|Reflection for the Eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time B, August 1 2021
Exodus 16: 2-4, 12-15; Psalm 78; Ephesians 4: 17, 20-24; John 6: 24-35
It‘s hard to think of anyone who actually likes to be told what to do. Do you know of anyone? Probably not.
Little children certainly don’t like it, and will pull a screaming
temper tantrum when their frustration goes out of control.
Teenagers, well, it goes without saying. I’m thinking of a
friend, a mother of five, who was interviewed for a job and was asked
if she could deal with oppositional behaviour. She exclaimed,
“Are you kidding? I’m the mother of five teenagers!”
And it can happen that older people don’t either. I’m smiling
thinking of a now-deceased German woman from my parish, who was
expelled from a nursing home. The frustrated staff told her
daughter, “She won’t cooperate. All she says is ‘Nein, nein,
(God help me, there’s a part of me that wants to go into old age just that feisty ;-)
We find both in our readings for this Sunday – stiff-necked
oppositional resistance on the one hand and a cautiously cooperative
“What do you want us to do?” on the other. And the unlikely
thread that holds them together is the image of “manna.” Manna is
an Aramaic word that means, “What is it?” Really, that’s what it
means. “Whazzat?” “What’s this stuff?”
The First Reading opens with the hungry Israelites in the desert,
grumbling, again. They grouched at Moses, “We’d have been better
off in Egypt eating pot roast” (yes that’s what is meant in this
translation by “fleshpots:” roasted meat or stew, not what you
might have been tempted to think.)
Moses promises them that God will provide them with meat and
bread. At night, migrating quail swoop down on the encampment and
the weary pilgrims catch and roast enough to eat their fill. And
of course in the morning something very odd appears on the
ground. “What is it?” Do you know what it apparently
was? At night the tamarisk tree, common in that desert region,
secretes a sort of sap rather like maple sap, that forms a sugary flaky
substance on the ground. These flakes can be harvested to make a
beverage or a dish consisting of chunks and syrup.
In the Gospel the crowd reminds Jesus of the sign given by Moses of
God’s powerful work in the provision of manna in the desert, and they
ask him, ”OK, what kind of sign can you show us?” Notice, this
story follows the generously overflowing meal of bread and fish that
fed more than five thousand -- as if they needed another sign from
God. They even ask, “What can we do to make this happen?” as if
it were within their own power to pull off a miracle, if they only
Jesus points past Moses, to God the origin of all sustenance and all
life: “For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven
and gives life to the world.” They respond by asking him to give
them “this bread, always.” And Jesus answers by saying, “I am the
bread of life. Whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever
believes in me shall not thirst.”
Here is where this week’s Gospel stops. It’s a lovely
ending. This can be read as a rich, meaningful metaphor:
Jesus identifying himself as the bread of life. You can say that
this means his teaching gives life by giving wisdom, spiritual
nourishment, and a source of mental strength to deal with whatever
happens … and then break off the conversation, or put down the book,
and walk away.
It’s not that easy. Jesus doesn’t let anyone off that easily.
In next week’s Gospel we’ll see a much stronger emphasis on Jesus as
the bread come down from heaven – and even more oppositional behaviour.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time B July 25 2021
2 Kings 4: 42-44; Psalm 145; Ephesians 4: 1-6; John 6: 1-15
Gnomes have done it again. Last week we read almost up to Jesus’
first feeding miracle according to Mark. Now we’ve jumped out of
Mark and landed, plop, in the sixth chapter of John with a long
discourse on – a feeding miracle.
may be a Bible story you recall from your childhood because it’s easy
to retell in a way that supports children’s sense that Jesus loves
them, and that they can contribute something that really matters.
The story I remember from childhood begins with the boy’s mother
packing his lunch with the five barley loaves and two fish to send him
off to hear Jesus. Clearly she was not a helicopter parent, or
afraid that he would be abducted, or worse. This was a different
time and culture, characterized by extended families. We caught a
hint of that in the Lukan story of the twelve-year-old Jesus staying
behind in the Temple – Mary and Joseph just assumed he was with family
and neighbours and didn’t hunt for him right away.
loaves were the food of the poor. Barley was coarse, hard to
digest and not very tasty, but very basic. As children we
wouldn’t have seen that in the story. We were probably thinking
of peanut butter and jelly, or perhaps bologna … or maybe lobster
scraps if you grew up on the coast of Atlantic Canada.
nameless boy has a non-speaking role in this story. We might
safely assume that Philip asked him to contribute his lunch, and didn’t
just confiscate it. And the boy cooperated. His generosity
is integrated into the story.
the children’s version this story’s high point is a gee-whiz-wow
miracle story: Just two fish and five barley loaves, and look at
the ton of food left over! How did Jesus do it? Jesus is
“the Prophet,” the super-hero. Jesus saves the day.
then we grew up. We learned to see different levels in a story,
levels of symbolism or analogy, images that pointed to something
besides themselves, comparisons that might be simile, or more
challengingly, metaphor. So what do we do with this story now?
some pastors and priests are still preaching gee-whiz-wow. They
point to what the story tells about Jesus as a prophet who can work
miracles, like Elisha. John’s Jesus elsewhere describes himself
as “the true manna come down from heaven,” to make a clearer parallel
with the Hebrew Bible and the Exodus event. And by way of analogy
a preacher can point out the Eucharistic parallels in this story,
setting it in the context both of late first-century Christian practice
and the celebration of the Eucharist today. When John writes “The
Jewish feast of Passover was near,” the link with all of these points
of reference is strengthened.
Radford Ruether did something completely different. She proposed
that what really happened was that the example of the boy who shared
his meagre lunch inspired all of the other thousands of people to bring
out the food they’d packed for the day as well, and share it. As
a result there were more leftovers than anyone could have
imagined. (…OK, we won’t ask how all these people were carrying
all this food when they followed Jesus up the mountain…)
account appeals to us as sensible, practical adults. But
something is lost here, and it’s not just the magic gee-whiz-wow.
It’s what we might call for lack of a better phrase the depth
dimension, or better, the infinity dimension. This story is meant
to astonish us with God’s lavish generosity, astounding us and
shattering our narrow expectations and logical calculations of how to
feed a crowd. What God does is beyond the farthest limits of our
imagination, expanding the range of our faith to larger than life size.
don’t know exactly what happened at the event that inspired this
account, and John is sparing in details. The writer of John does
not call this a miracle, but instead a sign, one in a series of
signs. In fact the whole first part of John has been called “the
Book of Signs.”
sign is something that points to a reality beyond itself. One
commentator notes, “In both Old and New Testaments, ‘signs’ or ‘signs
and wonders’ crack open heaven just a bit to give earth-bound people a
glimpse of Godly truths.”
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the
Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time B July 18 2021
Jeremiah 23: 1-6; Psalm
23; Ephesians 2: 13-18; Mark 6: 30-34
Don’t you just hate
It’s the last episode of
the season, and the plot line hits a crisis right at the end. Does
the star live or die? Does the couple break up or get married? and
if they get married, does the marriage last? There you sit. And you
don’t find out what happened to your TV friends until next year’s
season. And maybe not even then.
This week’s Gospel
contains a cliffhanger, but you have to read ahead in the Gospel of
Mark to see what’s coming. We read that Jesus and his friends
sought out a deserted place, but people kept finding them, so many
that they hardly had time to eat. They took a boat but the people
caught up with them. At a certain point Jesus felt sorry for the
people, turned around, and began to teach them. That’s in verse
34. And that’s where our reading ends.
But in verse 35 we see
where this story is going. Big crowd in a deserted place, it’s
late, and the disciples (who just came back from their first foray
into mission) want Jesus to send the folks away to buy food in local
villages. But Jesus turns the responsibility back to them: “You
give them something to eat.” They can’t and they get sarcastic
about it. And the stage is set for the first story of the miraculous
feeding of five thousand … men. Not counting women and children.
This is one of those “What
were the Lectionary gnomes thinking?” weeks. Next week we’ll
suddenly jump from the Gospel of Mark to that of John, where five
successive weeks of Gospels will be taken from the so-called Bread of
Life Discourses in John chapter 6.* It’s all about feeding! And
about life in Christ.
What happened here was
that the Scripture scholars gave prominence to the phrase, “his
heart was moved with pity for them, for they were like sheep without
a shepherd,” and paired it with the Hebrew Bible reading from
Jeremiah, “Woe to the shepherds who mislead and scatter the flock
of my pasture…” “Bon cop bad cop,” good shepherd bad
We’re in a dilemma
whenever we confront the Scriptures about shepherds, or the good
shepherd, or God as a shepherd. On one hand this is the comforting
image of God par excellence.
For this reason Psalm 23 is almost the only psalm you’ll hear at
funerals. Knowing that God cares for us and will never desert us no
matter what, gives us enough strength to hold our heads up and keep
On the other hand, the
analogy of a secular or clerical leader with a shepherd carries some
highly problematic implications. The shepherd is entirely
responsible for the welfare of domesticated sheep, but people are not
sheep. We are members of the same species, and on the whole, equally
intelligent. The leader is not a higher order of creature entitled
to domination and control over the people governed.
So how do we work with the
idea of divine feeding, sustenance and comfort in such a way as to
avoid re-inscribing or reinforcing some divine right to absolute
power-over on the part of human leaders?
The “feeding” analogy
needs to be widened in order to make it work. Let’s go back to the
Gospel reading, the part we heard and the part we didn’t. The
crowds of people didn’t chase after Jesus to the point of following
his boat so that they could get a free meal. They were literally
following a prophet. So the first thing he did to respond to their
needs was “to teach them many things.” He fed them with the
bread of wisdom, so to speak, the bread of right conduct and love of
neighbour. It was only later when Jesus’ friends took stock of the
unforeseen emergency situation that they confronted the question of
how all these people were going to find food before their journey
Mark anticipates here what
Luke would do repeatedly – tell a story that sets up an allusion to
the two components of the later Eucharistic liturgy that their
first-century Christian communities would celebrate: first, the Word
of Scripture or teaching, followed by sharing of food in memory of
him – the “breaking of the bread,” the klasis
tou artou as it was known before the term
Eucharist was used.
Susan K. Roll
*Actually in 2021 it will
be four weeks of John because on Sunday August 15th
the Solemnity of the Assumption preempts the regular sequence of
Reflection for the Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time B July 11 2021
Amos 7: 12-15; Psalm 85; Ephesians 1: 3-14; Mark 6: 7-13
wonderful result of the liturgical reforms that resulted from the
Second Vatican Council is that Roman Catholics and mainline Protestants
now share almost the same readings of the Word of God on the same
Sunday, or at least the same Gospel. This Sunday is an exception
though. The Gospel reading in the Roman Missal is Mark 6: 7-13,
Jesus’ instructions to the disciples that he sent out on mission.
The Revised Common Lectionary uses the text that follows right
afterward, Mark 6: 14-29, the beheading of John the Baptist.*
the second reading, the New Testament reading from Ephesians, is
identical. The passage for this Sunday plays out on nothing less
than a cosmic scope and presents us with some breathtaking theological
and spiritual imagery. It’s not without its problems however.
was not written by Paul, though possibly by an associate of his, and it
does not carry the heading “To the Ephesians” on all ancient
copies. This suggests that it was a sort of open letter meant to
be sent around to a number of late first-century Christian
communities. And in Greek, our eleven-verse reading, Eph 1: 3-14,
is all one sentence. It definitely needed an editor.
can begin by pulling out some of the beautiful phrases that identify us
-- first-century Christians, 21st-century Christians, and everyone in
between. “God … has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual
blessing in the heavens … chose us in him, before the foundation of the
world, to be holy and without blemish … destined us for adoption
through Jesus Christ…for the praise of the glory of the grace … granted
us in the beloved.” And that’s just the first section. “In
[Christ] we have the forgiveness of transgressions” (Greek scholars
translate this simply as “lapses”), “in accord with the riches of his
grace that he lavished upon us. In all wisdom and insight, he has
made known to us the mystery of his will … as a plan for the fullness
of times, to sum up all things in Christ, in heaven and on earth.”
theme of adoption, or being chosen by God, recurs throughout this
reading, and can be a stumbling block if we assume that only a select
number are chosen. This is not about God’s favoured few surviving
the end times, in fact it’s not about the end times at all. It’s
about baptism. We know that baptism is meant here by the last
part: “In [Christ] you also, who have heard the word of truth …
and have believed in him, were sealed with the promised Holy Spirit
which is the first installment of our inheritance toward redemption as
God’s possession, to the praise of [God’s] glory.”
are baptized as the result of an invitation. A baptized baby
receives lifelong membership in the community intimately identified
with Christ, supported by loving family, teachers and companions.
An adult who chooses baptism has normally made a personal journey of
faith, and responded to the invitation of a living faith community to
“Come and see.” The invitation ultimately comes from God, and is
open to all. Repeat, the invitation is open to all.
Predestination is for the whole of humanity, in fact for the whole of
God’s creation. This may be about as close to a universal call as
we’re likely to find in the New Testament.
at the unabashed lavishness of God’s generosity: “every spiritual
blessing… the riches of [God’s] grace lavished upon us.” An old
hymn says, “Our God is a spendthrift God.” This is what our
sacraments should look like – not token, half-hearted, barely-there
symbols, but a rush of water, a drizzle of sacred oil, followed by a
generous banquet represented by the bread and the wine by which Christ
promised to remain with us always.
and insight, although divine in origin, can be subject to the
restrictions of time and culture. Later in Ephesians we find the
infamous household codes (“Wives be subject to your husbands.”)
