21st Sunday Ordinary Time B

John 6:51-58

August 19, 2012

 

He repeated again and again: "I am the flesh, I am the bread, I am the life. I come from the Father, I have seen the Father, I was sent by the Father," and so on and on.

It seems a mysterious, deep, difficult, and endless discussion. It is a type of discussion we have all experienced, though at another level, from time to time in our lives.

 There is your son, standing in front of you.

He doesn't smoke tobacco, but something he calls weed.
You talk and talk.
You want to make him participate and share in what you know, in what you have experienced, in your wisdom.
He remains aloof and unapproachable. He stays unresponsive.
And you say: "If only I could creep into your head.
If you could only look through my eyes."

 You are standing in front of your daughter, the beautiful one who comes home very late from dances and parties at which there are all kinds of people you do not know, that you have no relations with.

You talk and talk. You weep, and you implore.
You tap all your experience, you fall on your knees, and you say: "If I could only let you know what I know. If only I could let you experience what I experienced.
If only I could let you feel the bitterness I have felt. If you only could drink the water I drank."

 You are laying next to the one you love.

There is a very delicate point.
It is very important to you.
He does not see, she does not understand, he does not feel.
You take her hands, you kiss his eyes.
You stroke his back, you put your head in her lap, and you say: "If only I could be you.
If only I could let you see with my eyes.
If only I could make you hear with my ears.
If only I could make you touch with my hands.
 
If you only could eat the bread I ate.
If you only could be my flesh.
If only you could have my blood!"

That is how Jesus talked that afternoon to them.

He knew that only his type of life—loving, forgiving, community building, taking children as your first issue,
Simple, nonviolent, always ready to dialogue, never hardened, God-fearing, and human life respecting – could save this world and humankind from disaster.

 He pleaded: "Please, see my point. I do know.

Please, hear me out, I am sure.
Please feel my feeling. I come from on high.
Eat my bread, drink my water; eat my flesh, drink my blood."

 He pleaded with them.

He pleads with us to change, to see the need for conversion. To give an example of that need:
Did you know that in 1973, in a country like Nigeria, $9 per person was spent on arms, $1 per person on health, and $3 per person on education?
And in "God's own country," the U.S.A., the numbers were respectively $373, $171, and $348 that year?
And that 39 years later the figures have become much worse all over the world?

 Think about Jesus pleading in his time,

 but more relevant still, try to understand how he would plead now in this world, in Syria, Iraq and Afghanistan, Palestine and Israel, and everywhere.
We should eat him. We should drink him.

That is, of course, what we do during this Mass.
But it is as if we are not serious about him at all.
We fragment him to nothing, to a small piece of bread, and we reduce his drink to a drop of wine.
When eating his bread, we should feel what we do.
We should be made to eat a whole loaf here on the spot eucharistically, so it becomes an arduous, difficult, and felt task, in order that we might really turn into him.

That is what we need, and this world needs, too.

We need to take seriously what we do here each week.
It is what he knew so very well.

2oth Sunday Ordinary Time

John 6:51-58

August 19, 2012

 

He repeated again and again: "I am the flesh, I am the bread, I am the life. I come from the Father, I have seen the Father, I was sent by the Father," and so on and on.

It seems a mysterious, deep, difficult, and endless discussion. It is a type of discussion we have all experienced, though at another level, from time to time in our lives.

There is your son, standing in front of you.

He doesn't smoke tobacco, but something he calls weed.
You talk and talk.
You want to make him participate and share in what you know, in what you have experienced, in your wisdom.
He remains aloof and unapproachable. He stays unresponsive.
And you say: "If only I could creep into your head.
If you could only look through my eyes."

 You are standing in front of your daughter, the beautiful one who comes home very late from dances and parties at which there are all kinds of people you do not know, that you have no relations with.

You talk and talk. You weep, and you implore.
You tap all your experience, you fall on your knees, and you say: "If I could only let you know what I know. If only I could let you experience what I experienced.
If only I could let you feel the bitterness I have felt. If you only could drink the water I drank."

 You are laying next to the one you love.

There is a very delicate point.
It is very important to you.
He does not see, she does not understand, he does not feel.
You take her hands, you kiss his eyes.
You stroke his back, you put your head in her lap, and you say: "If only I could be you.
If only I could let you see with my eyes.
If only I could make you hear with my ears.
If only I could make you touch with my hands.

 If you only could eat the bread I ate.

If you only could be my flesh.
If only you could have my blood!"

That is how Jesus talked that afternoon to them.

