Morning Prayer Reflection: The Song of Moses

Several years ago I posted occasional reflections on the day's Morning Prayer of the Church's Liturgy of the Hours. For some reason I can't  recall, I stopped writing these brief reflections. My guess is that life just got too busy and I simply didn't have the time. Really a poor excuse, since my reflecting on Morning Prayer probably helped me far more than it helped those few who actually read my thoughts. Such reflection is spiritually valuable only if we act on it, and perhaps I just hadn't been willing to live up to my own words. 

Anyway, I’ve decided to try it again, not every day because time remains an issue, but occasionally as the Spirit moves me. 

Perhaps, because of the emphasis on the un-natural, the pervasive influence of technology in our lives, I find myself attracted to the frequent images of nature we encounter in Scripture. In today’s Morning Prayer, for example, we find several of these references:

From Deuteronomy 32:1-2

Give ear, O heavens, while I speak; 

let the earth hearken to the words of my mouth!

May my instruction soak in like the rain, 

and my discourse permeate like the dew,

like a downpour upon the grass, 

like a shower upon the crops:

Here we encounter multiple images — rain, dew, downpour, shower — all likening God’s Word to the purifying, nourishing flow of water from the heavens to the earth. These words, the opening verses of the Song of Moses [Dt 32:1-43], are a prayer, an appeal to both heaven and earth. Among the final words of Moses before his death, they offer us a prophetic view of what awaits the people of Israel and their successors, the People of God. Take a few minutes now, open your Bible, and read the entire hymn. Note how many natural images Moses applied to God’s work in the world, His care for His people, and their response. Indeed, the entire hymn is filled with these images, reflecting a world with which the people were intimately familiar. 

For example, God is like the eagle who encourages its young nestlings [Dt 32:11], and provided His people with nature’s bounty, with all that the earth offers [Dt 32:13-14]. But we also encounter other, very different images when Moses prophesied the Lord’s response to the people’s faithlessness. Here he compared God’s actions to the harsh side of nature:

“Emaciating hunger and consuming fever

And bitter pestilence,

And the teeth of wild beasts I will send among them,

With the venom of reptiles gliding in the dust” [Dt 32:24].

I expect those listening to Moses were familiar enough with the reality portrayed by all these images, and took them to heart. But this led me to wonder about our response today. Recently I read that although there are more than two million farms in the U.S., only slightly more than one percent of our nation’s workforce is directly involved in agriculture. Most Americans live in urban or suburban areas, isolated from nature’s bounty and protected from its harshness. Few have probably ever set foot on a farm or experienced the need to cooperate with nature to earn a living or just to survive. I experienced the latter when the Navy ordered me to attend training programs for both desert and jungle survival. They proved to be far more intense than my childhood Cub Scout camping trips, and led me to appreciate some of the benefits of civilized society.

Today, in our increasingly technological, industrial society, this separation from nature begins early. Years ago, when Diane worked as a teacher in the Head Start program, she told the children that the milk they drank came from cows. One little boy, Michael, could not accept this, exclaiming, “No! Milk does not come from cows. It comes from the store. I know because I’ve seen my mama buy it there.” That was proof enough for him. End of discussion. Admittedly, Michael was a little boy from the inner city, but what about you and me? As we pour milk on our oatmeal or Cheerios, how often do we actually think of that milk coming from a cow on some dairy farm? And Isn’t this also true of that nice, thick steak at Outback, or the chicken sandwich from Chick-fil-A, or that glass of Pinot Noir with your dinner? When you take a drive through the rural countryside, can you identify the crops growing in the fields? About all I can recognize for certain are corn and cotton. As for the rest, I can’t tell soybeans from alfalfa. Like little Michael, I too was pretty much a city boy. As a child my closest encounters with nature consisted of mowing the lawn and raking the leaves.

All of this leaves me wondering how seldom we turn to God in thanksgiving for all He has given us. He is the God of Nature, the God of all creation. Yes, He has given us the intellect and will to use His natural gifts in wonderful ways, but it all has its source in Him. Too often, like Diane’s little Michael, we attribute the gift to the wrong giver. As a society we have replaced God with man, replaced the true Giver with just another user.

