Suffering, Some Thoughts

I trust the title of this post won't be taken the wrong way, leading some to believe that my offering of a few thoughts will result in suffering for both you and me. At least, I hope not. No, at Mass this morning, as I proclaimed the Gospel, my aging brain entertained a few thoughts about suffering that I'd like to share. They're really nothing new or radical; they're just things I've come to understand and eventually accept as I approach ever closer to the end of this most wonderful of God's gifts, the gift of life.

The Gospel reading, from Mark 10, has always been a favorite because it focuses on that remarkable encounter between Jesus and Bartimaeus, the blind man of Jericho. Bartimaeus had suffered. After all, he was blind in a society totally lacking in resources to help him cope with his disability. Things are thankfully different today, but the visually impaired still suffer in a world centered on those with sight. But in the first-century Roman Empire, the blind, unless they came from a wealthy family, usually became beggars. The blind, the deaf, the crippled -- indeed, most people with serious disabilities -- were almost entirely dependent on others. Unable to support themselves through work, they were totally dependent on their families or the charity of those who passed by. Since Mark reveals that Bartimaeus is the son of Timaeus, we can assume his parents cared for him. And yet, given the times in which he lived, I think we can say that Bartimaeus suffered.

Now, what do I know of suffering? Of physical suffering, very little. Here I am, just a few months from my 80th birthday and I've been hospitalized only once, thanks to appendicitis at the age of ten. Other than that memorable experience, I've remained in disgustingly good health ever since. Have I suffered in other ways? Yes, but no more than most people my age and far less than many. But this isn't about me. It's about so many good people I know who have suffered deeply, but so often quietly.

When we consider Bartimaeus, we find a man who had likely been blind since birth, was forced to beg at the city gates of Jericho, and yet never gave up hope. He knew that the God of Israel heals, and such healings often come through the word and touch of holy men sent by God Himself. He had obviously heard of Jesus for the news of His acts of healing couldn't be suppressed. Sitting at the gates, Bartimaeus would have heard this and so much more about this man from Nazareth. Hope, then, filled his heart and when he was told of Jesus' presence, hope was joined by faith. My mom used to say, "Hope, once it fills the heart, drives us to faith." And so, hopeful Bartimaeus, once he experiences the Presence of Jesus, cries out in faith, “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me.”

He continues to shout his plea to Jesus and, despite the condescension of the less-than-merciful disciples, gets Our Lord's attention. Jesus calls him. Bartimaeus, now filled with faith, leaps to his feet, discards his cloak, the sign of his beggary, and no doubt filled with the Holy Spirit, ran directly to Jesus. 

Note that his response to Jesus' question is “Master I want to see." Yes, it's a plea focused only on himself, but it's a faith-driven, fervent plea, and Jesus heals because, "Your faith has saved you." Now isn't that interesting? Bartimaeus begs for sight, and he receives it, but Jesus' real gift, the gift He proclaims, is the gift of salvation that stems from this man's faith.

But even more interesting is Bartimaeus' response to Jesus' command, "Go your way..."  What was Bartimaeus' "way"? To go home to his parents, to share the good news of his healing with his father, Timaeus? To celebrate with the people of Jericho who had long known the blind beggar at the gates? Apparently not, for Bartimaeus chose a different path. This healing had done far more than heal him physically. It had changed him in his very being. For now, this new man of God, would follow the Lord on the road to Calvary. He would follow "The WAY" to the salvation promised by Jesus. 

I've mentioned this many times in the past, but I'll say it again: Flannery O'Connor is among my favorite writers. She was a very Catholic, but very downhome girl from Georgia, and if you've never read her, do so. She writes remarkable, and truly unforgettable, stories of sinfulness, repentance, grace, forgiveness, suffering, and salvation. And boy oh boy, did she certainly understand suffering. Although she suffered from Lupus her entire adult life and succumbed to the disease at the age of 39, she considered her suffering a blessing. As she once wrote to a friend:

"Sickness before death is a very appropriate thing and I think those who don’t have it miss one of God’s mercies.”

As I said earlier, I've experienced little physical suffering, but I've spent a lot of time with those who have. I've prayed with and for them, and sat with them at their bedsides, where we joked, laughed, and cried. I've held shaky hands and hugged tired bodies. I've been with them during their last moments, brought Jesus to them in His Eucharistic Presence, and tried to help them reach out in peace to a loving, merciful Lord.  

Yes, they have suffered. But they have also been healed of the cares and worries and sins they carried with them. For as St. Paul reminds us:

"We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose" [Rom 8:28].

Yes, indeed, He calls us according to His purpose, not ours.

Let me share just a couple of other things Flannery O'Connor taught me and others about sufferings and healing.  

"You will have found Christ when you are concerned with other people's suffering and not your own."

...and then this:

"This notion that grace is healing omits the fact that before it heals, it cuts with the sword Christ said He came to bring."

I think both of these observations are worthy of our meditation.

God's peace...

God Turns All to Good

45 years ago, I was a Naval officer aboard a ship in the Philippines when I got the word that my mom was near death. The cancer she had battled for so long would finally take her. My commanding officer granted me emergency leave and I somehow managed to make it back to the states in near record time. The trip from halfway around the world involved a series of flights aboard several military and civilian aircraft. Arriving at Boston's Logan Airport, I was met by my dad and brother who drove me straight to the hospital in Hyannis on Cape Cod. 