Ephesians stresses ecclesial community like a family, but a patriarchal
family limited by the conventions of its own era. It need not
limit our understanding or perspective, not when we allow our spirits
to soar with the “praise of the glory of God’s grace, granted us in the
© Susan K. Roll
a very interesting take on the RCL Gospel, the beheading of John the
Baptist, I recommend the commentary by Cláudio Carvalhaes for the
Eighth Sunday after Pentecost found in workingpreacher.org
The editor notes, “The author has read this text from the perspective
of an immigrant, pairing the events of the gospel reading with the
events of our time, imagining the gospel taking into account our own
**An earlier version of this Reflection appears on the website www.GodsWordManyVoices.org
Reflection for the Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time B July 4 2021
Ezekiel 2: 2-5; Psalm 123; 2 Corinthians 12: 7-10; Mark 6: 1-6
You can’t go home again.
Home will be different. More to the point, you will be different.
aware of some irony here, in that I’m writing this while sitting in
what used to be my parents’ bedroom, books and notes strewn halfway
across my mom’s dresser. So OK, sometimes you can go home again.
But the point still stands. Home will be different. And you will be different.
Jesus found that out too, and he was simply astonished. He never saw it coming.
writer of the Gospel of Mark sets this up by way of a striking contrast
with Jesus’ public ministry to date: teachings, healings,
stilling of the storm on the lake, and last week’s story-within-a-story
of the miraculous healing of the woman whose hemorrhage had lasted
twelve years and the raising to life of a young girl – yes, not just
healing but bringing her back to life. When, at the start of
chapter 6 in today’s Gospel, Jesus returns to his home town, one would
expect his fame to precede him. Throngs of jubilant townspeople
carrying their sick family members should process out to meet him on
the road. That didn’t happen.
outrage was not caused because they thought he was teaching gibberish
or falsehoods. They responded, first with amazement at his
wisdom, then in a second movement with consternation that someone from
their own town should show himself so insightful, so gifted, and so
powerful. Whatever glimmer of admiration may have flickered in
the beginning, suddenly turned to virulent verbal abuse.
Mark we read that they lashed out with “Is this not the carpenter, the
son of Mary…?” They hurled a venal insult at him by not referring
to his father, in fact calling him illegitimate. You can tell how
vituperative this was by the fact that the later Gospels of Matthew and
Luke rewrote this line to soften the insult: Matthew changes it to “the
carpenter’s son” and Luke to “son of Joseph.”
four Gospels have Jesus remarking that no prophet is without honour
except in their own land and among their own people. Notice how
Jesus shifts the attack here by calling himself a prophet. He
claims for himself the call of an agent of God, whether he and his
message are accepted or not, a risk of rejection echoed in the call of
Ezekiel in our First Reading. This would not be his first
rejection – the accounts are studded with disputes with Pharisees,
Sadducees, his own family, and finally betrayal to the authorities and
uncomfortable incident tells us something about Jesus’ teaching and
healing power. The people who had known him in childhood were
“scandalized” at him – the word refers to a stumbling block, or even
setting a trap for someone. As a result, his power to heal was
severely limited. Now a glib preacher might tape together this
week’s and last week’s Gospels to say, See, the officer Jairus and the
woman with the hemorrhage believed in him and the healing worked, but
where no one had faith, he couldn’t do it. That might urge the
hearers to have more faith, but what does it say about God? That
God’s power is truncated when people don’t believe? Is it like
magic again? Like the magic doesn’t work unless you really really
believe? Like a child? Like the Cowardly Lion in the Wizard
faith and common sense tell us that human beings do not control
God. Anyone who has prayed diligently and desperately for a
favour, or a turn of events, or yes a healing that did not happen,
knows that. God is not a vending machine for which you need the
right coins or tokens, or a pad to tap your credit card. With God
we are always in dialogue with a living person, a being of unfathomable
infinity and immeasurable love.
Gospel was retouched in another way. None of the later Gospels
show Jesus affected as a human being by the people gathered around him
so deeply. As we often are, he was caught off-guard, stunned,
unable to offer gifts of wisdom and healing to those who ruthlessly
pushed them away. Jesus was incarnate in our flesh, lived on our
earth, dealt with other humans, and too often suffered disappointment
and persecution. His incarnation was, and remains, a gift to
us. We may be misunderstood and abused as well, in spite of our
good intentions. But we are never alone.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the
Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time B June 27, 2021
Wisdom 1:13-15, 2:23-24;
Psalm 30; 2 Corinthians 8:7, 9, 13-15; Mark 5: 1-43
Twelve years. Twelve long
years. Twelve short years. Short if this is as much of a lifetime
as you’ve been granted, and now your life is drawing to a close,
just as you’ve reached the threshold of adulthood. Long if you’ve
struggled to find healing from a distressing disease that has put you
outside of normal public life and devastated your resources in vain.
Twelve years whose passage
is marked in blood. First menstrual blood and the prospect of giving
life to future children. Or a discharge of blood that never ceases,
depleting one’s life force and strength.
The real richness and
power in the “frame story” of the young girl and the “interlude
story” of the woman with a hemorrhage, found in this Markan
sandwich (yes, New Testament scholars call this type of story
construction a “Sandwich” without batting an eye) lies in the
fully embodied nature of both suffering and healing. The body is the
site of life, in all its variant forms and its range of conditions.
The first reading from the
book of Wisdom serves as the perfect set-up for a meditation on the
holiness of the body: “God did not make death, and does not
delight in the death of the living. For God created all things so
that they might exist, and the generative forces of the world are
wholesome.”* (Does this sound different from the understanding of
the body that you might have learned as a child? Maybe that the body
was dirty, or some of its functions were dirty? That the body is the
source of shame? the cause of sin? That bodies can be too fat, too
thin, too different in ability, the wrong colour, bad hair, no hair
or just plain ugly -- and that a “bad” body diminishes your value
as a human person?)
These Gospel stories pour
us into the mystery of Incarnation – that God took on a body like
ours, imperfections and all. When Ignatius of Antioch wrote, “what
is not assumed is not redeemed,” he set the bodiliness of Jesus the
Christ, the one who had died and risen, as the cornerstone of the
relation of humanity to God. Rosemary Radford Ruether took it a step
farther to argue that the risen Christ comprises all genders, because
all can die and rise with him in baptism. Baptism, which is the same
for all, is the source of all calls to ministry.
Life in human flesh is
both a gift and a task, something given freely and something taken
into one’s own hands, on one’s own responsibility. Sometimes
flourishing in the flesh takes personal initiative. If the nameless
young girl’s father hadn’t taken the initiative to go to Jesus,
defying any hesitance his fellow synagogue officials had about this
upstart prophet -- well, what would have been the result? The care
and concern of family and friends and community sustains the life of
everyone. In the case of Jairus and his beloved daughter, his
passionate love, his persistence and his faith restored her to life.
Personal initiative that
defies social conventions, coupled with shame and fear -- this is
where the interlude story introduces a remarkable turn on the usual
Jesus-stretches-out-his-hand type of miracle healing stories. The
woman came alone – she was not accompanied by helpers who sought
her healing. And she did not approach Jesus face to face to ask for
help. We can sense her hesitation and yet her hope, “If I can only
touch the hem of his robe …” The woman herself was the active
agent of her healing process. She did not steal power from Jesus,
yet he felt power “leaving his body” involuntarily, in the exact
moment that she feels full permanent wholeness in hers. Her faith
healed her, not his choice to deploy power.
Jesus cannot identify her
immediately until she comes forward. He does not scold the woman,
but calls her “daughter,” establishing an affectionate family
relationship when she has no one else to care.
Jesus’ healing does not
come zapping down from the sky. Faith (meaning perfect trust, a
letting-go of fear) is a precondition of healing which is conveyed
through touch, much as we would do for those close to us. Much as we
are starting to hope we can do again, when social distancing becomes
less necessary, and effective protection from a plague of our time
finally becomes a widespread social good.
Susan K. Roll
*From the New Revised Standard Version.
If you use the Revised Common Lectionary your first reading is
Reflection for the Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time B, June 20 2021
Job 38: 1, 8-11; Psalm 107; 2 Corinthians 5: 14-17; Mark 4: 35-41
In 1968 the university
where I did my doctoral studies in theology, the Catholic University of
Leuven (or Louvain), Belgium, introduced English-language programs in
the faculties of Theology and Philosophy. This meant that some of
the Flemish professors needed to brush up on their English skills for
teaching. When I arrived in Leuven in 1985 a few of them were
still doing so.
One day, some of our
friends in Philosophy came from class with a funny story. The
professor had stood before the lecture hall, eyes bulging, arms spread
and gesticulating dramatically like a silent-screen star, as he
“In the beginning …there was… cows.
Nothing -- But -- Cows.
Of course the students
paused, puzzled, and glanced at each other. The discourse on cows
went on. Finally, one student raised her hand (keep in mind, it
was still not customary here for students to interrupt a university
lecture with questions) and hesitantly asked, “Professor, could you
write that on the board for us?”
The professor graciously complied. He took the chalk and wrote, “C-H-A-O-S.”
If the underlying theme
of our First Reading and Gospel for today had been about primeval
cosmic moo-cows it would be a lot more fun to write about.
Instead it will take us to a disturbing place in the history of
religions that bears on our present and our future.
In the first reading God,
speaking from a whirlwind, cuts through Job’s whining and self-pity to
say “Where were you when I made the earth? Who laid out its
measurements? Who shut the sea within doors when it burst forth
from the womb… and set limits for it, and set bars and doors?”
This God is master of the universe, who creates out of watery chaos and
sets structures in place to hold back what is wild and
uncontrollable. This is not the only ancient story about a great
Lord God defeating the powerful waters, or even binding a rival sea-god.
The Babylonian creation
story relates that the hero Marduk takes up the sword against the sea
monster Tiamat, the powerful mother-God, and not only defeats her but
cuts up her body to use as material to create the earth and its
creatures. This example of ancient myth depicts the primordial
chaos as female, as mighty and thunderous waters -- amniotic waters --
that the male hero must defeat and destroy in order to create, control
and dominate all that is.
In the Gospel reading
Jesus, at an early stage in his public ministry, is depicted doing what
God, the Lord of the universe, does: giving orders to the
threatening waters and subduing them. In the words of New
Testament scholar Gerard Sloyan, “Jesus’ power over wind and wave is
part of a larger confrontation basic to Mark’s Gospel in which Jesus
takes on the cosmic powers of evil, replacing chaos and death with
divine order and life.”
So – we worship the primordial male who defeats and slays the primordial female?
shut the sea…when it burst forth from the womb?” is a dead
giveaway. This is both primeval amniotic fluid, and
Let’s disengage the binary sex dichotomy and just face our fear of chaos.
And God knows we’ve faced
chaos in the last year and a half. The stability of life for many
of us has been shaken, if not shattered, in the wake of the pandemic
and the wrenching social chasms it reveals. Rage over race and
the effects of oppression and slavery. The disempowerment and
dispossession of the land of Indigenous peoples. Increased rates
of gun violence, domestic abuse, violence against women and persons of
Asian descent. The disruption of education, and worse, the
suffering and secret deaths of children. All leading potentially
to more chaos, and the reflex to blame the chaos on whatever victims
may be at hand.
How much faith would it take not to fear chaos?
How much faith?
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the Eleventh Sunday in Ordinary Time, B June 13 2021
Ezekiel 17: 22-24; Psalm 92; 2 Corinthians 5: 6-10; Mark 4: 26-34
Really, it’s not the smallest seed – there are smaller seeds, such as
the poppy seed. But the mustard seed has entered Christian
imagery to the point where you can find vials of mustard seed for sale
in any Israeli souvenir shop catering to Christian pilgrims. I
keep mine on a bookshelf next to what’s supposed to be myrrh.
And it’s debatable whether mustard grows into the largest of trees,
although it’s certainly an invasive plant. The idea here is
rhetorical hyperbole, a way of teaching that suits the parable genre
well and stretches the imagination until the hearers can easily grasp
the point. Each side of the dramatically exaggerated
equation—tiny seed, gigantic tree-- expresses a constellation of
When the second story, the mustard seed, is read in tandem with the
first story in our Gospel today, we’re presented with a seed of life
that grows and ripens all by itself, beyond the control of the
sower. The seed ripens on a cosmic timetable, as it were:
God’s timetable, not ours. Here is a poem by Dorothee
Sandherr-Klemp, Wunder des Wachstums (“The Miracle of Growth”):
The strength of growth, the miracle of ripening,
Pulls itself away from our grasp.
The earth lets the seed come to fruition from itself.
Whoever hurries to the field, impatient, to turn it over with the shovel
In order to see what’s become of the grain of seed,
Has a problem.
Whoever pulls up yet another chunk
of the fresh green that breaks through the topsoil,
trying to speed up its growth,
will surely never harvest anything.
So what can we do? After what is in our power to do, then,
(but without encroaching), trust, in the miracle of growth.*
And the other side has to do with shelter, safety, a place of refuge in the trees.
Canadians have been in shock and horror this past week at the discovery
of the remains of some 215 children buried on the grounds of the
Kamloops Indian Residential School in British Columbia.
Where does a terrified child, robbed of family, language and culture,
subject to humiliating and painful abuse – where can the child find
shelter? How can a child deal with constant fear and deep shame,
with nowhere to turn, no one to trust?
When I was very little, one day my father was enraged at something I’d
done and came chasing me, roaring, with the long spanking stick in his
hand. I ran into my room and dove under the bed, still just small
enough to fit in the space, and curled up at the far side against the
wall where the stick couldn’t reach me.
A child in residential school can’t hide under a metal bunk bed in a
crowded dormitory. Hide in a broom closet? The
washroom? Out back? Where to run? Where to hide?
Where is the tall tree whose branches reach around to cuddle and
shelter the child? Where is the adult who will protect a small
Indigenous child like a treasure?
Where are the caregivers who will treat, and nurture, and heal a sick child?
Where will the child learn of his dignity, her worth, their hope for a future?
What of the children who are no-where, abandoned, dead and buried in land that is not, or no longer, their own?
Where do we take this horrific knowledge?