Perhaps today we should all step outside and take a long walk through a tiny piece of God’s creation, thanking Him for the gift of our world and all it offers us. And so, I’ll conclude with these words from Psalm 95, which we pray every day in the Invitatory of the Liturgy of the Hours:

The Lord is God, the mighty God,

the great king over all the gods.
He holds in his hands the depths of the earth
and the highest mountains as well.
He made the sea; it belongs to him,
the dry land, too, for it was formed by his hands [Ps 95:3-5].

Walking with Maddie

Dear Diane has been sleeping in the guest room for a while because of her shoulder replacement surgery and its aftereffects. Unfortunately she awakens often during the night, because she either slept on the wrong side or used her right arm a bit too much the day before. Either way it results in pain. So she sits up and reads or watches TV until the pain subsides. In her kindness she thought this would disturb my sleep. (She was right about that.) She decided, therefore, to sleep in the guest room, leaving me in the king size bed with Maddie, our 12-year-old Bichon Frise.

Now, I'm sure many of your will chastise us for letting our dog sleep in our bed. But when we "rescued" Maddie she was already five years old and pretty set in her ways. She had also been mistreated and was a bit of a psychological wreck. In fact, the rescue vet had put her on a doggie version of Prozac. Although we got her off her meds quickly, she still needed lots of loving attention. Given her age and condition, we thought it would be difficult, perhaps even a bit cruel, to attempt to crate train her. The result? She sleeps in our bed. You must also understand that she's a Bichon, and is a perfect example of this stubborn, self-centered breed.

Because the bed is large and she's a small dog, you'd think I wouldn't even know if she were there. But every morning, long before sunrise, usually between 5 and 6 a.m., Maddie snuggles up against my back and leans into me. She'll keep this up for a half-hour or so, increasing the pressure, hoping I'll decide to get up. When I resist, as I did today, she begins to whine softly, letting me know she's ready to begin her day and expects me to join her, first by preparing her breakfast and then taking her on a long walk.

Maddie on Her Morning Walk

This morning Maddie woke me a bit later than usual, and the whining didn't begin until after 6:30. Within 30 minutes she had eaten, I was dressed, and we opened the front door to greet another of God's gifts: a beautiful day in The Villages -- Sunny and 64 F this morning, but a warm 88 F this afternoon. 

Although sunrise was still 15 or 20 minutes away, the eastern sky was already aglow. Indeed, by this time I could see only a few of the sky's brightest objects. Toward the southeast only Jupiter stood out, as befits the god of the sky. Neighboring Mars and Saturn were still visible but barely. Vega could be seen near the zenith, but the other stars were fading quickly. 

As I looked heavenward, Maddie of course looked earthward, continuing her life's work of sniffing everything that passes under her remarkable nose. And so we walked, slowly to accommodate her sniffing and in whatever direction Maddie chose. 

Today's walk followed a rather long (about two miles) circuitous route through several nearby neighborhoods. Because of so many businesses are closed, we encountered very little car and golf cart traffic. This, of course, is good since dogs and those walking them seem to be invisible to many drivers. But even more surprising was the increase in walkers and runners. Most mornings, especially in the pre-dawn darkness, I may see only one or two people. But today lots of folks, both individuals and couples, were out walking. It was nice to see so many people enjoying the morning. I suppose for many it was a cure for cabin fever, offering a temporary respite from voluntary home confinement.

But then there was that one oddity. Maddie and I had been walking for only a few minutes when we turned onto a side street and noticed about a dozen people, well spaced out to enforce social distancing, but all walking in our direction. Without a sidewalk and almost no traffic, they had filled the street. Like all of us who live here, they were elderly. None moved very quickly and some limped along trying to keep up. Now, it was still early, and with the almost risen sun behind them, they were all shadows and silhouettes. If you can picture the scene, you might understand why my strange mind suddenly announced: Zombie Apocalypse! I'm sorry but I felt as if I had fallen into a scene from one of those wacko zombie movies. Of course, as we passed, everyone smiled and greeted us, a few petted Maddie, and no one tried to eat my brains.