He knew that only his type of life—loving, forgiving, community building, taking children as your first issue,
Simple, nonviolent, always ready to dialogue, never hardened, God-fearing, and human life respecting – could save this world and humankind from disaster.
He pleaded: "Please, see my point. I do know.
Please, hear me out, I am sure.
Please feel my feeling. I come from on high.
Eat my bread, drink my water; eat my flesh, drink my blood."

 He pleaded with them.

He pleads with us to change, to see the need for conversion. To give an example of that need:
Did you know that in 1973, in a country like Nigeria, $9 per person was spent on arms, $1 per person on health, and $3 per person on education?
And in "God's own country," the U.S.A., the numbers were respectively $373, $171, and $348 that year?
And that 39 years later the figures have become much worse all over the world?

 Think about Jesus pleading in his time,

 but more relevant still, try to understand how he would plead now in this world, in Syria, Iraq and Afghanistan, Palestine and Israel, and everywhere.
We should eat him. We should drink him.

That is, of course, what we do during this Mass.

But it is as if we are not serious about him at all.
We fragment him to nothing, to a small piece of bread, and we reduce his drink to a drop of wine.
When eating his bread, we should feel what we do.
We should be made to eat a whole loaf here on the spot eucharistically, so it becomes an arduous, difficult, and felt task, in order that we might really turn into him.

That is what we need, and this world needs, too.

We need to take seriously what we do here each week.
It is what he knew so very well.

19th Sunday Ordinary Time

John 6: 41-51
August 12, 2012

 

When we lose faith, it seldom has much to do with mysterious doctrines like the Trinity or the hypostatic union.

More often, we lose faith in people to whom we looked for guidance, or we judge life to have taken such a disastrous turn that not even God can remedy circumstances.
We lose faith in human goodness or in divine providence. And who among us has not been so tempted?

 Elijah the prophet had just witnessed God’s astounding victory on Mount Carmel, and yet he was cast down by the infidelity of his compatriots.

He had had enough. He had lost faith.
 Some of those who had just witnessed Jesus’ ability to supply them with food, turned away when he explained the source of his mysterious power.
They had had enough. Their response: I doubt it.

In some ways it is much easier to study the faith than to live by it.

Perhaps this is because we are not expected to understand the mysteries to which we pledge allegiance, but we are expected to live righteously through the mysterious twists and turns of life.
We have to live with disappointment and loss and failure, and not give up on other people or on God.
We have to allow our expectations and perspectives to be challenged, and not turn our backs on the possibility of new insight.

Paul provides us with a plan of action.

Do away with bitterness, fury and anger.
Live lives of kindness, compassion and forgiveness.

What has any of this to do with faith?

It is faith that strengthens us to live in this way in a world filled with terror and violence, in a church marked by betrayal and disillusionment.
Will we ever really understand our faith? I doubt it.
Will we ever really learn to live by it?
I hope so.

18th Sunday Ordinary Time

John 6: 24-35

August 5, 2012

 

 In these exchanges Jesus is dealing with a conventional religious consciousness that is difficult to change.

It values miraculous deeds because they provide for physical needs and authenticate what a person says.
Conventional religious consciousness stops short of considering the deeds as signs that reveal the deeper world of Spirit.
In a similar way, those persons with this consciousness are concerned about actions that can be seen but not about the interiority of the actor, the place that enables the actions to be performed.
Their consciousness is locked into the visible, material, and temporal.
The invisible, spiritual, and eternal elude them.

 "Don't keep hungering after wonders as wonders, thinking the next miracle will solve your problems. Notice there is a deeper hunger in you, not for what perishes in time but for what lasts into eternity"

 "Turn your mind from doing things to the inner space from which you are able to do things. God's work is always co-done with God."

 "Don't ask, 'How will I know this is true?' Ask, 'Am I in communion with God and receiving divine life?'"

"Manna every morning will not solve the whole problem. Connect with me and be forever satisfied on a spiritual level."

 These are not easy adjustments to be made.

When they cannot be made, the villain is a hardened heart, an inflexible attachment to a surface way of being and thinking.
 However, when consciousness does adjust to the spiritual, it can change the human life in profound ways.

 One of my favorite stories of adjusting consciousness is titled

 “Junk.”, "Junk!"
 It goes like this:

 

God bless my mother, and God bless me. We made it through.

She had a stroke and long period or rehabilitation, and it was clear she was going to have to stay with us for a while. I had all these things in mind: it was a chance to pay her back for all those years. There were these things I was going to help her clear up, like the way she was thinking. I wanted to do the whole job very well, this big op

 Fights? Classics, like only a mother and daughter can have.