Perhaps start by finding the right seeds and planting them, caring for
them with water and fertilizer, not pulling them up but nurturing them,
until they ripen into a harvest of justice.
© Susan K. Roll
* Magnificat, das Stundenbuch, June 2018, © Butzon & Bercker, Kevelaer, Germany, p.174. My translation.
Reflection for Corpus
Christi, the Body and Blood of Christ, June 6, 2021
Exodus 24: 3-8; Psalm
116; Hebrews 9: 11-15; Mark 14: 12-16, 22-26*
“So what’s wrong with
magic?” asked Amy, a bright young philosophy-minded student, in the
Sacraments of Initiation class. It took me a moment to catch my
breath. She meant the question in earnest; she wasn’t sarcastic,
more like puzzled. I had just made a casual distinction between the
words of consecration of the Eucharist as sacramental ritual
language, and “magic words.”
How do you articulate the
distinction between sacraments and a magic ritual? How does the
language used by theologians and churchpeople not
sound like wishful thinking – dying and rising with Christ in
Baptism, being liberated from sin in Penance, receiving authority
through the laying-on of hands in Ordination, or healing through
Anointing? And of course, on this Corpus Christi Sunday, that in the
blessing ritual at the altar the substance of bread and wine is
changed into the body and blood of Christ, even though, in the words
of Thomas Aquinas, physical “sense no change discerns?” And how
do we teach these things to the young?
I’m thinking of a German
catechetical book for children that is still on the market. A photo
of the tabernacle in the wall, above and to the right of the altar,
is spread across two pages, with the title, “Here is where the Lord
lives” (“Hier wohnt der Herr.”) In German “Herr” does not
only mean master, boss, controller or lord, it is also the everyday
word for “Mister.” Every adult male is called “Herr
So-and-so.” And here is Mr. Lord, living in a box on the wall of
the church. It’s hard to avoid thinking, “this is the faith that
these children will leave some day.”
Have Catholics developed a
tolerance, perhaps a blind spot, for the extraordinary idea that
words plus stuff can change reality? What is
the reality anyway?
It’s hard to argue with
the words of Scripture attributed to Jesus at the Last Supper because
they’re remarkably consistent across Matthew, Mark, Luke, and
Paul’s second-hand account in 1 Corinthians. As written, there is
no room for simile: “this is like
my body,” nor for metaphor: “this is my body, so
to speak.” The words lie flat on the page
and brook no argument. Another indication of their likely
authenticity, in addition to the consistency of the text witnesses,
is their shocking, hideous character. In Jewish society of Jesus’
time, cannibalism was unthinkably revolting and so was drinking the
lifeblood of any living being. Three evangelists and a later apostle
were extremely unlikely to have made this up.
We may need to look
elsewhere, to the very bodiliness of body and blood language itself.
Christian theology anchors all sacraments in the Paschal Mystery –
the suffering, death and resurrection of Christ – but before that
is the Incarnation. When a child is enfleshed in the mother’s
womb, the child is her flesh, her blood, nourished by her body’s
resources, cushioned in her fluid. “Did the woman say … ‘This
is my body, this is my blood?’” in the Frances Croake Frank poem
from fifty years ago.
Precisely this “skin
hunger” draws affectionate and living beings to each other –
family members, friends, even people and their beloved pets. Just
think of how profound is the idea that the living presence of God
connects through living beings—not an abstract philosophical
concept of a God, nor a distant overlord of the universe. Perhaps it
is precisely in the delicacy and vulnerability of embodiment that the
literal language makes sense beyond the words themselves.
it might lead to a deeply cherished and needed feeling of symbolic
community, particularly in the midst of a terrifying pandemic in which
each one of those faces is alone at home, cut off from the physical
presence of loved ones outside their walls, and hungry for contact. But
the painful irony is that every one of the faces is still radically
isolated, there before a machine. The electronic interface does not
make magic. It does not change reality. There is no living, breathing,
organic presence to each other. When we turn off the machine, there’s
no one there
question about magic made an odd sort of sense. But it’s not Harry
Potter’s sort of magic. It’s not what we do. It’s who we are. And who
© Susan K. Roll
*If you use the Revised Common Lectionary your readings for this Second
Sunday after Pentecost are Genesis 3: 8-15; Psalm 130; II Corinthians
4: 13-5:1; and Mark 3:20-35.
Reflection for Trinity Sunday B, May 30, 2021
Deuteronomy 4: 32-34, 39-40; Psalm 33; Romans 8: 14-17; Matthew 28: 16-20*
Sometimes you can’t figure out what they were thinking, these
mysterious Lectionary gnomes, hidden away in their ateliers, who
assembled snippets of Scripture into a sequence of three readings for
each Sunday of the church year, on a three-year cycle. They
didn’t leave written rationales or coherent explanations, no
explanations at all in fact – and both the Lectionary of the Roman
Missal and the Revised Common Lectionary were only put together less
than fifty years ago.
Even one of the world’s top Lectionary gurus, my friend and former
Saint Paul colleague Normand Bonneau O.M.I., has to concede that he can
only extrapolate the original intentions and underlying connections
from the thematic and harmonic threads woven through the readings, each
in its context in a season of the year and a particular Sunday.
That’s why the fact that there really are discernible threads of sense
connecting today’s three readings is striking – and on Trinity Sunday
yet. Trinity, probably the hardest theological nut to crack in
the entire nut bowl of Christian thought.
The first reading from Deuteronomy seems to be going nowhere at first,
until you reach the emphasis on one God of the cosmos, “there is no
other.” This sets an initial emphasis on unity in the
Divine. You know, there are a number of places in the Hebrew
Bible that allude directly to a lingering polytheistic concept of
God: “God takes his place in the divine council; in the midst of
the gods he holds judgement…” (Psalm 82:1), or “God [is] feared in the
council of the holy ones…” (Psalm 89:7.) And then of course
there’s the delightful story of how Rachel stole her father’s household
gods (Genesis 31:19ff), and when he came after Jacob’s departing clan
to get his gods back, she refused to get up from her saddle where they
were hidden because … well, look it up ;-) Our ancestors evolved
from multiple gods to a single god. Therein lie the seeds of
confusion about the Trinity.
The second reading, from Romans, the only one that Catholics have in
common with Protestants and Anglicans this week, draws straight lines
from God via the Spirit to each Christian believer by designating them
as those who will inherit from God eternal life with Christ. The
analogy is with an inheritance promised via a sort of adoption by
God. Adoption in the Roman Empire was a grueling and protracted
legal process. Adopted persons lost all rights in their old
family, and gained them in the new family. Any debts from their
old life were cancelled. Even if blood children were born later,
the adopted person retained inheritance status. The person was
legally “new-born,” much as, in the church, the newly baptized were
considered “newly born,” into a permanent, living relationship.
And then we get to the classic Trinitarian formulation right at the end
of the gospel of Matthew, “…baptizing them in the name of the Father,
and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Trinitarian theology
took many centuries to develop, but the profoundly relational character
of Baptism was already present –never a static, but a perpetually
dynamic relation. Perichoresis, a Greek term meaning “to dance
around,” captures the reality and the mystery beautifully. The
cosmos dances along with its Creator and Sustainer, filled with an
uncreated Spirit, ever creating, ever renewing, ever interacting and
alive, and yet ever one.
In the words of the late Gerard S. Sloyan, “the framers of the
lectionary wish to underline the conviction of Christians that they
have not deserted Israel’s ancient, monotheist faith. Despite the
mystery of Son and Spirit there is for them no plurality of gods, nor
any plurality in God. [God] is one.”
A friend of mine tells a true story of two pastors, one in a mainline
denomination and the other a fundamentalist. The fundamentalist
and some members of his congregation were visiting the mainline church,
and asked just pro forma if they were welcome to receive
communion. The mainline pastor asked whether they were baptized,
and then he thought to ask, “by what formula?” The fundie pastor
proclaimed, “we were baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus, just as it
says in the Bible.” The mainline pastor said “Well then you are
not baptized, because baptism is in the name of the Trinity.”
Then he added as an afterthought, “and it doesn’t count if anyone was
baptized in the name of the Creator, the Redeemer and the
Sanctifier! It has to be the Father, Son and Holy Spirit!!!”
Trust me: You Do. Not. Want. To get in
the middle of two agitated clergymen noisily excommunicating each other.
© Susan K. Roll
*If you use the Revised Common Lectionary your readings for Trinity
Sunday are Isaiah 6: 1-8; Psalm 29; Romans 8: 12-17; and John 3: 1-17.
Reflection for Pentecost Sunday B, May 23, 2021
2: 1-11; Psalm 104; I Corinthians
12: 3b-7, 12-13 or Galatians 5:16-25; John 20:
19-23 or John 15: 26-27, 16: 12-15.
years ago, when I was teaching college-level theology, I used to have
great fun with this passage from Acts chapter 2. I would read it
loudly, with vigour and increasing energy, “We are Parthians, Medes and
Elamites, inhabitants of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Egypt and
Libya near Cyrene! We are Jews and Jewish converts from
Rome! We are Cretans and Arabs! We are Romulans, Klingons,
Borg! Yet each of us hears them speaking in our own tongue!!!”
Then I’d visually scan the class.
students would look up from their laptops with a vague “Wait, what?”
look on their faces. With some it wouldn’t register. But
often a few would break out in mile-wide grins, and I knew that I had
found the Trekkers in that class. As the course went on, every
once in awhile I’d play to them, dropping an obscure Trek reference
into a lecture on some aspect of liturgy, delighted that for a few
seconds I had them relaxed, smiling and totally on board.
point of course was that the mission of the ecclesia gathered in the
name of the risen Christ was to all peoples in the known world, not
only to Jews and fallen-away Jews. The first century church had a
hard time hammering out this point. Peter had described in Acts
10 how he had to overcome his revulsion at Gentiles, whom he saw in his
dream as “unclean animals,” before he could answer the call to travel
to the home of Cornelius the Roman centurion to preach the story of
Christ. Paul, who would go practically anywhere, and Peter
represented two opposite interpretations of the church’s mission –
internal (as in, only to Jews) or external (to anybody, Jews
included.) They finally reached a truce at the Council of
Jerusalem in 50 A.D. in affirming the mission to preach the Gospel to
all the peoples of the known world.
Lukan writer has shaped this story to reflect the way the universal
mission of the church was understood some years after the lifetime of
the historical Jesus. His list of nationalities doesn’t reflect
where the Christian faith would actually be planted in the later
chapters of Luke, but seems to have copied a pre-existing list of the
major nations of the world at that time. The point had to do with
the ethnic universality of this faith in a heretofore obscure Jewish
prophet and miracle-worker, a faith expressible in a wide range of
languages and local dialects.
the Star Trek reference isn’t all that far off base. Look at the
stunning cosmic imagery, the incomprehensibly broad and breathtaking
scope of the Spirit, portrayed in our liturgical texts for the major
feast of Pentecost. The antiphon of the Responsorial Psalm is,
“Lord, send out your spirit, and renew the face of the earth.”
The Pentecost Sequence preceding the Gospel embraces both the cosmic
dimension and the richly personal one: “Come, Holy Spirit,
come! And from your celestial home shed a ray of light divine!
... O most blessed Light divine, shine within these hearts of
yours, And our inmost being fill.”
Gospel reading from John 20 shows this cosmic Spirit emanating as a
physical breath from the risen corporeal being of Christ, somehow
present and perceptible among his friends gathered in the locked
room. And the second reading from I Corinthians anchors every
form of ministry in the all-pervasive and perduring Spirit: “There are
different kinds of spiritual gifts but the same Spirit; there are
different forms of service…different workings but the same God who
produces all of them in everyone.” The energy and dynamism of the
Spirit gives energy and strength to all our ministry work, all our
social justice projects, all of our hope.
in Hollywood would one think of evangelizing the Klingons, never mind
the Borg. But human imagination today grows out of the fact that
our understanding of the universe, though paltry, trains our technology
on distant phenomena and stares into vast infinite reaches, far beyond
the vision of our ancestors. The Hubble Telescope detected traces
of two trillion galaxies, and the Hubble is now obsolete. What is
this Spirit that fills physical space utterly incomprehensible to our
tiny human minds? and at the same time, fills and transforms
human hearts down through the generations on this tiny, fragile
planet? Our ancestors were awestruck. And even knowing so
much more scientifically, so are we.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the
Feast of the Ascension B, May 16, 2021
Acts 1: 1-11; Psalm 47;
Ephesians 4:1-13; Mark 16: 15-20.
Life must have been so
much simpler when the earth was still flat.
Having said that though
(with a wink), I need to acknowledge the position of a colleague of
mine, a medievalist who argued that, in the Middle Ages, seafaring
peoples were aware that the earth’s surface had a certain round
contour to it. This was because when a departing ship sails far
enough away on the horizon, the hull disappears before the tip of the
conventional dualism of “heaven above, earth below” or “earth
above, but below -- ooh, you don’t want to go there!” still
exerts a powerful influence on our religious imagery, even when it no
longer reflects our limited scientific knowledge. I discovered when
helping my young cousin prepare her reading for the Easter Vigil (the
first creation account from Genesis) that the expression “the dome
of the sky above” makes no sense to a 12-year-old today. Our
concept of space now is about unfathomable infinity, or innumerable
galaxies (at least two trillion galaxies according to the data
relayed by the now-obsolete Hubble Telescope.) And, depending on how
much science fiction you watch, populated by often gruesome aliens in
costumes worn by Hollywood actors.
And yet, our religious
cosmology has not changed. In church we still hear, pray and sing
(when lockdown conditions permit) about “heaven above and earth
below.” We translate it mentally from a statement of physical
location to a state of spiritual existence, and not only in English:
le ciel, der Himmel, in
each case the sky becomes a synonym for Heaven. A positive spin on
this imagery might be that it de-centres our small selves and
re-orients us to who we are as creations within infinite creation,
called into being by a transcendent Divine love. The danger,
unsurprisingly, has to do with cosmology in which physical placement
represents hierarchical ranking, where higher is better than lower,
and that if supreme power and ultimate domination characterize the
wholly-Other God, then the claims to divine right to power by human
authoritarians, sacred and secular, are justified.