Except for the rare zombie scare, I truly enjoy these daily walks. Today we spotted a gator in one of the many neighborhood ponds: not a very big one, but big enough for me to keep my distance. We witnessed some early morning repositioning flights of water birds, and followed a large flock of white ibises as they flew from one pond to another. A large blue heron passed right over us, so low we could feel the effect of his wings. We watched a kingfisher as he hovered  anxiously, then plummeted into the water and grabbed his breakfast. That same peaceful, healthy, virus-free air was filled with the greetings of mockingbirds, cardinals, red-wing blackbirds, and countless other songbirds. From stars and planets to birds and gators, it was all a wonderful display of God's creative power. Even Maddie glanced up on occasion and seemed to savor the day.

Lots of Ibises

I feel sorry for those unable to get out and take even a short walk, but I especially pity those who walk or run daily, but do so without noticing the beauty that surrounds them. They look so grim as they strain forward to reach their 10,000 steps, eyes glued to the road before them, while the noise in their earbuds blocks the greetings of passersby and the sounds of nature. Life is just too short to ignore the wonders that surround us.

Maddie with her Reward

When we returned home Maddie and I decided she deserved a special treat, one of those milk bones for large dogs. You see, she doesn't realize she's little.

God's peace, friends, and stay healthy.

Reflection for Liturgical Readers

Among my parish responsibilities -- all assigned to me by my pastor to make and keep me humble -- is the oversight of things liturgical. This has proven to be a challenge because I am not a liturgist and have had much to learn. Over the years much of the learning has come to me subtly through a kind of osmosis...and it continues. Thankfully I can always call on our parish's wonderful team of priests and deacons who keep me from making too many mistakes. I am blessed.

Occasionally I am called on to address or assist in the training of one or another of our liturgical ministries. This past Saturday, for example, I was asked to offer a spiritual reflection during a brief morning of reflection for our readers. (For those in my audience who are not Catholic, the readers are those who proclaim the Word of God, the Sacred Scripture, at Mass.) My reflection follows:
___________

We could spend the next hour going over a whole litany of dos and don’ts for readers. But I thought that might put more than a few of you to sleep. I also don’t think you need that right now. Later on this morning, if we have a few minutes, I’ll open up the discussion for questions and comments, so you can air your concerns. I might actually have some answers.

Quite honestly, though, you are the best group of readers I’ve ever had the privilege to work with. And so I thank you for your ministry, for your proclamation of God’s Word. You are a blessing to our parish. Anyway, I thought it better for us to take a little break from the mechanics of our ministry and focus instead on the spirituality of being a reader…or at least one small piece of that spirituality.

We’ve all heard the mistakes, haven’t we? And perhaps made a few ourselves. Like the young high school student who announced “A reading from the Letter of Paul to the Philippines.” Paul got around,but who knew? Or the reader who while describing the Lord’s covenant with Abraham Genesis 15, proclaimed the presence of a “smoking brassiere” instead of brazier. Fortunately, there’s been a change to the translation, and the lectionary no longer reads brazier, but “fire-pot” instead. One can only assume the bishops got tired of hearing it mispronounced. No longer, then, do you need to worry about proclaiming the first reading on the Second Sunday of Lent. We’ve all stumbled over a word or two, or an Old Testament name, but just be thankful you’re not a deacon called to proclaim the genealogies in Luke and Matthew.

These and other mistakes certainly generate a chuckle or two in the pews, and a few red faces at the ambo, but they also show us that God calls the fallible to serve Him. Yes, God calls us, despite our failings. And He calls us to be in His Presence.

That’s what I’d like to talk about today: the Presence of God in the liturgy, and what this means for us as ministers, especially as ministers of the Word.