My first look at Mom as I entered her room told me she wouldn't be with us much longer. Her words merely confirmed this. She looked up at me and said, "Okay, Lord, now I can die."

We spent some time together in prayer but at one point she said, "Dana, I've learned that everything is a gift. Even this horrid disease is a gift because it has taught me so much." 

Of course, as a 30-something Navy pilot, I didn't have a clue. How could she say that? A gift? No, this was a tragedy! Still in her sixties, she had suffered too much for far too long. I simply didn't understand what she meant and didn't try to grasp her meaning.

It took some time, actually a couple of decades, for her words to make sense to me. Sometimes that's how God works in our lives. He waits until we are properly disposed to understand His Word and then He reveals it to us in ways we can accept. In my case it came thanks to many others who, like Mom, were seriously ill and facing death. Their attitudes and words mirrored Mom's, forcing me to seek understanding. 

And then, one day, I read a letter by one of my favorite writers, Flannery O'Connor. Throughout her adult life, O'Connor had suffered from Lupis, a disease that would ultimately take her at the age of 39. Referring to her illness, O'Connor wrote these words to a friend:

"I have never been anywhere but sick. In a sense sickness is a place, a very instructive place, and it's always a place where there's no company, where nobody can follow. Sickness before death is a very appropriate thing and I think those who don't have it miss one of God's mercies." [The Habit of Being, p. 163]

"...one of God's mercies." One senses that O'Connor, too, realized all is a gift for those who strive to accept God's will for them. 

This morning I was reminded of this again. Listening to the news, we were told that Rush Limbaugh died a year ago today. As the news show briefly covered this anniversary of his death, they showed a video of Limbaugh, apparently just days before he died. Speaking to his nationwide audience, it seemed as if he were consoling them as he said:

"There's good in everything that happens, if you look for it."

Yes, indeed, we encounter many examples of people who came to realize and accept the goodness in so much the world considers bad. Of course, St. Paul said it best, didn't he?

"We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to His purpose" [Romans 8:28].

God's peace...

The Eucharist, Abortion, and Politics

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this book before -- The Habit of Being, a collection of letters by Flannery O'Connor (1925-1964). If I haven't mentioned it, I certainly should have, because it's among my favorites, one of those books I return to occasionally, just to sample the wisdom of this remarkable woman who left us far too early.

Anyway, included among the letters are many O'Connor wrote to a friend, Betty Hester. (As the letters were being compiled for publication in 1979, Hester asked the editor not to reveal her name. Referred to as "A" in the book, her identity has since been revealed.) In one of these letters, written on 16 December 1955, O'Connor described a dinner she attended at the New York home of the novelist, Mary McCarthy. The guests included Robert Lowell and other literary luminaries. O'Connor, only about 25 at the time, had just been published and was considered a new, up-and-coming writer and storyteller with a future. Of course, this girl from Georgia felt more like a fish out of water in the presence of these big-city notables. But as the conversation continued into the early morning hours, it got serious, at least for this faithful, young Catholic. Here's an excerpt from the letter, written perhaps five or six years after the events described:

"Having me there was like having a dog present who had been trained to say a few words but overcome with inadequacy had forgotten them. Well, toward morning the conversation turned on the Eucharist, which I, being the Catholic, was obviously supposed to defend. Mrs. Broadwater [i.e., Mary McCarthy] said when she was a child and received the Host, she thought of it as the Holy Ghost, He being the 'most portable' person of the Trinity, now she thought of it as a symbol and implied that it was a pretty good one. I then said, in a very shaky voice, 'Well, it it's a symbol, then to hell with it.' That was all the defense I was capable of but I realize now this is all I will ever be able to say about it, outside of a story, except that it is the center of existence for me, all the rest of life is expendable." [The Habit of Being, p. 125]

Yes, indeed, if the Eucharist is just a symbol, why bother? And yet, how many Catholics today believe what Mary McCarthy believed, that the Eucharist is no more than a symbol, although "a pretty good one?" I can't say for certain, but I suspect those 60 pro-abortion, Catholic, Democrat representatives who accused the U. S. Bishops of "weaponizing" the Eucharist consider the Sacrament little more than a symbol. Like Flannery O'Connor, do they accept the Eucharist as "the center of existence," and like the Fathers of the Second Vatican Council, do they understand the Eucharist "the source and summit of the Christian life?" If so, they are sending the rest of us a very confusing message, since they certainly don't worry about approaching the Sacrament unworthily. How did St. Paul put it?

"Therefore whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord unworthily will have to answer for the body and blood of the Lord. A person should examine himself, and so eat the bread and drink the cup. For anyone who eats and drinks without discerning the body, eats and drinks judgment on himself" [1 Cor 11:27-29].

To deny the explicit teachings of the Church -- and believe me the Church has been consistently explicit in declaring abortion an "inherent evil" that must be rejected by all Catholics -- and to then receive the Eucharist is to do so "unworthily."

