Author: DVO

Fr. Eric Hollas writes of the sometimes confusing speech of Jesus, who seems to speak in riddles. It’s a small wonder the disciples occasionally asked for clarification. In today’s Gospel, Jesus went one step further, and his words seem to defy any convention of fair play. Where’s the justice in taking from those who have little and giving to those who have much? Jesus is not speaking in economic terms, nor is he talking about justice. Light shared or hidden was the topic of his lesson, and that has little to do with how many gifts we have and everything to do with whether we use our gifts. Those who hear the word must become a light to others, for even the kingdom’s mysteries made known to the disciples must come to light. Jesus told us that he is “the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” We know that even the smallest amount of light can dispel the darkness. Your light brings Christ’s light into the darkest of lives to show them the path to peace, hope, and love.

The parable of the vineyard workers in today’s gospel reading shines a spotlight on the extravagant generosity of God. As the story goes, a landowner goes out several times during the day seeking workers for his vineyard. Each worker is given the same opportunity to work for the regular daily wage. This meant that the late hires received from the landowner the same compensation as the early arrivals. The story speaks of the unmerited and amazing generosity of our Lord. Yet many of us, when we first hear this story, side with the early workers who worked a full day but got the same wage as those who only worked an hour. How can that be fair? Our first reading today from Isaiah provides insight into our challenge in accepting that we cannot possibly think as God thinks. God can never be figured out or second-guessed if the Scriptures are to be believed. You can shake your fist at God or bend your knee to worship God, but you can never understand God. Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that we like to compare God’s ways to our ways and, on that basis, find God unacceptable. We do this in sincere and well-intentioned ways; for example, we say things like: “If there were an all-loving and all-powerful God, this suffering would not exist!” “God could never permit this!” “This cannot make sense!” “An all-powerful God would do something about this!” These expressions and the attitudes that go with them seem enlightened, sympathetic, and courageous; certainly, most people would say that of Harold Kushner’s book, “When Bad Things Happen to Good People,” which says precisely those things. However, this notion of “understanding God” is problematic. Why? Simply put, a God whose thoughts are our thoughts and whose ways are our ways, a God who can be understood, is eventually not an object for reverence or worship. Such a God is too small, ordinary, and impotent to be an object of faith. Likewise, such a God can neither be fully Creator nor Redeemer and will be seen as an opium for those lacking intellectual courage. Does this mean we should stop trying to understand God and asking questions? No. Faith never demands that we stop asking hard questions. However, at the end of the day, whether you are staring at blessing or curse, graciousness or suffering, love or hate, life or death, you can only say this of God: “Holy, Holy, Holy!…God’s ways are not my ways!” Faith embraces this reality, trusts in God’s promises, and faithfully seeks to do His will. 

Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that we do a lot of looking without seeing much. Seeing implies more than having good eyesight. Our eyes can be wide open, and we can see very little. He speaks of Paul and his conversion on the road to Damascus and how we always assume that it tells us that Paul was struck blind by his vision, but I think the text implies more. It tells us that Paul got up off the ground with his eyes wide open, seeing nothing.  That doesn’t necessarily equate with physical blindness. He may well have been seeing physically, but he wasn’t seeing the meaning of what he was getting himself into. Someone had to come and open his eyes, not just so that he could see again physically but especially so that he could see more deeply into the mystery of Christ. Seeing, truly seeing, implies more than having eyes that are physically healthy and open. We all see the outer surface of things, but what’s beneath isn’t as automatically seen. One of the key movements within our spiritual lives is the movement from fantasy to prayer, a movement that ultimately frees us from wanting to press to ourselves all that’s beautiful to appreciating beauty for its own sake. We can only really see and appreciate beauty when we stop lusting for it. Our longing for relevance makes us look out at the world with restless, dissatisfied eyes. We practice mindfulness and see the richness of the present moment only when our disquiet is stilled by solitude. Longing and hunger distort our vision. Gratitude restores it. It enables insight. The most grateful person you know has the best eyesight of all the people you know.