So what do we make of the
story that Jesus rose upward from the earth’s surface and
disappeared behind a cloud, never to visibly return? In our readings
for today, the story is told more clearly in the beginning of the
book of Acts. By contrast, in a section of text composed well after
the rest of the gospel of Mark and added at the end, we find only a
brief mention that he was “taken up into heaven.” Whatever the
lived experience of those original disciples may have been, the text
claims further, “…and [he] took his seat at the right hand of
God:” in this case a theological belief, not an event that they
In the Hebrew scriptures
the prophet Elijah was believed to have ascended to the heavens in a
chariot, and as a result, would someday return again. Before too
long, Christians came to believe that Christ, like Elijah, had
ascended in the direction of the East, and would return again from
the East. A pattern of ascension combined with an anticipated return
in an undefined future was already familiar to them.
So what sense can we make
of the Ascension account today? The risen Christ was no longer
physically present to those who had known him, but that did not mean
he had somehow been “replaced” by the Holy Spirit. Christ
remains incarnate in our flesh. Christ represents a living, if not
tangible, presence. We speak of “the living presence of Christ,”
of seeing the face of Christ in the faces of other Christians who
have died and risen with Christ in baptism, and that the sacraments
are acts of Christ himself among his people. There’s no question
of “Christ then / Spirit now,” no either / or. The story of the
Ascension acts as a capstone to the incarnation, death and
resurrection of Christ, not to close off the narrative, but to propel
it widely and wildly into the future and across the known world.
The ascension makes sense
in the context of how the early church saw its mission. When Jesus
disappeared, his disciples and friends were freed to go out to spread
the news that death itself had been overcome by a prophet who was far
more than a prophet. His ascension, in the words of commentator Jin
Young Choi, “generates a movement that is not centripetal but
centrifugal.” And it’s only the beginning.
Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the
Sixth Sunday of Easter B, May 9, 2021
Acts 10: 25-26, 34-35,
44-48; Psalm 98; 1 John 4: 7-10; John 15: 9-17.
These past few weeks our
Gospel readings from the account of John come from a section of text
that seems to have been parachuted into John’s idiosyncratic
account of the Last Supper. Jesus is depicted giving a lengthy
speech to his disciples about the future -- their future -- as they
unfold and live out their post-Resurrection faith when he is no
longer among them. Scholars call these chapters 15-17 of John the
Some years ago, I was
working on a project with a New Testament scholar who was a woman
religious. When we worked at her office in the convent I was
regularly invited to share a coffee break or lunch in the community
refectory. Almost as soon as we sat down we were swooped down upon
by Sister John, a friendly, chatty elder nun. Sister John never ran
out of things to tell us. She would finish her lunch, stand up, and
then linger, leaning over her chair while she chatted on and on. And
on. My friend and I went back to work with a wan smile, joking about
Sister John’s Farewell Discourse.
These chapters of course
date from three generations after the lifetime of the historical
Jesus, and contain a good deal of somewhat off-putting
you-versus-the-world dualism. But last week’s metaphor of the vine
and the branches was one little gem tucked into the text, and this
week we have another, related nugget: “It was not you who chose
me, it was I who chose you, to go forth and bear fruit, fruit that
This can be a bit scary.
And maybe it should be scary for anyone who thinks that they came to
a commitment to Christian faith all on their own, as a result of a
private decision-making process. It might be scary for those of us
in some form of pastoral or practical ministry if we’re tempted to
think of our work as, well, ours. Because in the end, probably no
one in their right mind would darken the door of a church, especially
one marked too often by pastoral insensitivity, repeated scandal and
mismanagement. We’re there because something drew us, maybe
something we don’t fully recognize or can’t quite identify.
We’re there because of some sort of invitation. Ultimately we’re
there because of God’s initiative, not our own. And when we’ve
had enough of power maneuvers, or belittling of women or LGBTQ2
persons, or racism, or you name it, and want to run screaming out the
door and never come back – well OK we might do that. But most
likely there remains a spiritual hunger. And embedded in that hunger
is the invitation. God’s initiative. God as a reality, a living
Being with whom we are continually in relationship, one way or
another, conscious or not.
Here is where the
grapevine and the call come together. The life flowing through the
vine into the branches, into the buds, forming them as heavy clusters
of ripe grapes, sustains us through the dry seasons. The same life
sustains us through the pruning. After all, we’re not the ones
doing the pruning. We can’t even see our own little vine most of
the time, never mind the whole of the vineyard. We wouldn’t go
deep enough with the pruning – we’d back off, hesitating, afraid
of cutting too deep and severing the lifeline.
The lifeline comes from
God, just as the call comes from God. We didn’t make it up. We
couldn’t. And we cannot entirely sever it either. That’s not in
our power. Not even by (gasp) committing a mortal sin. Because the
life that bears fruit flows from and in and through God. And God
does not take orders.
Pat and Patty Crowley, a
married couple from Chicago who were prominent in the 1960’s
Christian Family Movement, were invited to serve on Pope Paul VI’s
Papal Birth Control Commission. At one session, a highly-placed
Vatican official was railing on and on about why the Church teaching
against birth control could not be changed: “What about all those
people through the ages that we have condemned to hell?” Patty
Crowley responded sweetly, “But Monsignor, how can you be sure that
God carried out all of your orders?”
Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the Fifth Sunday of Easter B, May 2, 2021
Acts 9: 26-31; Psalm 22; 1 John 3: 18-24; John 15: 1-8.
awhile it really scares you how much they cut away,” a friend described
watching the process of pruning grapevines at a winery next to Lake
Erie. The pruners chop and trim, removing first the deadwood,
then more and more of the vine and finally some of the living branches
as well. He said they only leave a certain number of live buds,
and the vine might take two or three years to come back fully from
pruning. When it does, of course, the grape harvest is abundant.
a job for me. I feel like I should be apologizing to the shrubs
whenever I approach them with the hedge clippers to nip off their
bright new shoots. But I rarely take on the blackberries.
Their vicious thorns exact merciless revenge.
‘s Gospel reading always feels like it comes with a dark underlayer – a
surface interpretation plus a deeper implied threat. “Bearing
abundant fruit” is a lovely image. But the real threat is to
certain unnamed you-know-who-you-are disciples who will be cut down,
thrown away, burnt up, and all their own fault because in some way they
are no longer in union with Christ.
several levels this text is a sign of the times – its own times.
“Vineyard” was a symbol used repeatedly in the Hebrew Bible for Israel,
and of course it is God who prunes. New Testament scholars
believe that chapters 15-17 were added to John at a later stage, and
reflect a time of crisis characterized by the threat of persecution
from without, and dissension within, the Johannine community. The
remark about pruning fruitless vines may have been aimed at members of
the community who tried to hide their Christian faith under danger of
persecution, rather like a face-off between a threat from Roman
imperial forces and a corresponding threat from their own people.
No wonder it seems dark.
the same time though we shouldn’t miss the rich and powerfully organic
imagery of the life-force coursing through the veins of the central
vine, into and through the branches, out to the nascent buds, soon
turning the buds to heavy clusters of ripe grapes. The imagery is
at once one of God’s bounty in the fertile abundance of creation, and a
Eucharistic image of the “fruit of the vine and work of human hands,”
the wine that gives joy, the wine that speaks of the vibrant lifeblood
connection between God and God’s people, effected in Jesus’ exhortation
to his friends to “do this in memory of me.”
no big stretch to compare the act of pruning with that of taking
inventory of what is extraneous in our lives, what holds us back, or
what we slog around carrying when it would be more life-giving and
energy-producing to let it go. For those of us in the Northern
Hemisphere, it suits the time of year – spring was traditionally
accompanied by spring cleaning. For those who may have lain
fallow a bit too long with the enforced isolation of the pandemic,
perhaps it’s a call to let go of the ghosts that may be inhabiting our
minds – the old grudges, or resentments, or regrets, that come back to
nudge us when we’re not as distracted as usual. If we truly carry
the life of the Divine within us, we deserve better than to muse
morosely over the deadwood, when there are fresh new buds not far under
the surface, ready to pop out and grow into new possibilities, new
promises, and new life.
this spring, about the time the vineyards by Lake Erie were pruned, I
walked out my driveway and noticed my boots were sticking to the
pavement. I looked up – at the stump ends of pruned branches we
had lopped off the maple tree overhead last fall because they were
close to taking down the power lines.
There it was, stuck to the bottom of my boot. Sap. The revenge of the maple tree.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the Fourth Sunday of Easter B, April 25, 2021
Acts 4: 8-12; Psalm
118; 1 John 3: 1-2; John 10: 11-18.
The choice of Psalm 23
would have been obvious, glaringly obvious, for “Good Shepherd”
Sunday, and the Revised Common Lectionary used by mainline Protestant
denominations does just that. But the Roman Missal uses Psalm 118,
echoing Peter in the first reading: the “Resurrection Psalm”
also used at Easter. There’s an odd sort of genius in that choice.
It might offer hope to discouraged, even downtrodden Christians in
an offside way that scripture scholars and theologians never thought
Praying or singing “The
Lord is my shepherd” can take us to lovely places – this is the
comfort psalm par excellence
for funerals. But it can also take us to darker places almost before
we realize it. In the Hebrew Bible the “shepherd” metaphor is
applied to kings, and this sense carries over when Jesus is depicted
as a shepherd in the Gospels of Matthew and John. When the church
couples “Good Shepherd” Sunday with Vocations Sunday it sets up
an identification of clergy with shepherds … which makes the rest
of us, uh, sheep? Yes, sheep. A different species. A less
intelligent species, like domesticated animals that need managing and
protection in order to survive. While this is not very affirming of
the dignity of the sheep (and I’m not so sure that Pope Francis
saying the clergy must “smell like the sheep” does either) the
basic equality of all Christians in baptism suffers as well. A
clerical caste that sees itself as privileged, with a prerogative to
teach and govern others, can easily slide into a mentality of
entitlement, as we know all too well.
Psalm 118 takes us
somewhere entirely different:
It is better to take
refuge in God than to put confidence in mortals.
It is better to take
refuge in God than to trust in princes…
I thank you that you have
answered me, and have become my salvation.
The stone that the
builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone.
This is God’s doing!
It is marvellous in our eyes.
First, a helpful note on
what is meant by “cornerstone.” This is not the sort of
commemorative stone laid in the corner of a public building with the
date it was built and maybe even containing a time capsule. A better
translation is “capstone,” which could mean the top of an arch,
or even better, a stone at the corner that holds the two adjacent
walls together and prevents the walls from collapsing. What a
breathtaking image at Eastertime. The risen Christ, the securing
stone that holds the earth and the universe together – the cosmic
Christ, the omega point Christ, the Christ that was and is and is to
come. The cornerstone once rejected by the builders.
For anyone who has rebuilt
their lives from tragedy, or misfortune, or abuse, this image
empowers them to rejoice in the gift of God that turned their lives
around. For anyone who has had to flee from war, or poverty, or
danger, and managed to find refuge and safety for their families,
this image applies. For anyone who beat the odds, who persevered in
their dream, or who proved all the naysayers wrong, this one is for
you. Yes of course you worked hard, but hard work alone is never a
guarantee. New life, new hope, a new beginning, is one of the finest
gifts of God.
As we look toward a time
of emergence from the dark tunnel that is the pandemic, let’s shift
the metaphor back, guardedly, to the idea of lost sheep. Who’s
gotten lost during the time when we were all in isolation, connected
only by phones or machines with flat screens? Who’s struggling
with unseen loneliness, depression, fear of the future, or suicidal
thoughts? Who do we know who needs food, or medical care, or a
strong hand to pull them to their feet so they can walk and run? Who
needs justice secured, human dignity affirmed, fear lessened? Who
needs, like the sheep, reliable and appropriate boundaries? For whom
shall we pray? And for whom shall we stand up in solidarity, to be
Christ for them in their need?
After all, one does not
become a cornerstone all by oneself.
Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the Third Sunday of Easter B, April 18, 2021
Acts 3: 13-15, 17-19; Psalm 4; 1 John 2: 1-5; Luke 24: 35-48.
a quirky little detail, nestled in the middle of a narrative in the
process of building up momentum toward a remarkable climax: the
revelation that this Jesus of Nazareth is alive to them. Not only
is he real, but the Hebrew Scriptures and the prophets all foretold the
dreadful path to pain, humiliation and execution that he
suffered. The terror and tragedy of the past few days now begin
to make some cloudy sort of sense to his friends.
you anything here to eat?’” It sounds too casual to be
real. Here they are, barely comprehending what they’re seeing,
talking to this, um, familiar figure – and he suddenly asks them for
something to eat?
they gave him a piece of broiled fish” as in the NRSV translation in
the Canadian Lectionary, or “baked fish” (in the U.S. Lectionary
translation.) “Baked” sounds more plausible. Really, what
would a first-century broiler look like?
he took it and ate in their presence.” He ate the fish. It
went somewhere. The piece of fish disappeared. This was
like the definitive proof that he was no phantom, no phantasm produced
by collective hallucination.
is typical of the Gospel of Luke which tells a total of ten meal
stories. The previous meal story, in Luke 24: 13-35, shows this
mystery figure who had walked alongside two puzzled disciples on the
road to Emmaus, explaining how Scripture had predicted just these
events that had shattered their world and their hopes. The
disciples prevail on him to have supper and lodge with them, and while
they were at supper, he took the bread … you know the rest. “Then
their eyes were opened, and they recognized him, and he vanished from
of these stories read back the Eucharistic meal practice of the Lukan
church. These accounts of Jesus’ post-resurrection appearances
are constructed from a template that included a Liturgy of the Word, a
Liturgy of the Eucharist (at this time still called, more simply, “the
breaking of the bread,”) and over it all, the living presence of the
risen Christ. His presence was hard to recognize at first, and he
disappeared shortly after recognition, but clearly our ancestors in
faith in the first century knew for sure that the risen Christ was
truly present in their assembly.