And my mother is a great fighter, from the Old School of somehow loving it and being very good at it and getting a kind of ecstatic look in your eye when you're really into it. I guess I'm exaggerating. It drives me a little crazy. I hate to argue. Oh, well .. .

But it got bad. Over a hard-boiled egg we had a bad fight. We'd both gotten worn out, irritable, and frustrated. Boom! I don't remember what about—just about how it was all going and why her stay had gotten difficult and all of us had become more and more irritable and short-tempered.

In the middle of it, she stopped short and said, "Why are you doing all this for me anyway?" It sort of hit me and I started to list all the reasons. They just came out: I was afraid for her; I wanted to get her well; I felt maybe I'd ignored her when I was younger; I needed to show her I was strong; I needed to get her ready for going home alone; old age; and on and on. I was amazed myself. I could have gone on giving reasons all night. Even she was impressed.

"Junk?" I yelled. Like, boy, she'd made a real mistake with that re­mark. I could really get her.

"Yes, junk," she said again, but a little more quietly. And that little­more-quietly tone got me. And she went on: "You don't have to have all those reasons. We love each other. That's enough."

I felt like a child again. Having your parents show you something that's true, but you don't feel put down—you feel better, because it is true, and you know it, even though you are a child. I said, "You're right. You're really right. I'm sorry." She said, "Don't be sorry. Junk is fine. It's what you don't need anymore. I love you."

 It was a wonderful moment, and the fight stopped, which my mother accepted a little reluctantly. No, I'm joking—she was very pleased. She saw how it all was. Everything after that was just, well, easier—less pressure, less trying, less pushing, happening more by itself. And the visit ended up fine. We just spent time together, and then she went back to her house.

 There is a deeper level where spiritual love elevates our efforts, and things are "easier, less trying, less pushing, happening more by itself." Anyone who does not need this, please raise your hand.

15th Sunday Ordinary Time

Mark 6:7-13

July 15, 2012

 

It's difficult to imagine the courage of those twelve men who left everything they knew, their families, homes and jobs—often at a moment's notice—to follow Jesus.

How much more courage must they have had, though, to leave him.

Today's Gospel tells the story of Jesus sending his disciples out into the world, to preach the gospel, to heal the sick, to expel demons.

He doesn't send them to his friends and relatives with letters of introduction.
He doesn't map out an itinerary for them, with comfortable lodging and good food.
He doesn't supply them with a suitcase of clothes or even an overnight bag.
And he tells them to bring no money.
Not a cent.

Our reading skips over just how the apostles might have felt about all this.
No mention of a vote on the issue. Not a lot of "what-ifs" or "yes-buts."
They just went.
We've all heard the slogan WWJD – What Would Jesus Do?
And it can be an enjoyable mental exercise to think about how Jesus would handle our nosy neighbor, our thoughtless spouse or our ill-mannered cat.
But then we think, "Yes, but that was Jesus.
What would a normal person do?"

We should recall, though, that none of the apostles were chosen because of their stellar resumes.

A few fishermen, a tax collector, a notorious doubter and some guy he found under a fig tree—these were Jesus' choices.
None of them were saintly when Jesus found them, some had great difficulty grappling with their faith (Peter, most notably), and one never got it right at all.
They were all just ordinary men.

Consider, too, that the Israelites didn't take a vote on who would be their next prophet, and there was not a long line of applicants for the job.

One has only to recall the enthusiasm of Jonah, who promptly took passage on a ship heading westward—in the opposite direction from the city to which he was sent.

Our First Reading brings home this point through the testimony of the prophet Amos.

"I was no prophet, nor have I belonged to a company of prophets; I was a shepherd and a dresser of sycamores.
The Lord took me from following the flock, and said to me, Go, prophesy to my people."

An old saying has it, "God doesn't call the qualified; he qualifies the called."

Wouldn't we be foolish to think that the instruction Jesus gave to the Twelve is somehow limited to those in the inner circles of the church, to those who are ordained or the official representatives of our church.
It is more likely that the urgent concern God has for repentance and compassion and forgiveness finds its expression today in persons from callings in life just as lowly as shepherds and dressers of sycamores, in fishermen and women working at home and in....you, all of you.

 Didn't Jesus send out all of his disciples, 100 percent of them, to chase and heal?

If we are not his disciples, who are we?
If we are his disciples, how are our lives responding to his command?