I think that, too often, we get so wrapped up in the specifics, the details, the mechanics of our ministries that we sometimes lose sight of what it’s all about. And what it’s all about is pretty simple: as ministers we’re called to serve God and His people. That’s it!

This, then, is our first truth: we are servants.

Each one of us, called to ministry, is a servant – bishop, priest, deacon, altar server, reader, extraordinary minister of Holy Communion, cantor and choir member, usher – we’re all servants

Jesus spent a lot of time trying to convince the Apostles of this same truth. He really wasn’t very successful, and it took the Holy Spirit at Pentecost to fully convince them.

You know, it’s interesting. In the Gospels we encounter two paths, two journeys that thread their way from beginning to end. The first is the obvious one: Our Lord’s journey from His Incarnation, through His public ministry, and ultimately to His passion, death and resurrection.  This is the journey of our Redemption, the journey that reveals God’s deep and enduring love for us.

But there’s another journey that makes its way through the Gospels: the journey taken by the disciples, especially the twelve. It’s a journey sparked by revelation and God’s overwhelming love: a journey of gradual understanding and acceptance; a journey that brought the Church into being; a journey that continues today for all of us. It’s the journey that leads the disciples and us to the recognition of that truth we’ve already encountered: we are servants.

But as baptized, confirmed Catholics, filled with the Spirit, I would hope that we are more accepting of this truth than were the first disciples. And so I’ll assume you all accept that we are servants, called to serve God and His people.

Obviously, it’s important that, despite our limitations and our failings, we accomplish this service, our ministry, as well as possible. For only then can we more fully realize that call to serve God and His people.

I’ve always believed that if our call to liturgical ministry is to bear fruit, we must maintain our focus on God’s Presence in the liturgy…and do so constantly.

Now the Church has always taught that, in the Mass, God is present in multiple ways:

• First of all, He’s present in us, in His People who have come together in His Name. He’s present in us quite simply because He promised this, and God always fulfills His promises.

“For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them” [Mt 18:20].

• God is also present in His Word, the Word proclaimed and preached at the ambo by reader, cantor, deacon and priest. Jesus Christ, the Incarnate Word of God, is present in the Revealed Word of Sacred Scripture.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God” [Jn 1:1].

• He is present in the person of the priest, the celebrant who acts in persona Christi, in the person of Christ, as he performs the sacred mysteries.

The priest doesn’t say: “…this is Jesus’ Body” or “…this is the chalice of Jesus’ Blood.” No, he says, “…this is my Body” and “…this is the chalice of my Blood.”

But it’s not the priest’s body and blood that we receive, is it? No, it’s that of Jesus.

“…do this on remembrance of me” [Lk 22:19].

• …which leads us to Christ’s most special and important presence at Mass – His presence par excellence, as the Church calls it.

He is present in the Eucharist. In the consecrated host and the consecrated wine we have the real presence of the Body and Blood of our Lord, Jesus Christ.

“For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the death of the Lord until he comes…For anyone who eats and drinks without discerning the body, eats and drinks judgment on himself” [1 Cor 11:26,29].

God’s Presence in the liturgy, then, is another truth, a Scripture-based truth, an awe-inspiring truth, one that I hope motivates us as we strive to carry out every element of our ministry. Did you notice the response to the Psalm at this morning’s Mass? 

“Come with joy into the presence of the Lord” [Ps 100:2]. 

This we are called to do: to enter God’s presence joyfully.

Right now I’d like to take a closer look at how God manifests Himself to us in the liturgy, and how this has special meaning for us as proclaimers of the Word.

Perhaps God’s less appreciated presence in the liturgy is how He comes to us in nature, in the things of this world, in the fruit of the earth and vine. He comes to us in bread and wine, in the simple works of human hands, as food for our bodies. And so with this presence He honors our bodies, our material existence, that which separates us from the angels.

It’s an existence in which God Himself was willing to share when He sent His Son to become one of us. How the Incarnation, that act of divine humility, must have awed the angels; for through that act we are truly formed in God’s image and likeness as no other creature is. In coming to us in nature, then, God reminds us that He is our Creator, the Creator of all that exists.