Catholics forgot that powerful truth for many hundreds of years.
In the 1920’s a Benedictine monk named Odo Casel, of the German
monastery of Maria Laach,* drew from his research on ancient Greek
mystery cults to pose a striking and controversial thesis: that the
real essence of the Eucharist, and any sacrament, consists in the
living presence of the risen Christ, a presence that was not imaginary,
not perceptible through the bodily senses, but nonetheless real.
It is not the priest but Christ who presides at every sacrament.
The sacraments are Christ’s life among the baptized people of God who
constitute his Body on this earth.
came in for much sharp criticism in the 1920’s and ‘30’s due to his use
of “pagan” sources (…although in the 12th century Thomas Aquinas had
done the same with Aristotle, and was made to answer twice to charges
of heresy.) By 1947 when Pope Pius XII issued Mediator Dei the
official magisterium was willing to grant, grudgingly, the validity of
this vibrant life-centred understanding of the sacraments.
Mediator Dei however insists that this profound and dynamic theology of
the sacraments must be credited to, not “newer authors,” but to… Thomas
Aquinas! As they say, you can’t make this up.
the ”mystery presence” of Christ as the source and the holy power
embodied in every conferral of every sacrament, entered official church
teaching with the documents of Vatican II.
Casel did not live to see his thought vindicated. He suddenly
collapsed and died of a stroke shortly after intoning the Exultet at
the Easter Vigil in 1948.
used to tell my students, with a half-grin, that if you are a
liturgist, and your time has come, you couldn’t stage your final exit
any better than that.
© Susan K. Roll
monastery of Maria Laach was a centre of liturgical research and
experimentation in the first decades of the 20th century. The
first instance in modern times of the presiding priest turning around
to face the people, and calling on the people to give the acolyte’s
responses, took place here in 1920.
Reflection for the Second Sunday of Easter B, April 11, 2021
Acts 4: 32-35; Psalm 118; 1 John 5: 1-6; John 20: 19- 31.
think most of us have learned, or re-learned, a great deal about human
touch in the past thirteen months since the coronavirus pandemic shut
down life as we knew it. We have learned that touch can be
dangerous, spreading contagious sickness, leading to long-lasting
suffering or even to an anguished death while gasping desperately for
air. On the other hand, we become more aware of how life-giving
the act of touch – appropriate touch, a touch offered and accepted –
can be for our mental health and our sense of belonging to a human
family. How often have you heard (or said!) “I just want to hug
in the meantime—don’t touch. Don’t embrace. Don’t breathe,
at least not on other people. All of these stand in stark
contrast to the profoundly bodily beauty and intimacy of our Gospel
readings last week and this week, an intimacy that does not sicken, but
Easter Sunday’s Gospel Mary of Magdala reached out to touch the risen
Jesus, her beloved teacher who suddenly, against all logic, appeared
and approached her as a living person. And he refused her
touch. Instead he sent her as a messenger, giving her a primary
responsibility and a commission that in effect founded the church as
the community gathered in the name of the risen Christ.
what do we make of this week’s story of Jesus’ encounter with Thomas
the Twin? Why is this encounter different? Why does he
invite touch? One simple reason could be that the Gospel of John
was assembled and edited over a period of thirty years, from about
60-90 C.E. (A.D.) and a number of authors may have had a hand in it.
of these encounters is marked by the exquisite tenderness of Jesus in
an intimate exchange with his closest friends, following the terrifying
and traumatic events that led to his brutal execution. Here he
invites Thomas to extend his hand and penetrate the jagged wounds that
had caused Jesus’ death. We don’t know what Thomas did in
response, but we know he experienced a powerful transformation, a
conversion experience. The text says that he exclaimed “My Lord
and my God,” a way of expressing how the Johannine church understood
the divinity of the risen Christ.
the risen Christ’s two appearances to his disciples in the locked room
have in common is his greeting: “Peace be with you.” This
was not a perfunctory ritual greeting, not here. After the past
few days’ ongoing saga of betrayal, denial, fear, running away, and
responding to the empty tomb by simply returning home -- these men
could not escape a reckoning with their own cowardice.
retribution is not what they got. They got “peace.” They
got forgiveness. They didn’t seek it and didn’t ask for it.
It was the first thing the risen Christ said to them, behind the locked
door of that enclosed room. He said it twice in the first meeting
and again the second time. Their painful past was embraced and
he breathed on them the presence of the Spirit, the risen Christ gave
them too a commission – to be agents of forgiveness and peace to others.
time we pray the prayer Jesus left us, we pray in a general way to be
able to forgive others, aware that we ourselves have been
forgiven. Sometimes the call to forgive can feel like one is
being guilted into letting some evil act pass, or letting some
malevolent person get away consequence-free. It can feel like
there’s no justice. It can seem like the victim is responsible,
not the perpetrator.
we think of forgiveness as healing instead, that may bring us closer to
the deeper meaning. Did anyone ever tell you that it’s OK to take
your time on forgiveness? Sometimes one’s own anger, or pain, or
trauma, needs more time to heal. Honour that process. And
try to keep moving on the journey toward healing and peace, in order to
grow strong enough to channel healing and peace to others who need it.
the place of intimate union between the risen Christ and the infinite
God, Source of all Being, there is peace. Be peace. And be
a source of peace.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for Easter Sunday, April 4, 2021
10: 34a,37-43; Psalm 118;
Colossians 3: 1-4 or 1 Corinthians 5: 6b-8; John 20:
1- 18 (in Canada) or John 20: 1-9 (in the U.S.)
or Mark 16: 1-8.
Easter Sunday may I invite you on a return visit to the Noddfa Centre
retreat house in the north of Wales? Imagine you’re a guest at a
grand old manor house ringed by farm outbuildings, perched part way up
a steep rocky hill covered with daffodils growing wild. Meadows
hosting flocks of mother sheep and noisy lambs punctuate more
sharp-peaked hills, and the wild sea looms in the distance.
women affiliated with “Women Word Spirit” have gathered together with
three women religious who manage the centre, for a five-day Easter
Triduum gathering on the theme “Death and Renewal of Creation.”
From Thursday through Monday the participants meet each day in small
groups to plan original feminist liturgies around the day’s liturgical
and theological themes, with a creative use of natural elements,
artwork, colour, text, music, space and movement.
am, dawn on Easter morning, (…yawn…) we pull on warm clothing and drag
ourselves to the main hallway. There each of us is handed a small
jar of spice that came straight from the kitchen pantry – ginger, sage,
that sort of thing. We are the women who rose early to go to the
tomb where the body of Jesus had been laid. And we set off, out
the back garden and up the wooded hill to the… empty… tomb.
Shocking! Where is he? What just happened? Where did
they move him? We mill around aimlessly in stunned confusion.
as we milled, scattered in the chill morning air, one by one we became
aware of something. One of our number, a woman named Marlene who
had come over from France, was moving more deliberately among us.
Wearing a black hoodie that made her a sort of spooky spectre, she
quietly came up to each woman, and softly called her by name.
Marlene, whom we had first met only two days before, had memorized all
our faces and names, and gently, invitingly, personally called us each
by our name. As Jesus did. Unexpected, unannounced,
catching each one of us by surprise and leaving everyone a bit
converged at a clearing where a huge pile of wood was set on fire – the
Easter fire. We lit sparklers from the bonfire and danced around
it joyfully, then processed down the hill to the fountain in the
garden, singing and dancing round the fountain. We blessed the
water, then blessed each other with the water, splashed happily, sang
more songs, and proceeded indoors to a grand brunch, later an even
grander Easter dinner and an evening party.
Monday morning many of the women named their experience of being called
by name by the risen “Jesus” as especially powerful and meaningful,
within a long weekend of eloquently prayerful and compelling liturgical
resurrection story is not triumphant but instead leads us to look into
the reality of death, where we unexpectedly but intimately encounter
the risen Jesus,” in the words of commentator Jin Young Choi.
Simon Peter and the other disciple looked into the tomb but “did not
yet understand” about his rising from the dead. So what did they
do? They went home. Probably slammed and locked the doors
out of fear, which of course did not prevent the risen Christ from
standing among them and speaking with them, his wounded body very close
to them, as we see later in John 20.
beyond the Father-Son language, go a level deeper, and see the
tenderness and depth of love that he had for Mary of Magdala. His
question “Why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?” invites her
to speak his name. But she can’t, not yet. Not before he
calls her, gently, by her own name. “Mary.” Just Mary.
at this moment can she recognize her teacher and friend, Jesus,” writes
Jin Young Choi. Mary wants to touch him. Instead he sends
her off, sends her on mission to be the apostle to the apostles.
An apostle to the ages. An apostle to us.
the dank chill of early morning, a light shines. A spark ignites
a fire that blazes, up and up, water flows to bless the springtime
earth with fertility and we dare to speak the hope of a life in harmony
with all of creation, a life brought into being by love, sustained in
justice, and welcomed into the folds of the earth at its bodily end.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for “Palm Sunday of the Passion of the Lord” B,
March 28, 2021
Procession Gospel: Mark 11: 1-10 or John 12: 12-16
Isaiah 50: 4-7; Psalm 22; Philippians 2: 6-11; Mark 14:1-15:47 or 15:1-39
can feel like too much to take in at once, even though these are all
familiar stories, one scenario after another, in this Passion
narrative. If we see only a chain of events, we could miss the
underlying meanings. Let’s draw out one story, one thread in the
textile, and let it reflect light on the rest.
that story, the passage telling of a woman who walked into a dinner and
anointed Jesus, a character with no name and no voice, known to us only
by one action at one crucial time. The woman of whom Jesus said,
“Leave her alone. Why do you make trouble for her? She has
done a beautiful thing for me. … Truly I say to you, wherever the
gospel is proclaimed to the whole world, what she has done will be told
in memory of her.” Except that it wasn’t, at least not with her
name. Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza took this as the title of her
groundbreaking 1983 book In Memory of Her, with more than a glint of
woman seems not to have been a member of the household of Simon the
Leper, nor a guest, however no one objects to her presence until she
breaks the expensive bottle of imported perfume and pours it over
Jesus. Such an alabaster vessel would have been bottle-shaped,
with a long narrow neck, and sealed such that it would need to be
broken open. Perfume derived from nard would have been imported
from northern India. She holds back not a drop of it.
classic theological interpretation of her action calls it an act
anticipating the imminent death and burial of Jesus highlighted in the
words spoken by Jesus in the story itself. Another interpretation
names her anointing a Messianic act and contrasts her spiritual insight
with the spiritual “blindness” of the scribes and Pharisees.
Sometimes the interpretation goes askew by claiming that Jesus affirmed
that it was perfectly acceptable that a proportion of the people should
live in unrelieved poverty, but a more credible take on these words
would simply set this statement as a point of contrast with the
immediate presence of Jesus among them and the unique generosity of the
few commentators tut-tut the erotic implications -- this strange woman
shows up and in the sight of the guests caresses Jesus’ head with
massage oil, so to speak, as if she were seducing him. Others,
more consistent with the call to Jesus’ followers to comfort and heal
those who suffer, point to the woman’s act of comforting Jesus in
advance of what she knows will be his painful death.
then there’s the neat contrast with Judas Iscariot. The woman
sacrifices a significant amount of money for Jesus, and enters the
house to honour him. Judas sacrifices Jesus for the money, and
leaves the house to betray him.
contemporary postcolonial theologians sink their teeth into it, we see
the larger political context. This woman who counts for nothing
in the militaristic Roman Empire or in patriarchal Jewish culture
literally invades the space, ignores the bullying of those who
criticize the largesse of her gift and dares to anoint Jesus as prophet
and ruler. In the words of theologian Seong Hee Kim, her “act of
defiance against the Roman Emperor” links Jesus’ reign, not of this
earth, with his death and burial, “because his kingship against
imperialism is actualized through his death on the cross.”
What she has done, her beautiful deed, will never be told.
Not in Tyre or Sidon, Paris, France, New York or Rome.
She will be misunderstood
her sacrifice called seduction
her prophecy rejected
her knowledge erased.
she will be found
in the negative space
wherever there is silence.*
In the silence she lives. In the silence Jesus is left for dead.
© Susan K. Roll
Briggs Kittredge, A Lot of the Way Trees Were Walking: Poems from the
Gospel of Mark (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2015), 69.
Reflection for the Fifth Sunday of Lent B, March 21, 2021
Jeremiah 31: 31-34; Psalm 51; Hebrews 5: 7-9; John 12: 20-33.
Sitting here in front of the screen, I’m holding two kinds of seeds in my hand.
is a dried pod of marigold seeds. In the fall I re-pot and bring
the plants indoors where, as each flower dies and leaves a full pod, I
harvest and keep the seeds for next year. You can never have too
many cheery yellow flowers in your garden, especially ringed around the
vegetables to discourage nibbling critters.
other is a paper packet. Six weeks ago we buried a 95-year-old
neighbour lady I’ve known all my life. Arlene died of
Covid-19. After the funeral her daughter handed me a tiny packet
that reads, “Please plant these forget-me-not seeds in loving memory of
our precious Mother, Grandmother and Friend Arlene…”
within our Gospel reading for this Sunday, rather like a half-hidden
seed among mounds of moist ground, is the line, “Truly I say to you,
unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a
grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit.” In
context this analogy intensifies our awareness of the impending death
of Jesus together with a promise of new life only made possible by
passage through death. We are on the approach to Holy Week, a
time of horror relived each year by each new generation of
Christians. Here the Christmas joy of God become human in the
Incarnation, in our fragile human flesh, comes to a terrifying
dénouement. And here, as the writers of the Gospel of John remind
us in the next line, it’s not only about him. It was about the
danger of persecution faced by the first generations of Christians, the
people these writers were addressing with words they placed in the
mouth of Jesus. It mirrors a risk all Christlike folks take in
living out their faith courageously in all its consequences.
notice one thing. The grain of wheat doesn’t actually die.