The U. S. Bishops have stated that when it comes to permitting or promoting abortion or euthanasia, Catholic politicians may not "promote such laws or vote for them." One can only hope their upcoming document on the reception of the Eucharist will clear up this issue for Catholics who are confused by the statements of politicians and by the resulting silence of too many bishops, priests, and deacons. In 2003 Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, the future Pope Benedict XVI, was Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. In that capacity he issued a very clear teaching on this subject. You can access it here: Worthiness to Receive Holy Communion. It's certainly worth a read by anyone confused about recent statements made by some of our Catholic politicians.

For example, Nancy Pelosi, the Speaker of the U. S. House of Representations, when asked for her reaction to the U. S. Bishops' condemnation of abortion, simply stated, "I think I can use my own judgment on that." By these words, Pelosi, a self-declared "devout Catholic," confirms that she considers her judgment superior to that of God's Church. This, of course, simply echoes her denial of a number of truths proclaimed by the Church, including the inherent evil of abortion and that Sacramental marriage exists solely between a man and a woman. Such denials are really nothing less than heresy, which the Catechism of the Catholic Church describes as "the obstinate post-baptismal denial of some truth which must be believed with divine and Catholic faith" [CCC #2089].

For more on this, read Deacon Keith Fournier's article on the subject of Ms. Pelosi's heresy: Nancy Pelosi, Heretic. Sadly, President Biden is really no different.

And just now, I discovered I'm not the only one who thought of Flannery O'Connor's statement on the Eucharist in the midst of today's political chaos. Ken Craycraft, writing for the UK's Catholic Herald, also referred to O'Connor in a recent article: If the Eucharist Isn't Political, To Hell with It.  Read it (although you might need a subscription to the Catholic Herald to access this particular article), since Craycroft is certainly a far better writer than yours truly.

COVID-19 Bible Study Reflection #4: Divine Mercy

Originally written on April 21, the following is the fourth of my weekly COVID-19 updates sent out to the participants in our parish's Bible Study program. 

The other day I was asked to transform these updates into talks and make video recordings of each. Yesterday, with the help of our wonderful A/V folks, we recorded all four. I expect they will soon be posted on the parish website. I'm not certain, but I believe they will be posted individually, perhaps one per week over a series of weeks. I'll post the details here on this blog once I have them.

____________________


As we make our way through this challenging time, it’s easy to become focused solely on the pandemic. All those news conferences, the steady stream of statistics, the hourly statements of physicians, researchers, politicians, and media “experts” have left us numb. Shut up in our homes, inundated by all this virus information, we can forget that life and death, beyond the virus, continue. Let me explain. 

So far, and this will likely change, I have lost no relatives or close friends as a result of this virus. This is not to belittle the many lives that have been lost, or the many others who have become seriously ill. It is simply a fact. 

But in the past few weeks, I have lost several friends whose deaths were completely unrelated to the coronavirus. One succumbed after a long battle with cancer, another died as a result of a massive stroke, and a third from the effects of MS.

David Lyons, Jr.

But then, just yesterday, I read of the murder of a young man, David Lyons, a senior at South Sumter High School. He was gunned down in broad daylight in the streets of Wildwood, just a few blocks from the Wildwood Soup Kitchen where Diane and I have volunteered for 16 years.

It was there, in the soup kitchen, where we met first David a few years ago. He came to volunteer for a while and joined our Thursday team doing whatever was asked of him. A bright and likeable young man, we all thought the world of him. His loss has affected us deeply. We pray for his soul, for his family, and trust that those responsible for his death will be brought to justice.

Yes, indeed, life and death continue, as does God’s love for His people. This, too, sometimes escapes us when we are surrounded by so much tragedy. But now, in the midst of the Easter season, we are also reminded of God’s great gift to the world: His Divine Mercy. 

On April 19, the Second Sunday of Easter, we celebrated Divine Mercy Sunday, and I know many of you have been praying the Divine Mercy chaplet daily. This is a good thing to do, and I encourage you to continue. The other day, reading a few pages of St. Faustina’s Diary, I came across these words of Jesus:

“You are to show mercy to your neighbors always and everywhere. You must not shrink from this or try to absolve yourself from it" [Diary, 742].

Meditating on this command from Jesus, I couldn't help but recollect all those times when I have been less than merciful, those times when I looked the other way rather than confronting another's need head-on. Sadly, there were far too many instances, too many to count.

There's nothing new about this command; indeed, if it were new, we would have every right to suspect the validity of the visions and private revelations experienced by St. Faustina. True private revelation can do nothing but confirm and reinforce divine revelation as found in sacred scripture and apostolic tradition. And, of course, this same plea to mercy is stated explicitly in the Gospel: 

"Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy" [Mt 5:7].

We encounter this in greater detail when Jesus depicts the final judgment we will all experience [See Mt 25:31-46], a judgment focused on the mercy we have extended to each other.

As I reflected on Jesus' command, and on my own failure to obey it fully, I came to realize how grateful I am that we have a merciful, forgiving God, one who willingly forgives and forgets the sins of the repentant. In other words, our personal failure to extend mercy to others can be overcome by God's infinite mercy when we come to Him in true repentance. Without this gift of mercy and forgiveness none of us would be saved.

Whenever I become discouraged by my own failures, I turn to the Bible where we encounter not only the sins of those especially chosen by God, but also God’s mercy and forgiveness. Indeed, it’s the very humanity of those described in the Bible that convinces us of the truth of what we read. 