Susan Pitchford writes that just before this passage, Jesus has been shown extravagant love by a woman who was “a sinner”: she anointed him with ointment, washed his feet with her tears, and dried them with her hair. Jesus, more impressed than his host, points out that this woman has received great forgiveness and, as a result, shows great love. The women who accompanied Jesus had also experienced deep healing, and the depth of their love naturally overflowed into generous giving. This is how it works. When we love deeply, we want to give extravagantly. And when we feel someone has pulled us from the abyss, our hearts overflow with gratitude, and there is nothing we wouldn’t give, nothing we wouldn’t do, to show it. Jesus said of the sinful woman that she loved much because she’d been forgiven much. That’s me, too, but I can’t weep over Jesus’ feet now. But I can accompany him, remembering something else he said: “Whatever you do to the least member of my family, you’ve done to me.”

Today, we celebrate the feast of St. Matthew, and his laconic account details the transition from spiritual death to spiritual life. What was going through Matthew’s head when Jesus passed by, noticed him, and said, “Follow me”? As a tax collector, Matthew would have been held at arm’s length by his family and despised by his neighbors. His co-workers had a reputation for coming up with scams to line their own pockets, and Matthew might have done the same thing himself. But then Jesus arrives and offers his invitation, and Matthew follows. The next thing we hear, they are having a meal together with a host of other people like him! Jesus was compassionate. He saw who had been left out and rejected. He let them know that he wanted to be with them. It’s a simple but powerful message: “I want to know you. I’m happy to spend time with you. Let’s have dinner.” This affirmation can change lives. Think of all the people who were touched by Jesus’ genuine compassion. At least two were publicly known to have committed adultery: the woman at the well, who came at the hottest part of the day to avoid the gossip of the village’s wives, and the woman he saves from being stoned to death. Both were living with shame and rejection before Jesus approached them. Jesus never seemed anxious about his reputation. Instead, he looked people straight in the eye and loved them. He just accepted them.

I recently read an excellent reflection by L. Kazlas on the reality that we are all passing through this life on the same journey that I want to share with you today.
We are a pilgrim people, and heaven is our home. We journey through life with our family, friends, and one another in the Catholic church. Our lives are richer, fuller, and happier when we reach out to one another wherever we are to form a community and share our lives, both the good and the bad as well. That is what the gospel reading is about today, too, except the people of that time did not see it that way. John the Baptist did not eat bread and drink wine, and they thought he had a demon, but Jesus did eat bread and drink wine, and they thought he was a glutton and drunkard and a friend of the worst of the sinners. The way things look is not always what they seem to be. There are hidden truths in one another’s lives that only the Lord knows, so we should never judge one another by the surface facts of our lives. That is hard to do sometimes, but it is necessary to be a true community that lives in the Holy Spirit, eating, drinking, dancing sometimes, weeping sometimes, and supporting one another through our life’s journey. Our reflection verse today from Luke’s gospel speaks to the beauty of our church. Individually, we are less than perfect people, but together, we are the living, breathing body of Jesus Christ. The vindication for our imperfections is not from ourselves but from Jesus, the bridegroom of our church, who earned the right for us to be gathered together to celebrate eternal life with him and one another. Surely, we will meet one another in heaven one day, and someone will play the flute, and then we shall dance. But today, I pray that your spirit dances within you wherever you may go.

Christ knows he is surrounded by a crowd that will be awed by the miracle and will tell the story all over the countryside. But he does not act artificially, merely to create an effect. Quite simply, he is touched by that woman’s suffering and cannot but console her. He goes up to her and says, “Do not weep.” It is like he is saying: “I don’t want to see you crying; I have come on earth to bring joy and peace.” Only then comes the miracle, the sign of the power of Christ, who is God. Sr. Melannie Svoboda says we usually think of a miracle as something extraordinary, something spectacular. In the Gospel reading, we see Jesus raise to life the son of the widow of Nain. Yes, raising the young man was miraculous. But just as extraordinary was this: Jesus being moved to compassion by the suffering of a stranger in a nowhere little town. Fidelity, kindness, devotion, and compassion are all expressions of love. And isn’t love the greatest miracle of all?