If it did, nothing would grow. In the grain of planted wheat,
life is changed, not ended, to quote the funeral rite. Its life
expands, extends upward, drinks in water and minerals, breathes fresh
air and bathes in sunlight, unfolds new leaves, and then unfurls the
new sheaves of wheat that expand its life ever outward, full of young
grains of wheat that will land... in the soil. And start again
the cycle of life.
in this text is an exquisite analogy to the mystery of death and new
life, situated in the fertility of this planet and the life-giving
power of the cosmos. Cosmic theology, right here, a quick blip on
the screen of an otherwise foreboding scripture text. Fear and
hope, terror and joy, vital energy and deepening decline, mingled,
intertwined, sometimes under our control, sometimes not.
front of my picture window, next to a pot of happy marigolds, is a pink
geranium. A very, very tall geranium. Two years ago I set
the pretty plant in front of the window, and it grew… and grew…up and
up, with no frame for support, over a meter high, finally wrapping its
leaves around the curtain rod near the ceiling where it seems perfectly
happy. I never knew a geranium could do that.
I think they’re conspiring to tell me something. And the forget-me-not’s are going to get in on the deal.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the Fourth Sunday of Lent B, March 14, 2021
II Chronicles 36:14-16,19-23; Psalm 137; Ephesians 2: 4-10; John 3: 14-21.*
Have you ever been a stranger in a strange land?
don’t mean, returning to your cruise ship after a day’s guided
sightseeing, or staying in a multi-starred hotel and devising your
itinerary with the help of seasoned tourism professionals. Or
even joining in awkwardly to a conversation in a language you’ve only
half mastered, or trying to negotiate unfamiliar customs so you don’t
make a fool of yourself in foreign social situations.
are many ways, sometimes grueling and shattering ways, to be a stranger
in a strange land … or even in your own land … or even to yourself.
first glance it doesn’t look like there’s much of a common thread to
tie together any of the readings in the Roman Missal for this week,
which is weird for a strongly thematic season like Lent. I
suspect an important key lies in the Responsorial Psalm, Psalm 137:
By the streams of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion.
On the aspens of that land we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked of us the lyrics of our songs,
And our despoilers urged us to be joyous: “Sing for us the songs of Zion.”
How could we sing a song of God in a foreign land?
(Can’t you just hear the grinding sarcasm in the captors’ voices?)
Psalm gives us a way through the dense thicket of the long First
Reading by showing that an underlying theme is exile. Exile, and
is a state of unhealed fracture – a perpetual flat note, a sour
chord. Exile is a fragmented, disjointed, raw-edged
existence. Exile is not always temporary.
Hebrew people were defeated and driven into exile in Babylon in the
year 586 B.C.E. Like countless other peoples forced from their
familiar homelands, they struggled for generations with chronic
alienation, and in this case their prophets were not much
comfort: “You want to know why God did this? Because you
were unfaithful to the covenant and went chasing after other peoples’
gods.” In our First Reading today it was a conqueror from another
foreign country, Cyrus of Persia, who freed the Hebrews from
exile. When they reflected on their own history they thoroughly
enjoyed the irony that God had worked through a Gentile king to free
the Jews to come home to Jerusalem.
can be an exile already on the road. Think of the waves of
desperate migrants crowded into wobbly boats on the Mediterranean, or
swarming northward from Central America. Or one might be an exile
in one’s own land: think of new landed immigrants uprooted and
confused inside a puzzling country. Think of Indigenous peoples
who can no longer recognize the land that belonged to their
ancestors. Think of the CBC series “Being Black in Canada.”
then there are the ways of living in exile within yourself, a genuine
danger in this time of prolonged isolation and confinement to stay safe
from the coronavirus. Think of domestic abuse survivors who
relive the trauma and shame even when the abuser is not present.
Think of how old obsessions can expand to fill the space available in
your brain when there’s no outside distraction.
if our Hebrew ancestors in faith gave us stories of forced exile and
wrenching laments, they also left us songs of hope. Here’s Psalm
When from our exile God brings us home again, we’ll think we’re dreaming,
When from our exile God brings us home again, we’ll think we’re dreaming.
We shall be singing, laughing for happiness.
The world will say, “Their God does wonders.”
Yes you do wonders, God here among us, you, our gladness.
Then lead us home, bring us to life again, even as rivers which, in the desert,
When the first rain falls, start flowing again. (1)
And even if “the journey is home,” we are never entirely alone on the journey.
© Susan K. Roll
you use the Revised Common Lectionary your First Reading is Numbers 21:
4-9, which makes the reference in the Gospel to the
snake-on-the-pole-in-the-desert make perfect sense.
“Als God ons thuisbrengt uit onze ballingschap, dat zal een droom
zijn…” Huub Oosterhuis, transl. Redmond McGoldrick, 1974.
Reflection for the Third Sunday of Lent B, March 7, 2021
Exodus 20: 1-17; Psalm 19; 1 Corinthians 1: 22-25; John 2: 13-25.
old friend and I were visiting her parents’ home, drinking coffee and
chatting. Seemingly out of nowhere her mother, a former
schoolteacher and an irascible type at the best of times, demanded to
know, “What are the Ten Commandments? Tell me the Ten
Commandments.” I recited some of them from memory, my friend
added a few more, but we came up just short of ten. Her mother
snorted, “What kind of theologians are you if you can’t say the Ten
thought of this exchange later when team-teaching confessional practice
with a colleague at the seminary. He told the sems that if they
noticed a penitent who appeared to be checklisting their sins into
groups, that the person was in fact categorizing sins they had
committed according to each of the Commandments, an old catechetical
practice. He added that the confessor should be alert to signs of
rigidity or shame in that penitent.
during Lent are we hearing the Exodus version of the Commandments?
(There’s a slightly different version of the Commandments in
Deuteronomy and yes, the numbering differs even between Protestant and
Catholic versions so it’s possible not to get exactly ten.) You
remember last week we mentioned that in Lent the Old Testament readings
for Year B highlight the theme of the Covenant. Each of these
stories – Noah for whom the rainbow symbolized a promise by God,
Abraham who was “tested” as to whether he would sacrifice his son, this
week the commandments and next week the Babylonian exile as punishment
for the people’s infidelity – is fleshing out the historical context
for the establishment of a new covenant in the death and resurrection
of Christ, in Christian belief.
the notion of a God who sets demands and expectations may seem
off-putting, the positive side is that this deity is a living God in a
dynamic interactive relation with humans in community. This God
of Israel is no abstract concept, no idealized cosmic power.
People can even reason with God, bargain with God …well, they can try.
But as often happens, when we peer more deeply into the underlying assumptions, nothing is as simple as it seems.
Let’s pose a prickly question: do the Ten Commandments apply to females? Or only to males?
injunction not to covet (the Hebrew implies “do not steal”) “your
neighbour’s wife” is a dead giveaway. Oddly enough, so is “do not
commit adultery” because in that culture men’s adultery was largely
tolerated. For women the same behaviour could have deadly
results. On the other hand, honouring one’s father and mother
does create a balance, in that even in a patriarchal society the
criteria include not only gender but position and elder status.
But is the commandment addressed to women?
O’Donnell Setel in The Women’s Bible Commentary 1992 writes, “The
commandments in Ex. 20: 1-17, considered to be at the very heart of
both Jewish and Christian belief, state explicitly that it is a male
community to whom they are addressed. In Hebrew the pronoun “you”
is in a masculine singular form.”
Setel points out that in the preceding chapter, “Nowhere is the
secondary status of women and their exclusion from the central
institution of Israelite society more apparent than in Ex. 19:15, where
those who are preparing to enter the covenant with Yahweh are exhorted
“do not go near a woman.”
readers may be thinking, “OK I’m done. I am totally done with
this religion.” On the contrary, I find this kind of revelation
exciting and encouraging, because once we have a better handle on the
truth, we can begin to reform and reconstruct on a solid foundation to
bring out the deeper underlying spirituality. If the fault lines
and cracks are appearing, so are the healing and justice-making
possibilities: “there is a crack in everything, that’s how the
light gets in.”
Sadly my friend’s mother passed away several years ago. We could have had great fun telling her all that.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the
Second Sunday of Lent B February 28, 2021
1-2,9a,10-13,15-18; Psalm 116; Romans 8: 31b-34; Mark 9: 2-10.*
Oh my. Where to even
Let’s take Genesis 22
and begin by saying, What kind of a God demands sacrifice?
And more to the point,
just what kind of a God demands that a father commit pre-meditated
murder on a child, his own child, thinking that he is obeying a
divine command? What kind of a father lies to his child to induce
him to come along willingly on a journey, far from home, then goes
through the motions of building an altar to sacrifice an animal --
and then suddenly betrays the child?
Take a moment to imagine
that you are young Isaac. What happens in that terrifying moment
when you realize that the father you love and trust is about to slash
you to death and burn your body on a rock? What do you feel when he
takes the knife? When he lays hold of the trapped ram and kills it
instead of you? How do you feel returning home with your father? Do
you trust him, that night, the next week, the next year? Do you have
nightmares the rest of your life?
Now take a moment to
imagine you are Sarah, who saw her husband and son off when they went
away together to perform a religious ritual. Is the horror of
discovering what happened even fathomable? Do you ever trust this
man again? Do you even have a choice?
Ironically, this story is
a cornerstone of both Jewish and Christian discourse urging complete
faith in God. The readings used on the Sundays of Lent in Year B
bring out different aspects of the covenant, the “holy agreement”
as a colleague of mine calls it, between God and God’s chosen
people. A covenant built on trust.
As you probably know,
Genesis 22 is also used as one of the readings at the Easter Vigil.
In this case the paradigmatic story of Abraham’s near-sacrifice of
Isaac is used to prefigure God the Father accepting the sacrifice of
his only Son on the cross. If you interpret the theology of the
crucifixion as atonement to the Father for the sins of humanity by
the sacrifice and death of his Son, the perfect victim, it makes a
gruesome sort of sense.
something better you can do at the Easter Vigil.
For many years the U.K.
organization Women Word Spirit (originally founded as the Catholic
Women’s Network) arranged a women’s retreat from Holy/Maundy
Thursday until Easter Monday at a lovely spacious old house, Noddfa
Centre, in the steep hills near the seacoast in northern Wales.
(“Noddfa” means “refuge” in Welsh.) The participants did all
the planning and carrying-out of liturgies and meditative activities,
from scratch, using natural symbols and whatever text and music
resources they had brought along, for each day of the Easter Triduum.
One year I took part in
the group planning the Vigil. We stumbled hard against the use of
Genesis 22 … until … we thought of substituting Genesis 18: 1-15.
This is the delightful story of Abraham entertaining three strangers
who, upon departing, reward his hospitality by announcing that by the
time they return, his elderly and infertile wife Sarah will have
given birth to a son.
Sarah laughed to herself, saying “After I grow old and my husband
has grown old, shall I have pleasure?” The Lord said to Abraham,
“Why did Sarah laugh, and say ‘Shall I indeed bear a child, now
that I am old?’ Is anything too wonderful for the Lord? At the
set time I will return to you, in due season, and Sarah shall have a
son.” But Sarah denied, saying “I did not laugh” for she was
afraid. The Lord said, “Oh yes, you did laugh.”
On Saturday evening for
the Easter Vigil we were seated in a large oval in a dimly-lit
meeting room. At the end of this reading, one participant suppressed
a giggle, so did another, then a few more, until finally we were all
guffawing out loud and could hardly stop. It was joyous, perfect and
Maybe Sarah was present,
Susan K. Roll
*If you follow the Revised Common
Lectionary your First Reading is Genesis 17: 1-7, 15-16, your
Second Reading is Romans 4: 13-25 and, if you marked the
Transfiguration on the Sunday before Lent, your Gospel will be Mark
Reflection for the
First Sunday of Lent B February 21, 2021
Genesis 9: 8-15; Psalm
25; 1 Peter 3: 18-22; Mark 1: 12-15.*
Father Sleasman stood
before his undergraduate religion class and pronounced, with great
gravity and emphasis, “God. Is like. Niagara. Falls.”
You could almost hear the
class thinking in unison, “Wait, what?”
Context is everything.
This took place at Niagara University, and we were located only five
kilometers north of the Falls. Our reading assignment had been from
Mircea Eliade’s The Sacred and the Profane,
which introduces the concept of God as at once mysterium
Have you ever visited
Niagara Falls? Did you spend time standing above the powerful
incessant rush of the water, leaning over (well, not too far over)
the rail and letting the thunderous currents fill you with the
grandeur and brilliance of the God who created it? This God of
frightening, potentially destructive power, this same God of
refreshment, regrowth and renewal, rushes relentlessly onward in the
torrent just below your feet. Mysterium
tremendum, mysterium fascinans – a mystery
at once terrifying and unspeakably beautiful.
Our readings for this
First Sunday in Lent invite us to move beyond this past Wednesday’s
grimy ashes and grumbling stomachs toward one of the most ambivalent
symbols of our faith, the vector of our identity as Christians:
Baptism, in water and in the Holy Spirit. Our First Reading, the
story of Noah and the Ark, reflects both sides of the mystery: the
Flood destroys almost everything, and yet, on the other side of the
Flood comes the rebirth of the earth and God’s promise not only of
moral renewal but the cessation of the threat of further destruction.