The lives of the patriarchs revealed in Genesis, for example, are what separate the Old Testament from the historical and spiritual writings of other ancient peoples. In the writings of other cultures, the failures and sinfulness of their human leaders rarely arise. According to most chronicles, the ancient kings and pharaohs, the priests and sages, were all near-perfect beings. They won every battle, they were always wise and just, and their children were perfect mirror images of themselves.

Among the ancients the only place we'll ever encounter two sons like Jacob and Esau is exactly where we find them, in the Bible: one, along with their mother, conniving and deceitful, and the other arrogant and foolish. And yet Jacob, with all his blemishes and sins, is one of the great patriarchs of our Judeo-Christian tradition.

Perhaps Jacob’s sons offer us one of the best examples of sinfulness in need of mercy and forgiveness, when out of envy they plan the murder of their brother, Joseph, and eventually sell him into slavery [Gen 37]. 

Joseph Sold into Slavery by His Brothers

We encounter this again and again. Consider David, the great king who also happened to be an adulterer and murderer [2 Sam 11]. David’s son, King Solomon, who neglected God's gift of wisdom, became enamored of foreign women (quite a few of them, actually), and turned to idolatry [1 Kgs 11]. And remarkably, these two kings, perhaps along with Hezekiah, Josiah, and a few others, were probably the best of the bunch.

So…What are we to think?

Well, in truth, we should thank God for the gift of the flawed men and women who fill the pages of God's Word; for what a gift they are to us! In these broken, oh-so-human lives we come face to face with God's enduring forgiveness. We come face to face with God's mercy.

If you worry about your family being mildly dysfunctional, just take a closer look at Abraham's, or Isaac's, or Jacob's. Despite all their problems, all their sinfulness, God's mercy just overflows into their lives. And God wants to shower you and those you love with that same outpouring of mercy.

Brothers and sisters, without God's mercy, we would be - what's the best word? ...We would be doomed! 

Without God's mercy our sins would overwhelm us. 

Without God's mercy, there would be no Incarnation, no redemptive sacrifice on the Cross, no Resurrection to offer us the hope of eternal life. 

Without God's mercy there is no salvation; for the Incarnation is the supreme act of mercy, the supreme act of our merciful, loving God.

He becomes one of us, He lives with us, He teaches us, He forgives us, He heals us, He loves us, and He suffers and dies for us. He does all of this for our salvation. He does all of this so we can be healed. That's right. Without God's mercy there can be no healing. And we are all, every single one of us, in need of healing, aren't we?

What about you? 

Are you in pain, physical pain, the kind that can scream at you, causing you to question God's love?

Do you suffer from illness, one of those devastating, fear-laden illnesses that makes prayer so very hard?

Have you been attacked by depression, or another spirit-draining affliction that seems to attack your very humanity?

Perhaps you are faced with a combination of many things, some little, some not so little, that overwhelm you and your ability to deal with them?

Or maybe you are simply afraid, afraid of the future, afraid of the unknown, afraid of death, and need the consolation of the gift of faith.

What kind of healing do you seek?

But what about the healing you actually need?

When we place ourselves at the foot of the Cross, when we look up at our crucified Lord, do we tear open our very being, do we rend our hearts exposing all to His merciful gaze? Do we come to Him, ready to die to self and sin? Looking at Him, do we find ourselves completely overwhelmed by this incomprehensible act of divine merciful love?

You see, brothers and sisters, I don't know the fulness of God’s plan for me, and I certainly don’t know God's plan for you...and neither do you. But I do know what He wants of both you and me.

He wants you, He wants me, He wants every single one of us to come to Him, to abandon ourselves to Him, to allow His will to move within our lives. 

But it's never easy to set aside our own willfulness and abandon ourselves to God's will. When our wills dominate, we end up broken; and yet it's through that brokenness that God call to us. This is another of the paradoxes surrounding God’s love. God knows when our need for His mercy, for His healing touch, is greatest.

At some point, though, we will all be broken physically, broken beyond repair. As St. Paul reminds us, our mortal bodies are just temporary dwellings:

“For we know that if our earthly dwelling, a tent, should be destroyed, we have a building from God, a dwelling not made with hands, eternal in heaven. For in this tent we groan, longing to be further clothed with our heavenly habitation” [2 Cor 5 :1-2].

But, in the meantime, struggling through the trials of this life, we can easily slide into a kind of despair, thinking we're not deserving of God's mercy. We become like Peter who, when he suddenly comprehended the gulf between his sinfulness and God's greatness, could only say:

"Depart from me, O Lord, for I am a sinful man" [Lk 5:8].

But Jesus didn't depart, did He? In fact, it was then, at that very moment, that Jesus called Peter and the others to be Apostles, to be sent into the world, to be fishers of men.

So many, fully aware of their sinfulness, came to Jesus seeking healing; and there were others, sinful and repentant, whom Jesus actually seemed to seek out. 

Consider, for example, the woman caught in adultery whom Jesus saved from the mob of scribes and Pharisees that had planned to stone her to death. Once Jesus had turned the mob away, He said little to the woman. Their conversation was brief:

Then Jesus straightened up and said to her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?” She replied, “No one, sir.” Then Jesus said, “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and do not sin again.” [Jn 8:10-11]

Knowing her heart, Jesus sees both her repentance and her thankfulness, and so extends His forgiveness, His mercy. On her part, she is called to change her life by following His command: “…do not sin again.”