In her work “The Flowing Light of the Godhead,” Mechthild of Magdeburg, a medieval mystic, writes: “Lord, you’re full, and you fill us with your kindness, too. You’re great, and we’re small. Tell us, how are we to become like you then? Lord, I see you’ve given us many blessings and that we must pass these on to others. Although we have a small vessel, you still fill it up. A person can pour the contents of a full, small container into an empty, larger container over and over until the large container becomes full from the contents of the small container. The large container is the satisfaction God gets from our kind actions. Sadly, we are so tiny that a single petite word from God or the Bible fills us so completely that we can’t take it in for the moment anymore. We should then pour the gift back again into the large container that is God. How can we do this? Through our holy desires, we must pour our small container of God’s love over those we know so that they may work on becoming perfect in God’s kindness and remain that way. Our Lord God wants us to love Him just as He has loved us and loves us still and always will. If we want to be like Him, we will love just as He does.”

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry” is a famous line from Erich Segal’s 1970 novel, “Love Story.”  Bishop Robert Morneau writes that this statement is not only lousy psychology but also denies what love is all about. “The cousins of love are mercy and forgiveness. Every relationship will have its hurts and bruises. These must be tended to as much as a knife wound. If not, an infection will set in, threatening our spiritual and community life. A humble spirit and contrite heart allow us to live authentically with God and others.” In the Book of Daniel, at the point where Daniel’s three friends refuse to bow down to the golden image of Nebuchadnezzar and are thrown into the fiery furnace, the three friends, commonly known as Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego – the names they were given in Babylon which in the original Hebrew were Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah, we have Azariah (Abednego) praying loudly to the Lord: “But with contrite heart and humble spirit let us be received.” Bishop Morneau makes a crucial point: “As we come before the Lord in personal or communal prayer, our disposition and our moral behavior play a significant part in the effectiveness of our dialogue with the Lord. Humility grounds us in the truth of things; contrition opens our hearts to receive the mercy of God. The Gospel parable about the servant who received God’s forgiveness but refused to forgive in return is deeply disturbing. Of course, we are that servant being offered God’s forgiveness. Hopefully, we are not that servant in withholding forgiveness from those who have hurt us in any way.” Jesus teaches that forgiveness of others must be “from the heart,” for that is what God looks at in every request we make of Him. That is the depth and breadth of his desire for intimacy and truth.

Kathy Hendricks in Give Us This Day writes that her home was her stronghold, sheltering her throughout her childhood and adolescence. “My parents built the house before World War II, and it was a strong and sturdy structure. This proved true in withstanding the elements of nature and the way our family weathered storms of grief and loss. My years at our home formed a foundation that has steadied me for decades. Perhaps this is why I am so fond of Jesus’ image of the house built on rock. I get it down to my core. The parable is not difficult to unravel. When we truly hear what Jesus teaches, we act accordingly. In doing so, we aren’t thrown off base by faith-straining experiences and events. However, what may not be so clear is how to remain true to this foundation. There is no disputing the profound impact of a nurturing family. The bedrock of faith, however, isn’t dependent on a street address or idyllic childhood. It continues to be formed, layer by layer, in various ways. Spiritual practice is one. Routines of prayer, reflection, and meditation expand the interior space in which love, mercy, compassion, and wisdom can grow. Immersion is another. We cannot, nor should we try to, escape the realities of the world with all of its societal and cultural sinkholes. The beauty of the Eucharist, the richness of our shared story, and the companionship of our Church family provide solid ground upon which to merge word and deed into an authentic act of faith.”