As Creator He reminds us of His holy name, the name He first shared with Moses – “I am Who am” – the name that describes His very being. “I am existence itself,” He tells us. “All of creation depends on me.” And from this He reminds us too that, like Moses, we are in His presence; we are on holy ground.

Remember this as you make your way from your place among the People of God to the ambo in God’s sanctuary; for in doing so you move from holy ground to holy ground.

Do you ever think of that as you rise from your seat?

God is present among His people when they come together in His name. He comes to each of us in each other. And so, as you walk to the ambo you are not moving to holy ground; you are moving within holy ground.

Where God’s people are present, so too is God. You’re called from the Christian community, from your place among God’s people, from saints and sinners, and yet you remain within that community.

You see, God manifests His holiness, His Otherness, in His people – and in particular, in the least of His people. That’s why in Matthew 25, in the only description of the last judgment in Scripture,we find Jesus telling us to serve His people: to feed the hungry, to give drink to the thirsty, to visit the sick and imprisoned, to welcome the stranger. And why? Because what we do to the least of His brothers and sisters, we do to Him.

When you stand before God’s people, you're not standing before a crowd, or even a congregation; you’re standing before Jesus Christ. Again, you are a servant who ministers to God and His people, and God makes us and them one with Himself.

Do you think of that as you make your way to the ambo?

As readers, as ministers of the Word, you are called to feed those who hunger for God’s holy Word, who thirst for a taste of His love, of His mercy and forgiveness.

You are called to be a beacon of welcome to the stranger who may have come to Mass for the first time in years…or simply for the first time.

You are called to bring God’s healing Word to those who are spiritually ill, to those imprisoned by their own sinfulness.

Do you think of that as you make your way to the ambo?

And what about your own spiritual life, the state of your own soul? When we are right with God, when you and I have accepted God’s mercy, His forgiveness, we can better proclaim His Word.

As you all know, a poor reader can be a distraction, especially to other readers who are seated there in the pews. Instead of listening to God’s Word, they end up critiquing the proclamation. When someone else is proclaiming God’s Word at Mass, where is your attention? On the reader, or on the Word?

It’s really interesting, but I seem to fall victim to a wonderful paradox as I listen to you proclaim from the ambo. If you proclaim God’s Word well, I simply don’t notice it. That’s true. I don’t notice it because all my attention is drawn not to you but to the Word of God…and that's as  it should be.

But when a normally good reader falters, when he or she proclaims poorly, I get the sense that some internal conflict is the cause, that some relationship has gone wrong.

You and I exist in a web of relationships – links to nature, to people, to God. Do we trace out these links, examine the strong ones and the weak ones? Do we give thanks for the life and love that flow through them?

Some of these links are weak, aren’t they? Bent and twisted, while others are broken. And because of them we experience deep feelings of regret or disappointment, even anger. But do we, can we, accept our weakness and turn to God and allow Him to straighten and repair  these links? Do we pray for the gift of acceptance and forgiveness? Do we ask for forgiveness ourselves?

Perhaps St. James said it best: 

Is anyone among you suffering? He should pray. Is anyone in good spirits? He should sing praise.Is anyone among you sick? He should summon the presbyters of the church, and they should pray over him and anoint [him] with oil in the name of the Lord, and the prayer of faith will save the sick person, and the Lord will raise him up. If he has committed any sins, he will be forgiven. Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed.The fervent prayer of a righteous person is very powerful. [Jas 5:13-16]

You see, everything we do is for the other, not for ourselves. God wants us to see our relationships with others as relationships with Him. How can we be effective ministers if we have allowed our relationships with God and each other to be broken? 

Do you consider that as you witness the Eucharistic miracle take place right in front of you? For it is here that God becomes present to us in a way like no other. It is here that we come together as one, as a community of faith, and go forward to receive Our Lord in a community of faith. And then we return to our place, our place in that community, overcome by the wonder of our God, our Creator, Who has become one with us.