Neither do I condemn you...

Here we see Jesus fulfilling the Law through the application of Divine Mercy. The disciples come to understand what Jesus meant when he began His ministry with the words:

“This is the time of fulfillment. The kingdom of God is at hand. Repent, and believe in the gospel” [Mk 1:15].

I’ve always liked that seemingly odd Gospel passage from Matthew when the disciples of John the Baptist question Jesus about fasting. It’s a brief passage:

Then the disciples of John approached him and said, “Why do we and the Pharisees fast, but your disciples do not fast?” Jesus answered them, “Can the wedding guests mourn as long as the bridegroom is with them? The days will come when the bridegroom is taken away from them, and then they will fast. No one patches an old cloak with a piece of unshrunken cloth, for its fullness pulls away from the cloak and the tear gets worse. People do not put new wine into old wineskins. Otherwise the skins burst, the wine spills out, and the skins are ruined. Rather, they pour new wine into fresh wineskins, and both are preserved” [Mt 9:14-17].

It’s an interesting passage, isn’t it? It’s really not so much about fasting as it is about the New Covenant that Jesus makes with us, “the time of fulfillment.” This New Covenant is not simply a patchwork on the old covenant; it's not old wine poured into old wineskins.

No, Jesus offers us to something wonderfully new, and He demands something new from us. He calls us to “repent” of our sinfulness, to “Go, and do not sin again.”

But there is more, much more. This newness is also the Gospel, the command to love God and to love each other as we love ourselves. That's right, brothers and sisters, we're to look beyond ourselves, to die to self and sin and live for the other. And we're to do all this even in the midst of hurt and grief and illness and pain, even in the midst of a pandemic that has turned our world upside-down.

Just as He called Peter and the Apostles, Jesus calls us in our brokenness. He calls us when illness and fear seem to overwhelm us. And He calls us in our sinfulness when our flaws are most apparent. It's then that our need for His mercy is greatest.

Flannery O'Connor

Among my favorite writers is Flannery O'Connor, who wrote so many wonderful stories of sinfulness and repentance, of forgiveness and mercy, and of redemption. A Georgia girl, she died in her late thirties due to complications resulting from lupus. It was a battle that lasted her entire adult life. While in the midst of all her suffering, she wrote some remarkable words in a letter to a friend:

"I have never been anywhere but sick. In a sense sickness is a place, a very instructive place, and it's always a place where there's no company, where nobody can follow. Sickness before death is a very appropriate thing and I think those who don't have it miss one of God's mercies" [The Habit of Being].

Have you ever thought of the afflictions of your life, of your need for healing, as a mercy? I know I never had. With the exception of appendicitis at the age of ten, my only serious illness was in my infancy, so I it’s hard for me to comprehend fully what Flannery O'Connor meant by those words. 


But our Lord certainly understands, for He reminds us always that fear has no place in the Christian's heart. And so, again, when we suffer, when we turn to God in prayer, what are we to do?

Joyce Kilmer

I really believe the first thing we should do is thank Him. 

Joyce Kilmer, the Catholic poet, and another of my favorites, was struck down by a sniper's bullet during World War One. But in the midst of his wartime experience, in the midst of the destruction and devastation and death in the trenches, he wrote a little poem called "Thanksgiving." 

     The roar of the world in my ears.
     Thank God for the roar of the world!
     Thank God for the mighty tide of fears
     Against me always hurled!

     Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife,
     And the sting of His chastening rod!
     Thank God for the stress and the pain of life,
     And Oh, thank God for God!

Brothers and sisters, that's exactly what we must do: just thank God for everything. 

Thank God for the joys and the pains of our lives. They are all gifts, even when they are beyond our understanding. 

Thank God for His Divine Mercy, for without it we would have no hope.

Yes, thank God for life itself. 

Then, today and every day, we can let Him focus on the healing. After all, He's pretty good at it.

Homily: Mass and Healing Service - July 8, 2017

Readings: Gn 27:1-5,15-29 • Ps 135 • Mt 9:14-17

--------------------------------------------

Jacob tricks his father, Isaac

What wonderful readings the Church has given us today. Hearing the story of Jacob and Esau only cements my belief in the historical truth of much of the Old Testament. The story of this ancient family is so very human it must be true.

Indeed, passages like today's from Genesis are what separate the Old Testament from the historical and spiritual writings of other ancient peoples. In the writings of those other cultures the failures and sinfulness of their human leaders rarely arise. Yes, according to their chronicles, the ancient kings and pharaohs, the priests and sages were all near-perfect beings. They won every battle, they were always wise and just, and their children were perfect mirror images of themselves.

Among the ancients the only place we'll ever encounter two sons like Jacob and Esau is exactly where we find them, in the Bible - one, along with their mother, conniving and deceitful, the other arrogant and foolish. And yet Jacob, with all his blemishes and sins, is one of the great patriarchs of our Judeo-Christian tradition.

Of course we see it again and again...if only among the kings of God's people. David, the great king who also happened to be an adulterer and murderer. His son, Solomon, who neglects God's gift of wisdom, becomes enamored of foreign women (quite a few of them, actually), and turns to idolatry. And these two kings, perhaps along with Hezekiah, Josiah, and a few others, were probably the best of the bunch.