The text from the First Letter of Peter makes clear to the young
Christian community that their moral core, their souls, have been
saved in water, as a comparison to the way Noah and his family were
saved. Except now the washing-away of the old and the fresh greening
of the new have been accomplished in Baptism, an “appeal to God for
a clear conscience through the resurrection of Jesus Christ…”
Unfortunately the Roman
Missal misses the boat, so to speak, by beginning the Gospel of Mark
at 1:12, not 1:9 where Jesus is baptized in the Jordan River and the
continuity of the theme is perfectly clear. The passage we will hear
in today’s liturgy begins with, “The Spirit drove Jesus out into
the desert…” Matthew and Luke say more gently, “The Spirit led
him…” but Mark forces the point. The
same Spirit that had just appeared as a divine revelation,
identifying this Jesus of Nazareth as the Son of God, forcibly drives
him into a dangerous wasteland full of wild animals. It is as if he
did not choose this. The Spirit that penetrated him in the Jordan
now compels him into the desolation that will ground his ministry,
not a desert of cactus flowers and contemplative prayer, but of
struggle and conflict.
It won’t help us
understand this conflict if we see it merely as Jesus vs. Satan,
rather like a 1950’s Godzilla-versus-whomever film. We need to go
deeper to harvest the spiritual meaning. Over a prolonged period of
earthly time (“forty days” resonates with the story of Noah and
the flood, but it could simply be shorthand for “a long time”)
two cosmic powers engage in combat, far away from civilization and
social order. The one-on-one struggle of the divine versus the
demonic will thread its way through Mark’s Gospel when Jesus
returns to inhabited lands and engages again with his friends and the
local populations, healing the sick and hushing the demons who “know
It would be logical to
interpret the missing baptismal narrative and the emphasis on Jesus’
temptation in the desert in the Catholic Lectionary as a means of
bringing forward a Lenten emphasis on individual Christians’
struggle to resist evil and sin in our lives. And heaven knows, we
are coping with new categories of temptation unimagined even last
year at this time. The temptation to pull one’s mask down off
one’s nose to get more fresh air, for instance, or the temptation
to join a discreet house party, or to hug a friend.
Where is Baptism in all
this? Briefly, in the cosmic dimension where all creation is made
new. Temptations do not merely lure the individual to morally
corrupt actions, but distort and damage entire societies and
cultures, to say nothing of the sustainability of the earth itself.
Baptism is a sacrament of the earth itself, of the cosmos, of the
renewal of all of creation. Baptism reminds us of the sacramentality
of all God has made. And Baptism commissions us to take our personal
responsibility, our rightful place, in the immensity of the cosmos.
Susan K. Roll
*If you follow the Revised Common
Lectionary your Gospel is Mark 9: 9-15 which includes the Baptism
Reflection for Ash
Wednesday, February 17, 2021
Joel 2:12-18; Psalm
51; II Corinthians 5:20-6:2; Matthew 6: 1-6, 16-18
I think anyone could be
forgiven for exclaiming “Lent! What Lent? We’ve been doing Lent
every day since, well, last year’s Lent!”
In the face of the
pandemic, the economic crisis, the crisis in education and the
constant fear, we’ve already sacrificed a lot, simplified our lives
We’ve sat home. A lot.
We’ve worn masks, stayed
away from restaurants and movies and friends, looked like shaggy
dregs of humanity, avoided hugging our grandkids for heaven’s sake.
We may have hauled bags of
food to donate to food banks for the newly destitute.
We may have haunted
internet sites and phone lines to get on a waiting list for a vaccine
so we don’t accidentally kill someone with the virus.
We may be thinking, “Don’t
tell me I have to sacrifice even more! I just want this to be over
On this Ash Wednesday, a
call to repentance probably doesn’t look like much of an
invitation. The simplicity and sobriety, the deprivation of Lent, is
relative to the circumstances, and for most of us our circumstances
this past year have been almost unimaginable.
And this is where we’re
invited to go deeper. To go stronger.
What’s the purpose
anyway of special Lenten devotions, or the Scripture readings every
Sunday that lead us further and further into Jesus’ journey to the
Cross, or our personal pious Lenten practices and prayer?
It’s a bit like a crash
course, an intensive refresher course, in becoming who we are called
to be anyway – followers of Christ. That involves an awareness of
a constant call to conversion, to a new, healed and holy way of life,
and to arrive at this holy place via repentance for our mistakes and
Repentance is never “one
and done.” It’s a continual call to turn round, to change our
minds, to change our behaviour. Repentance forms the core of the
Gospel message. The call to repentance is not a threat. It’s a
So what does lived
repentance look like? Some practical things we can do: listen
attentively to someone. Apologize to someone. Make amends. Open a
difficult conversation, with sensitivity, tact and kindness. Respond
to unanswered correspondence (that’s one of my Lenten
resolutions.) Try, just for one day at a time, not to think about an
old grudge, or to dwell on an unhealed trauma.
Then, lift your sights to
the wider horizon to see how the way we live our lives impacts our
family and neighbours, then the broader community, the larger
society, the scope of the world in which we live. Are there goods,
money, and time that we are being invited to share with those most in
need? What needs to change in government policy, in social
attitudes, in the larger distribution of goods, and how can we
actively participate in bringing about that change? What can we
change in order to heal the earth?
Who needs to hear from us
a word of believable hope? Of our solidarity in their struggle? Who
needs their full human dignity affirmed? Who needs an outstretched
hand to bring them out of the shadow of death, to life?
This season of sober
reflection amounts to an invitation to pare down life to its
essentials, to clear away the clutter, so we don’t lose sight of
our Baptismal call as Christians, and don’t set our focus too
short, our horizons too low.
For this reason we remind
ourselves of Jesus’ invitation to “Come and follow me,” to “go
where you don’t know and never be the same.”
This Ash Wednesday, let’s
find the courage together to face this challenging invitation, and to
say a resounding Yes.
Reflection for the Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time B, February 14, 2021
Leviticus 13: 1-2, 44-46; Psalm 32; 1 Corinthians 10: 31-11:1; Mark 1: 40-45.*
Oh how we dreaded preaching on Leprosy Sunday… By ”we” I’m
thinking of some of us who preached regularly at the Sunday
Eucharist. Yes, in those long-ago days in the Diocese of
Rochester, New York, theologically-qualified women and lay men in
university chaplaincies/campus ministry and some parishes could and did
preach. That local tradition of lay preaching is continued on the
website “God’s Word Many Voices.”
To the well-meaning preacher “leprosy” sounded like a dangerously
contagious and common disease, and the social isolation imposed on its
victims seemed to make a heartless sort of sense in first-century
But it’s not what we might think – either leprosy or the logic of
social isolation, a concept in public health that I daresay is much
more familiar to us now than we could ever have imagined one year ago.
First off, the word translated here as “leprosy” does not refer
precisely to Hansen’s disease, but to a general category of skin
disorders and infections. We know now that Hansen’s is not nearly
as contagious as our ancestors thought – one would need to be in
prolonged proximity to a victim to pick it up. And because
Hansen’s disease is bacterial it can be treated with antibiotics.
What’s less clear-cut to us is the deeper reason for isolating and
banishing victims of skin disease – the concept of ritual purity.
The more powerful issue had to do with whether an individual’s
pollution offended God and endangered the community.
For our ancestors in faith any of several physical conditions, from a
skin infection, to blood or fluid loss, to childbirth, posed a threat
to the people as a whole in approaching the Holy in worship and
sacrifice. Once eradicated the impurity had to be atoned for, in
order to restore the victim to the life of the community. The
priest would certify legally that the condition no longer existed, and
then the individual would be required to make the prescribed
While our early Christian ancestors patted themselves on the back that
Christians were no longer subject to the requirements of the law of
Moses, they held onto one aspect of ritual impurity that isolated a
person from the church community – that of menstruation and
childbirth. Right up until the 1950’s the rite of the churching
of women after childbirth was the means by which a new mother was
officially permitted to re-enter the church building and take part in
the liturgy. Although women were told this was a blessing and
thanksgiving rite, it used Psalm 24, “Who shall ascend the mountain of
the Lord? Who shall stand in his holy place? Only those
whose hands are clean, whose hearts are pure.” After being
sprinkled with holy water the woman was brought into the church
building by holding onto the left side of the priest’s stole, rather
like being led on a leash. Then followed more sprinklings,
blessings and prayers at the altar of the Blessed Mother.
Our concept of social distancing right now is entirely medical in
nature – reduce the spread of Covid-19 by keeping physical distance,
washing hands, wearing a mask, getting the vaccine as soon as you can,
staying home when possible, and so forth. We hear it every
day. We get used to doing it, for the most part. This is a
matter of social responsibility, to care for the lives of others,
keeping in mind that nobody knows for sure who has it, and who may
inadvertently be spreading it.
Social isolation in this time involves a challenge to simultaneously
protect and connect. Perhaps it’s time to think ahead to what
reintegration into an enfleshed, organic, post-Zoom faith community
will look like, and how we can continue to take responsibility to
safeguard the community’s health. How will we be able to recognize
trauma, whether in others or in ourselves? Can we detect the
signs that someone is subject to domestic abuse, or slipping into
depression, or falling behind in work or school? How will we
renegotiate new, healthy, life-giving boundaries? And where do we
see the glimmers of the living Spirit peeking through, calling us
forward, and joining us together?
© Susan K. Roll
*If you follow the Revised Common Lectionary your readings for this
last Sunday in the Epiphany season are for the Transfiguration, and the
Gospel is Mark 9: 2-9.
Reflection for the Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time B, February 7, 2021
Job 7: 1-4, 6-7; Psalm 147; 1 Corinthians 9: 16-19, 22-23; Mark 1: 29-39.
A few members of my Wednesday Lectionary study group were unusually
pleased with what they saw in the story of Jesus healing Simon’s
mother-in-law, the first of three healing stories in today’s Gospel
reading. One woman exclaimed that this story affirms women:
“See, Jesus heals her so she can act in her role as hostess in her own
home and wait on him! He gave her back the dignity of serving
him!” Another participant remarked that this story illustrates
the fact that Simon Peter was clearly married, thus giving a poke in
the eye to claims that celibacy is inherent to clerical status.
Reading and interpreting Scripture for oneself is not something Roman
Catholics were traditionally invited to do, in fact up to the time of
Vatican II it was positively discouraged. What might happen if
simple lay Catholics drew the wrong conclusions? Better to have
the priest explain a text authoritatively in order to avoid falling
into error, n’est-ce pas?
And there were a few Catholic “flips” in the Scripture texts, for
example, safeguarding the virginity of Mary with the explanation that
the Gospel passages referring to Jesus’ “brothers” really meant his
cousins in an extended family.
We have an interesting example here of the ambiguities underlying the
situation and visibility of women in Scripture and Church, then and
now. On the one hand, we meet the first visible woman, in the
earliest of the four canonical Gospels, a person whose body was the
site of one of Jesus’ first healing miracles. On the other hand
we do not know her name. She is identified relationally, as
Simon’s mother-in-law -- is her daughter, Simon’s wife,
living? What is her name? In Mark’s Gospel the majority of
women are identified by their relation to a male.
A number of feminist New Testament exegetes have grappled with the
meaning of this small story segment, and several different assessments
emerge. One of them is actually similar to that of the group
participant above: Pheme Perkins argues that in this intensely
patriarchal world it would be a matter of honour and responsibility for
an elder woman to tend to the house’s dinner guests, and a cause of
some shame if she cannot do so. Other feminist scholars support
one of two different trends. One opinion emphasizes that
ultimately her healing does not result in any form of liberation from
domestic servitude, espressed in a comment by a study group member,
“Healed! Just in time for dinner!”
The second opinion points to the Greek word used for the activity she
rises up to perform: Diakonia. But was it really diaconal
service as Mark’s Christian community might understand it? In
fact diakonein was a word that stretched to cover a range of service,
and split according to gender – men’s diakonia referred to service to
the state or the common good and often carried distinctive
prestige. Women’s …. well, no surprise there, was domestic in
nature and simply expected.
Diakonia is not the only Greek word Mark used in this story that would
carry a particular Christian meaning and tremendous weight in Mark’s
community. The other word is egerein, to raise up, because later
it would refer to the Resurrection, not only of Christ but of
believers. The letter of James uses the same word to speak of the
elders anointing the sick, saying that the anointing “saves and raises
up” the sick person.
Elaine Wainwright suggests that while the story context points to
conventional domestic service, later interpretation on the part of the
Christian community would set this story in line with their developing
understanding of what it meant to “serve” the risen Christ. This
would shift the woman’s position from a passive recipient of a healing
miracle, to an active agent of engaged participation in the gathering
of the community in Christ’s name.
Maybe we’ve brought the process of hearing and unfolding the story to a place where it can give life and hope.
© Susan K. Roll
For more feminist
perspectives on this story, see Warren Carter, Mark, Wisdom Commentary
series (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2019) pp. 27-32.
Reflection for the
Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time B, January 31, 2021
Deuteronomy 18: 15-20;
Psalm 95; 1 Corinthians 7: 32-35; Mark 1: 21-28.
What does it mean to use,
exert, or teach with “authority?”
And how does authority
differ from power?
In the past year we’ve
all reluctantly become experts on the limits of authority and how it
overlaps with power – and how neither might coincide with
trustworthy truth. If a government authority claims that there’s
no threat to public health from a deadly contagious virus, or that it
will simply disappear on its own, or even that a secure election was
rigged – does that make it true? Does power make what is
demonstrably untrue, true?
The story of Jesus’
actions in one eventful day in the town of Capernaum represents the
Markan writer’s effort to establish Jesus of Nazareth as an
authentic authority recognized by the people around him. First, he
teaches in the synagogue “with authority,” and then heals a sick
man by exorcising a demon. The people who witness the event cry out,
“A new teaching with authority! He commands even the unclean
spirits and they obey him.” Then they spread the word.