God is with you; He is with me. But more than this, God is within us, truly present within us. Just dwell for a moment on God's life-giving presence…His presence in your body, in your mind, in your heart.

As you kneel before His altar, you are really kneeling to His presence within you. That’s right. You need look no further than your own flesh and blood joined to the Body and Blood of Him Who brought you into being. Look into yourself in wonder and thanksgiving.

We are all in need of God’s presence, of returning to the Lord, as the psalmist says, to “bow down before His holy mountain.” Only when we recognize God’s presence can we truly worship; only in God’s presence are we truly free: free to shed all that distracts us; free to accept our calling as servants of our God; free to join our own brokenness with the wounds of Jesus, the wounds He took on for our sake.

The fathers of the Second Vatican Council called the Eucharist “the source and summit of the Christian life.” They did so because in the Eucharist we are made whole. In God’s Eucharistic presence sins are forgiven, wounds are healed, and lives are transformed.

Brothers and sisters, I’ve only scratched the surface of our spirituality as God’s ministers, but I hope you might find some little piece of it to be helpful as you respond to God’s call to ministry as proclaimers of the Word.

Jesus began His ministry with the words: “Repent and believe in the Gospel” [Mk1:14].

With that in mind, I'll finish with the words of one of my heroes, Blessed Charles de Foucauld: 

"Our entire existence, our whole being must shout the Gospel from the rooftops. Our entire person must breathe Jesus, all our actions. Our whole life must cry out that we belong to Jesus, must reflect a Gospel way of living. Our whole being must be a living proclamation, a reflection of Jesus Christ."

Homily: Wednesday, 11th Week in Ordinary Time

Readings: 2 Cor 9:6-11; Ps 112; Mt 6:1-6, 16-18

I grew up in the Northeast, along the coast, so whenever I read in the Bible about sowing and reaping and harvesting and scattering…well, these farming metaphors don’t really strike home. About the closest I ever came to farming was mowing the lawn. But living near the ocean I did spend some time on the water. Indeed, I had a number of friends who were commercial fisherman, and on a few occasions I joined them on their boats.

Although fishing at sea is very different from farming, there are similarities. Both are dependent on the whims of nature, and nature can be harsh. Both occupations can experience the kind of failure that can result in financial catastrophe, the loss of a season’s income.

Some elements of our lives are simply beyond our control. And I suppose it’s good that this is so, that we come to know we are creatures with limitations. The challenges and disappointments of life are strong reminders that we are simply men and women. We are not God.

Of course, you don’t have to be a farmer or a fisherman to experience loss. Diane and I volunteer as chaplains at our local hospital. Earlier this week, we received a late-night call to go to the ICU to meet with the family of a dying woman. As it turned out, she died just moments before we arrived.

Even though she had been seriously ill for some time and her family expected her death, her three grown children were devastated. Her son, especially, was overcome with grief. He had cared for day and night for over seven years and just couldn’t handle her death. His care for her had been a work of selfless charity that few of us could probably handle.

I suppose we spent at least 30 minutes simply listening to all three as they poured out their hearts and spoke of their mother. Fortunately all were believing Christians, and responded well to our feeble attempts to comfort them and they willingly joined us in prayer.

In today’s Gospel passage Jesus reminds us that our works of charity must be acts of humility. Believe me, I am always humbled in the presence of the dying and those who care for them.

And charity must be hidden, Jesus tells us, the kind of work that seeks no human reward. Charity, the business of love, yields no return. There’s no bountiful crop, no net-breaking catch, no obvious reward.

Nature is very fickle with her rewards, but not the Father, the One Who is love. As Jesus reminds us, these works of ours please the Father greatly. He loves our love. And He will reward us, just not always in ways we might expect. Perhaps the Father, who sees our works in secret, places a little something in our heavenly fishing net or silo. Maybe that little something, the Father’s reward, is something far greater than we can ever imagine.

My father, speaking of charity, used to say, “Throw bread on the water and it comes back strawberry shortcake.”  You just never know when it will arrive.