So...what are we to think?

Well, in truth, we should thank God for the gift of the flawed men and women who fill the pages of God's Word...for what a gift they are to us! In these broken, oh-so-human lives we come face to face with God's enduring forgiveness. We come face to face with God's mercy.

If you worry about your family being mildly dysfunctional, just take a closer look at Abraham's, or Isaac's, or Jacob's. Despite all their problems, all their sinfulness, God's mercy just overflows into their lives. And God wants to shower you and those you love with that same outpouring of mercy.

Brothers and sisters, without God's mercy, we would be - what's the best word? - doomed!

Without God's mercy our sins would overwhelm us.

Without God's mercy, there would be no Incarnation, no redemptive sacrifice on the Cross, no Resurrection to offer us the hope of eternal life.

Without God's mercy there is no salvation; for the Incarnation is the supreme act of mercy, the supreme act of our merciful, loving God.

He becomes one of us, He lives with us, He teaches us, He forgives us, He heals us, He loves us, and He suffers and dies for us. He does all of this for our salvation. He does all of this so we can be healed.

That's right. Without God's mercy there can be no healing. And we are all, every single one of us, in need of healing, aren't we?

Why are you here today? What kind of healing do you seek?

Are you in pain...physical pain, the kind that can scream at you, causing you to question God's love?

Or maybe an illness, one of those devastating, fear-laden illnesses that make prayer so very hard?

Or is it depression, or another spirit-draining affliction that seems to attack our very humanity?

Is this the healing you seek?

What about the healing you need?

When we place ourselves at the foot of the Cross, when we look up at our crucified Lord, do we tear open our very being, do we rend our hearts exposing all to His merciful gaze? Do we come to Him, ready to die to self and sin? Looking at Him, do we find ourselves completely overwhelmed by this incomprehensible act of divine merciful love?

You see, brothers and sisters, I don't know God's plan for you...and neither do you. But I do know what He wants of you.

He wants you, He wants me, He wants every single one of us to come to Him, to abandon ourselves to Him, to allow His will to move within our lives. But it's never easy to set aside our own willfulness and abandon ourselves to God's will.

When our wills dominate, we end up broken, and yet it's through that brokenness that God call to us.  He knows when our need for His mercy, for His healing touch, is greatest.

At some point, though, we will all be broken physically, broken beyond repair. As Paul reminds us this mortal body is just a tent, a temporary dwelling, until you and I move into that eternal dwelling which God has prepared for us [2 Cor 5:1].

But in the meantime, it's so easy to slide into despair, to think that we're not deserving of God's mercy. We become like Peter who, when he suddenly comprehended the gulf between his sinfulness and God's greatness, could only say: "Depart from me, O Lord, for I am a sinful man" [Lk 5:8].

But Jesus didn't depart did He? In fact, it was then, at that very moment, that Jesus called Peter and the others to be Apostles, to be sent into the world, to be fishers of men.

Did you listen closely to today's Gospel passage from Matthew? It isn't really so much about fasting as it is about the new covenant that Jesus makes with us. And it is new indeed. It's not the patchwork of the old covenant; it's not old wine poured into old wineskins.

No Jesus is offering us something wonderfully new, and He demands something new from us. This newness is nothing less than the Gospel, the command to love God and to love each other as we love ourselves.

That's right, brothers and sisters, we're to look beyond ourselves, to die to self and sin and live for the other. And we're to do all this even in the midst of hurt and grief and illness and pain.

Just as He called Peter and the Apostles, Jesus calls us in the midst of our brokenness. He calls us when illness and fear try to overwhelm us. And He calls us in our sinfulness, when our flaws are most apparent. It's then when our need for His mercy is the greatest.

Flannery O'Connor

One of my favorite writers is Flannery O'Connor, who wrote so many wonderful stories of repentance, mercy, and redemption. A Georgia girl, she died in her late thirties after a long battle with lupus. It was a battle that lasted her entire adult life. While in the midst of all her suffering, she wrote some remarkable words in a letter to a friend. Listen to them:

"I have never been anywhere but sick. In a sense sickness is a place, a very instructive place, and it's always a place where there's no company, where nobody can follow. Sickness before death is a very appropriate thing and I think those who don't have it miss one of God's mercies." [The Habit of Being]

Have you ever thought of your affliction, your need for healing, as a mercy? I know I never had. My only serious illness was in my infancy, so I suppose I cannot fully comprehend what Flannery O'Connor meant by these words.

But our Lord certainly understood, always reminding us that fear has no place in the Christian's heart. And so, again, when we suffer, when we turn to God in prayer, what are we to do?

I really believe the first thing to do is to thank Him.

Joyce Kilmer, the Catholic poet, is another of my favorites. He was struck down by a sniper's bullet during World War One. But in the midst of his wartime experience, in the midst of destruction and devastation and death he wrote a little poem called "Thanksgiving." 

     The roar of the world in my ears.
     Thank God for the roar of the world!
     Thank God for the mighty tide of fears
     Against me always hurled!

     Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife,
     And the sting of His chastening rod!
     Thank God for the stress and the pain of life,
     And Oh, thank God for God!

Brothers and sisters, that's exactly what we must do: just thank God for everything.

