell from Jesus turn into a command for Mary and John. On the other hand, we are given an object lesson in the joys that stand behind every sorrow that Providence allows to be visited on us.

One reading of this gospel would see Jesus’ words simply as a valediction, a last testament. It is as if He were saying, “Look after mum for me.” Famous last words abound in history, from Nelson’s sublime, “Kismet, Hardy” to Oscar Wilde’s jocular, “Either it goes or I do” (looking at the lurid wallpaper in his Parisian garret). In this perspective, the words of Jesus seemed rather more mundane and indeed closer to what our own words might be. “Look after mum for me.”

Except, it seems that this is not Jesus’ intention at all. For He does not turn to John first but to his mother. Addressing her formally with a Hebrew expression that means something like “Madam”, He tells her to look at the man who is now her son. This is not a farewell. This is a command. It is an order. Normally we try to lighten the burdens of people who are in sorrow. Jesus, however, tells Mary there is work to do. He makes her not a new mother but a mother anew.

Looking at John, Mary could henceforth have said, “This is my beloved son. This day I have begotten him.” If we miss this command to Mary, then, Jesus’ words seem like they are simply registering Mary in the Saint John’s old folks’ home. If we take account of them, we see that Jesus’ words register John in the school of Mary.

And this is the second surprising thing about the gospel today. On the one hand we see, as it were, the death bed scene of Jesus who is nailed to the cross. How crushing for His mother and for those of His friends and family who were present. No wonder she is Our Lady of Sorrows. Here in this moment, the sword of sorrow predicted by Simeon pierces her heart and leaves wounds that will be glorified but never taken away. In contrast, nevertheless, we should remember Jesus’ own words about the woman who sorrows while she is bringing life into the world but who, when her labour pangs are over, rejoices at the new birth. If we may be permitted to lift the veil of this sorrowing mother, perhaps we will glimpse a secret joy at the newfound purpose God, her Son, has placed in her hands. We can no more doubt the burgeoning of Mary's joy here than we can doubt any of Jesus' promises. This is not the end; this is a new beginning. Her sorrows will soon be turning into joy. She who mourns is in a sense already comforted. Her fiat in sorrow before her Son's execution can now become a fiat in joy at the new life in her arms.

And perhaps more wonderful still, in the face of her new son John, and in each face of everyone baptised in the blood of Jesus, she catches the likeness of her own son.

Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.

 

 

From the heights of the cross

 In today's gospel, we find Jesus speaking in the night to Nicodemus. Nicodemus is actually a Pharisee, and Jesus chooses to speak to him by commenting on a passage of the Old Testament that would have been known to all Jews. It is a commentary that allows us to see how Jesus brings to fulfilment the foreshadowing of himself in the history of Israel. At one point during the Exodus, the Jews were being frequently bitten by a poisonous snake, and the remedy that God Himself gave to Moses was that he should make an image of the serpent from brass and hang it on the crotch of a tree. Subsequently, everyone who looked upon the serpent would be healed of the poison that had been injected into him.

                These parallels between the history of Israel and Jesus' life are the poetry of God in which happenstance and circumstance, at least to our eyes, are woven into the song of His love that calls us back to Him. Hearing our vocation is the beginning of our answer to the poetry of God’s saving invitation. We too have been attacked by a serpent and are suffering from the poison that this has left in our system. This is the poison of sin. It renders us ignorant, ill willed, weak, and self-indulgent. These are the blemishes in our nature which only the grace of God can heal. In fact, one of the distinctions that identifies the effects of God's grace in sinners is between gratia sanans - healing grace – and gratia elevans - grace that raises us up. God’s grace does both, curing our ills and bringing us to a place no purely human power could reach.

                In this gospel we are also given to understand why we too must be raised up. For if we are members of the mystical body of Christ, then we too must be raised up on the cross in order to share in the eternal life of the blessed Trinity. In the cross there is also a sign of the expansive love of God who wills to bring us into His very heart. Just as we stretch out our arms in order to embrace those we love, so God - who loves the world and sends His Son to save it - stretches out His arms in the crucifixion of that Son, casting the mighty from their thrones and raising up the lowly anawim, His servants.

                We face here one of the many paradoxes, one of the apparent contradictions, which are part of God's poetry also. As Saint Paul tells us, this cross, an instrument of torture, pain, and despair, is a scandal to the Jews and folly to the Gentiles. For the people of Israel, it represents the apparent abasement of the God Most High, and for everyone else, it represents yet another example of human stupidity. But the folly of God is greater than the wisdom of men, and the greatness of His folly would rescue us unworthy ones from a condemnation that we have only too often deserved. Thus, the great hymn Crux Fidelis captures this mad poetry of God's love on Good Friday:

Sweet the nails, and sweet the wood,

Laden with so sweet a load!

When we listen to the cross, we hear the call of His love to rise above the misery of our current condition. And from the heights of the cross – the exaltation of the Cross literally means ‘from the heights’ ex altis – we can see into the distant country of our eternal home.

But, only from its heights...