Thank God for the joys and the pains of our lives. They are all gifts, even when they are beyond our understanding. Yes, thank God for life itself.

And then, today and every day, we can let Him worry about the healing.

After all, He's pretty good at it.

Flannery O'Connor, the devil, and today's Holy Innocents

I've been re-reading a lot of Flannery O'Connor lately, both her absolutely perfect fiction and her enlightened and enlightening non-fiction. If you've never read her work, your life is grossly incomplete and needs a little shot of Flannery to make it half-full again. Her work is always grace-filled, always surprising. But it's also (at least to me) gloriously optimistic because it tells of the effects of God's redemptive act in the lives of His creatures, even in the midst of tragedy.

So many people in our confused world are half-empty pessimists because they ignore the showering of God's grace in their lives. Either that or they reject out of hand the very idea of God's active presence in the world. For these, God has no role in all that He created and all that He maintains through His love. They evict God from their lives, and Nietzsche's claim that "God is dead!" becomes the watchword of their closed, truncated worlds. They either slide into a deep, suicidal despair or they grab hold of an ideology that assumes man (that's us) is actually in charge and can bring about a perfect world. As Flannery O'Connor wrote to a correspondent:

"The Liberal approach is that man has never fallen, never incurred guilt, and is ultimately perfectible by his own efforts. Therefore, evil in this light is a problem of better housing, sanitation, health, etc. and all mysteries will eventually be cleared up. Judgment is out of place because man is not responsible" [The Habit of Being, p. 302].

And so man becomes godlike, seemingly in charge of his little world. But because he is a tiny god in a massive, sprawling universe, he is not responsible and can escape judgment. And although he must contend with an array of forces, Satan isn't one of them. If a personal, loving God doesn't exist, neither can personified evil. The devil, then, becomes a fiction.

How many people today actually believe the devil exists, that he is a personal entity, a rebellious and fallen creature? How many believe God's grace is a very real and active force in the lives of individuals and in human history? At one time, at least in our Western Civilization, the vast majority of people believed with absolute certainty that Satan and grace were indeed very real. But no longer. 

Shortly before she died In 1964, Flannery O'Connor, addressing the plague of relativism that has infected so many today, anticipated the thought of Pope Benedict XVI and his condemnation of the "dictatorship of relativism" when she wrote:

"Those who have no absolute values cannot let the relative remain merely relative; they are always raising it to the level of the absolute" [Mystery and Manners, p. 178].

On another occasion, discussing her fiction, she wrote something that got me thinking about how the devil, certainly without intention, moves God's plan forward:

"From my own experience in trying to make stories 'work,' I have discovered that what is needed is an action that is totally unexpected, yet totally believable, and I have found that, for me, this is always an action which indicates that grace has been offered. And frequently it is an action in which the devil has been an unwilling instrument of grace" [Spiritual Writings, P. 128]

That last phrase -- "the devil has been an unwilling instrument of grace" -- was a bit of a shock to me. But then I found myself thinking of Satan's greatest success in our modern world: the plague of abortion. Since January 22, 1973, when the Supreme Court sanctioned abortion through its infamous Roe v. Wade decision, well over 50 million unborn children have been killed in our country, not to mention the hundreds of millions of unborn slaughtered throughout the world. Satan is surely pleased as he revels in the deaths of so many innocents and in the guilt of those who took their lives. 

And yet, where are these millions of innocents now? In their sinlessness, dressed in the robes of their martyrdom, they are in God's eternal presence. They join the saintly members of Christ's Mystical Body; and there, among the heavenly host, they prayerfully intercede for those who took their far too brief lives. Indeed, they pray for us all, for a world that has lost its way. And can any prayers be more efficacious than their prayers, the prayers of the completely innocent?

What, then, has Satan done? In his lust for death he has been "an unwilling instrument of grace." He has unwittingly raised up an army of prayerful saints, millions of God's most precious creatures determined to destroy all of Satan's works. Baptized in the blood of martyrdom, all those aborted babies, through their prayerful intercession are now instruments of God's grace, living signs of His love and mercy. This, then, is another of God's great paradoxes: the slaughter of these innocents, one of the modern world's great evils, has become a blessing that will change the world. Yes, God certainly has His ways doesn't He? For "We know that all things work for good for those who love God" [Rom 8:28].

Satan, as Lucifer, might have been the greatest of God's creations, but as the "light-bringer" he could only reflect God's eternal light. With Satan's fall from grace, having torn himself away from God's love, he can bring nothing but darkness. Flannery O'Connor realized that his works, more often than not, led to the wondrous manifestation of God's grace. "In my stories," she wrote, "a reader will find that the devil accomplished a good deal of groundwork that seems to be necessary before grace is effective" [Spiritual Writings, P. 128]

If God's grace were visible, it would fill the world, bringing light even to those hidden dark corners, just begging every person to reach out for it, to grasp it, to bathe in it. But that grace really is visible, for it's present in the sacraments of the Church, those "grace-giving outward signs" that free us from our sinfulness. Our Church, then, is a Church, not for the smug and the self-righteous, but for sinners who come to experience God's mercy and forgiveness. Yes, it's through an awareness of our sinfulness that we can approach God in repentance and come to accept His saving grace.

Flannery O'Connor on the Future of the Church

A few days ago I included a long quote from a book Pope Benedict XVI wrote long before he was pope [See this post: October 18]. In it Pope Benedict gives his vision of what the Church of the future will be like.

Yesterday evening, as I was writing my homily for this morning's Mass, I found myself looking through a book of Flannery O'Connor's letters. I was searching for a comment she had made in a letter to a friend in which she described her almost lifelong battle with lupus. I eventually located it, but during my search came across something she had written to a Protestant friend that addresses her vision of the Catholic Church's future:

"I don't believe that if God intends for the world to be spared He'll have to lead a few select people into the wilderness to start things over again. I think that what He began when Moses and the children of Israel left Egypt continues today in the Church and is meant to continue that way. And I believe all this is accomplished in the presence of Christ in history and not with select people but with very ordinary ones -- as ordinary as the vacillating children of Israel and the fishermen apostles. This comes from a different conception of the Church than yours. For us the Church is the Body of Christ. Christ continuing in time, and as such a divine institution. The Protestant considers this idolatry. If the Church is not a divine institution, it will turn into an Elks Club..." [The Habit of Being, p. 337].

I've always liked this comment because it depicts God working through ordinary folks like you and me. We are sinners in the midst of conversion being led by God who offers us hope. And it is through His Church, the Body of Christ, that we can, like Moses and the chosen ones of Israel, enter the Promised Land.

If you haven't read Flannery O'Connor's fiction, you've missed something wonderful. Get a copy of her collected works (Flannery O'Connor: Collected Works -- Its a Library of America volume) and enjoy these unique short stories and novels.

Homily: Saturday, 29th Week of Ordinary Time

Readings: Eph 4:7-16; Ps 122; Lk 13:1-9

We always seem to be asking God, “Why?” Bad things happen and we want to know why. Good people suffer and God seems absent. Or things just don’t seem to balance out the way they should.

We look at our own families and wonder why God allows things to happen the way they do. Why did my son get meningitis when he was just a toddler, and lose his hearing? Why did my mom and brother die in their 60s and my dad live to be 95? Is it all part of God’s plan or is it just happenstance? Of course, deep inside there’s a little voice saying, “Well, if I were God, I’d handle things a lot better.”

In our Gospel passage Jesus mentions two events: Pilate, the Roman Governor, had slaughtered a group of Galileans in the Temple; and a tower had collapsed in Jerusalem taking the lives of 18 people. Both incidents are recorded only in Luke’s Gospel, and most of the Jews at the time likely considered such events to be God’s punishment on those who had died.

The ancients generally believed that God – or in the case of pagans, the gods – willed everything that happened. And believe me many people today still think this way.

Years ago, I’d been a deacon about a week and was conducting my first vigil service at a local funeral home. A 34-year-old man had died tragically in a heavy-equipment accident. He’d left a wife and three young children. When I arrived and walked over toward the young widow, I overheard her ask a friend, “Why?”

His answer? “Well, it’s just God’s will.”

I almost came unglued, but then realized the man was simply trying to offer some comfort. And so I approached her and said, “No, Bruce’s death was not caused by God. God did not will this. He did not want this to happen to Bruce.” For the next half hour we talked about God and faith and free will and God’s will and original sin and evil and suffering.

You see, God expects us to ask “Why?” Indeed, He wants us to ask this of Him. The very fact that we ask means that we know He’s there.

Flannery O'Connor

Flannery O’Connor, one of my favorite writers, was a Georgia girl and a Catholic. She died in her late thirties after a long battle with lupus. It was a battle that lasted her entire adult life. While in the midst of all her suffering, in a letter to a friend she wrote:

“I have never been anywhere but sick. In a sense sickness is a place, a very instructive place, and it’s always a place where there’s no company, where nobody can follow. Sickness before death is a very appropriate thing and I think those who don't have it miss one of God’s mercies” [The Habit of Being, p. 163].

Yes, Flannery O’Connor was a woman who, in her suffering, had tasted God’s mercy.

But for some the danger is that, in their suffering, in their grief, they will come to believe that God doesn’t care. When we suffer we so often feel abandoned by the God who loves us.  Suffering has a way of blinding our eyes to God’s image, who He really is, and deafening our ears to His voice.

When confronted by evil, as we so often are today, I’m inevitably drawn to the Book of Job where God reveals something of how we should respond to suffering. Job’s so-called friends kept insisting that his misfortunes were due to his sins. But Job replied with a phrase that could have come straight from the Gospel:

“I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at last he will stand upon the earth” [Job 19:25].

There’s no easy answer to the problem of evil; there is only God's response: the Redeemer did come and stand upon the earth. And in doing so He became one of us. And He suffered, in His human body, and gave His life for us.

You see Jesus used those two tragic events in Jerusalem to correct the thinking of the people. No, He said, the sins of those who died were not the cause of their deaths; but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t learn from such events.

Sir, leave it for a year...

Like the fig tree in the parable we still have a chance to bear fruit, to turn our lives around, for there is always hope of transformation. How long do we have? We don’t know, but if we need to reorder our lives, we shouldn’t delay.

Jesus began His ministry with the simple command: “Repent and believe in the Gospel” [Mk 1:15]. And if we just do that, we’ll go a long way toward fulfilling His will for us.