Mark isn’t interested
here in the content of Jesus’ teaching as much as in this initial
revelation of who Jesus really was – an
authority, and one who could be trusted more than the local scribal
authorities the people were used to. Scribes in urban areas were
likely to be civil servants appointed by the regional Roman
magistrates or the local Jewish government under Roman occupation.
Mark shows Jesus, especially in this initial skirmish in a battle
between the power of good and the power of evil, as exerting a
transcendent power not conferred by human officials.
A trustworthy authority is
not always so obvious. Sometimes it can be hard to know when you’re
being lied to – especially when the lies are big and boisterous.
For persons who grew up in troubled homes, lies may have been the way
to make everyday life halfway tolerable. Lying to oneself could have
created a place of emotional safety from shame and fear. But
cushioning pain by escaping from it distorts the perceptions and
realizations one needs to move toward healing. There’s a saying in
twelve-step programs, “You can’t negotiate with reality.”
So in general, how can you
tell a deceitful authority from a trustworthy one? There’s much to
be said for the gut – as in, “go with your gut.” Listen to
your deeper instincts, especially when they persist and won’t let
you go. Sometimes your body will tell you when your mind is doing a
different dance with your thoughts – the upset stomach, or the
tension headache, or the long-term symptoms of stress. It can be
reassuring to know that we were created with organic, built-in truth
detectors, if we only listen to them. We carry within ourselves a
sort of holy compass.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time B, January 24, 2021
Jonah 3: 1-5, 10; Psalm 25; 1 Corinthians 7: 29-31; Mark 1: 14-20.
is not a sacrament. …no, not even spaghetti parmesan, a woefully
overwhelmed pile of pasta and sauce smothered under a mammoth heap of
bubbling melted cheese, the perfect pandemic comfort food.
But sometimes spaghetti can serve as a small-s sacrament when it mediates an invitation to “Come and see.”
of my mentors, the professor of catechetics mentioned in the Reflection
for the Epiphany, was volunteering in a parish in Washington D.C. while
working on her doctoral dissertation on the catechumenate in the
ancient church. She asked the pastor what she could do. He
replied, “Make spaghetti.”
enough for about twenty people who will be coming to your
apartment. They include a few parish members and some people who
have asked for information about joining the church, or about being
baptized as adults. First, we offer meal hospitality. Then
we can share something about our faith journeys.”
This was 1962. The first document from Vatican Council II would not be voted on until December 1963.
Christiane recognized that this was similar to the experiments carried
out in the 1950’s in France and West Africa to invite people who were
interested in the Christian faith to “Come and see.” No
obligation. Just an invitation to share a meal and a
dialogue. Not an instruction on doctrine or pious practice,
unless the guests raised specific questions. Simply listening and
sharing on a human level, the level of lived faith, of spiritual
yearning, of welcome and listening. And, as Christiane would go
on to teach in courses and workshops all over the world, this is the
approach embodied in the “pre-catechumenate” of the R.C.I.A., the Rite
for the Christian Initiation of Adults, promulgated as an official
order of the Roman Catholic church in 1988.
phrase “Come and see” turned up in our Gospel reading for last week and
the theme carries over this week as Jesus invites those who would
become his first disciples to come with him. This was no longer
John the Baptist preaching the need for personal repentance culminating
in the ritual act of immersion in the Jordan River to signify a purging
of old evils and a commitment to a new way of life. This is now
Jesus of Nazareth preaching that a new age has come, a time of
fulfillment of the promise of a Messiah, and a new imperative to repent
and reform, to listen more closely and embrace a healed and holy way of
life, to take up a personal share in a transformation of all creation.
it’s all on an invitation basis. Even the initial inquiry –
“Where do you live?” in last week’s Gospel, or perhaps “Why do the
people in your church do thus-and-such” today – is sprouting from an
impulse on the part of the inquirer. And the response is not a
slam-shut answer, but an invitation to take a step further, and then
invitation respects the freedom of the invitee to make a choice – yes,
no, let me think about it, let me check my schedule, let me get back to
you... In not forcing a particular response, the one doing the
inviting becomes vulnerable. The church folk who invited
strangers to their home for spaghetti might have been rejected
outright, or might have had their hospitality exploited for a free
meal, or simply had their time and effort wasted. They let go of
control over the outcome. They were the channels of the
invitation, but ultimately it wasn’t their invitation. It was
living God, vulnerable to human rejection. This goes a long way
toward making sense, if sense is not expecting too much, of the cross.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the Second Sunday in Ordinary Time B, January 17, 2021
Samuel 3: 3b-10,19; Psalm 40; 1
Corinthians 6: 13-15,17-20; John 1: 35-42.
don’t do absolute ordination,” the Lutheran pastor stated flatly from
behind his desk. In fact the policy of the Evangelical Lutheran
churches in North America, the ELCIC and ELCA, is that a candidate for
professional ministry in a particular synod (=diocese) is not ordained
unless and until that person receives a call from a congregation.
What that means is not only that the candidate must have a concrete
“job offer” in hand, but that a local faith community must affirm that
they in fact call this person to serve that community in the ministry
of word and sacrament.
the same is true of Catholic reform movements such as Roman Catholic
Women Priests,” I rejoined. “Both the diaconate and priestly
ordination rites make provision for a person or persons representing a
faith community to give witness to the candidate’s fitness and
qualifications, and to affirm publically that their community is
calling this person. The community might be only a small
living-room group, but still, it’s a call. RCWP doesn’t do
absolute ordinations either.”
Two reform movements, founded 500 years apart, met and kissed (so to speak.)
I like to think that Martin Luther was looking down on us with a wan smile.
Sunday readings this week and next week dance around the theme of a
“call” from God and what form that might take, without going on to
examine the long-term evolution of a response to the call and its
consequences. The story of Samuel is actually rather charming as
it moves Samuel and the aged Eli toward recognizing the “voice” of
God. It’s a story you could read to children. The
underlying purpose of this text was not to identify young Samuel as a
prophet, but as a future leader of Israel commissioned directly by God
in the Davidic line.
idea of a “call” is presented on a literal level in both the first
reading from the book of Samuel, and in the Gospel in which the
Johannine writer depicts Jesus addressing directly these few
individuals who saw him in passing. The theme of “call” will come
more to the fore in next week’s Gospel reading from Mark.
these stories persons are addressed directly, sometimes called by
name. In the Gospel they respond by calling Jesus “Rabbi,” a form
of address used in the gospel of John as a term of respect (it didn’t
mean “teacher” in the lifetime of Jesus himself.) In any case the
“call” is personal but not subjective in nature – the call has an
objective origin. It doesn’t arise from an individual’s
inclination or insight, but as a response to a summons, to an
ago a child growing up in a pious Catholic family might wonder whether
he or she had a vocation, in the sense of a personal call from God to
enter priesthood or religious life. A promising young person
might be approached, even urged, to consider a religious
vocation. Sometimes the person might be confused and wonder what
to look for, thinking that they had to figure this out on their
own. A friend of mine at university once declared, “I used to
wonder whether I had a vocation to religious life. Now I’ve
decided I have a vocation to marriage. I just need to meet
seminary professors and formation directors find themselves dealing
with a seminarian who believes he has discerned a call to priesthood
directly from God, it’s generally not a good thing. Such students
can be difficult to deal with in the priestly formation process (to say
nothing of the classroom) because they tend to think that no one has
anything to teach them, or that their mentors have no grounds to
criticize them After all, these guys are a gift of God to the
church. And there we have it -- a nascent form of clericalism.
there are calls and there are calls. No one is called to do
something they can’t do. And no one is alone in discerning a
call, because ultimately it’s not about us. The initiative comes
from God, and develops in a living relationship. A call is not a
text message – it’s always dialogic in nature. Whether it’s a
call to meet a neighbour’s need, or to serve in a charitable
organization or social justice project, or even a call to set apart
more time in meditation and spiritual reading, not to mention a call
that might turn your life around -- the call is never a
standalone. It is deeply, inextricably woven into a living, and
life-giving, relationship with what is holy.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the Baptism of Christ, January 10, 2021
Isaiah 55: 1-11; Isaiah 12: 2-6 excerpts; 1 John 5: 1-9; Mark 1: 7-11.
you know that, if you were to visit Israel today, especially with a
tour group that arranges visits to sites meaningful to Christians, you
yourself could be baptized in the Jordan River?
believe that Jesus was baptized by his cousin John at a point on the
river not far from the Dead Sea. Today however, at a site upriver
called Yardenit, a facility with reception area, gift shop, changing
rooms and showers has been set up to welcome both visitors who wish to
be baptized in the river and groups of Christians renewing their
baptismal vows as an act of devotion. You bring along your own
clergy. When I visited Israel in 2011 the leader of my tour group
was a priest of the Anglican Church of Canada and a retired Chief of
Chaplains for the Canadian Forces. (This by the way is an
excellent combination to have when you’re visiting a country with
serious security concerns.)
Yardenit you buy an admission ticket that includes a towel, soap and
access to the showers afterward, because, unfortunately, the waters of
the Jordan are less than pristine. You wear a bathing suit.
Our group leader offered participants three options: just wait at the
railing overlooking the steps, or go partway down the steps to the
river and just dip into the water with a foot or hand, or go all the
way in with your group leader, where each participant in turn is fully
submerged in the Jordan. While those of us who waded in all the
way were still gasping and blubbering from water dripping everywhere
and struggling to wade back to shore, another group not far away was
shrieking with pure joy because they were baptized just as Jesus
was. It can be a powerful, memorable religious experience.
And you can bring home a customized DVD to remember your group’s
experience at the Jordan.
matter what happens in your life, no one and nothing can ever negate
your baptism. You can be thrown out (or walk out) of the Church,
but nothing can nullify your baptism. It’s forever. And we
are baptized only once -- that’s the reason why, if you are a baptized
Christian who goes down into the Jordan River as a devotional act, it’s
not a second baptism, but a renewal of one’s commitment to the first.
his own time John was not the only “Baptist” on the circuit of
preachers denouncing sin and calling for repentance. In fact
there were a number of such wandering preachers. They were
spiritual descendants of the great prophets who, several hundred years
before, had called upon the entire Hebrew people to renounce the
foreign gods and cults they had adopted while in exile, to remember the
God who had brought them out of slavery in Egypt, and to change their
ways as an entire people to worship the God of their ancestors.
The new generation of prophets such as John the Baptist did not direct
their efforts to an entire people, but instead to individuals in their
own concrete circumstances, such as soldiers and merchants. As a
sign of the individual’s conversion and new determination to turn away
from their past and to begin anew, the prophet invited them to go down
into the water. By immersing themselves they showed their
willingness to plunge into a radically new way of life, cleansing
themselves symbolically of their wickedness, and emerging as new
persons, strong and ready to embrace a way of life characterized by
honesty and justice.
is precisely in the dignity given by baptism that we can live in some
way in union with Christ, and can reflect the love and compassion of
Christ to others, as best we can. As Paul says in his letter to
the Romans, we have died and risen with Christ in Baptism, the source
of our own hope of resurrection. This knowledge gives us a profound
faith, great strength, and unshakeable conviction to do the work of
making justice and challenging unjust structures -- because baptism is
not just for us. Baptism is nothing less than a lifelong call to
live the Gospel message as an invitation and a call to others, and as a
powerful witness in our world to the everlasting love of God.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the
Feast of the Epiphany, January 3, 2021
Isaiah 60: 1-6; Psalm
72; Ephesians 3: 2-3a, 5-6; Matthew 2: 1-12.
The year was 1987. A
world-renowned professor of catechetics had assembled a crack team of
experts in scripture, religious education, liturgical theology and
liturgical music to work on a comprehensive Lectionary for Masses
The work ran aground
briefly, right on the readings for the Epiphany, specifically
Matthew’s description of the profession of these visitors to the
stable in Bethlehem. Consistent with the committee’s painstaking
policy of simplifying Bible language for children while retaining
accuracy, “Magi” did not sound quite right in today’s English.
Kids wouldn’t know what that word meant. “Wise men” was not
inclusive and not very specific. The draft text written by the
scripture scholar read “astrologers,” and the professor
protested, “Why change this? It is very simple! Les
Mages! Les Mages!” (Her first language was
French.) There was some counter-argument supporting “astrologers.”
And then I, the lowly
editorial assistant, spoke up. I pointed out that the big news story
from the United States was the shock and ridicule directed at
President Ronald Reagan and Nancy Reagan because of the disclosure
that they routinely consulted astrologers to determine auspicious
dates and times for important government meetings. A superstitious
President! His credibility was at stake. And after all, the primary
market for this project was in the U.S.
I hesitantly suggested
More discussion ensued,
and in the end we wrote “astronomers.”
Fast forward three years
when, after much struggle with publishers, bishops and canon lawyers,
the three-volume Book of Readings plus catechetical materials,
leaders’ and parents’ guides, children’s leaflets and singable
music, was finally published, distributed and sent around for
critical review. Wouldn’t you know, one reviewer, out of all these
voluminous texts, seized on this reading, saying that calling the
Magi “astronomers” was, well, just silly. …sometimes you can’t
Seen in the long scope of
church history, the objection to astrology wasn’t far off the mark
– some of our ancestors in faith reacted much the same. New
Testament experts today think the word “magi” could have meant a
caste of wise persons possibly associated with astrology,
Zoroastrianism, interpreting dreams or magic. They only became
“kings” when this passage was coupled with Psalm 72: 10-11 and
two texts from Isaiah, and their number only settled at “three”
because of the three gifts, so one apiece.
But it was the “star”
thing that upset some early Christians. It fed into the idea,
prevalent among many then and some now, that the stars determine
human fate. If this were true, humans would be simply puppets of
unseen forces, reduced to helplessness. Only when the focus is
shifted can we see the core story here as one of human recognition
and response, not astral control. The Christ-child, the cosmic
Christ, does not overwrite human responsibility, but calls humans to
to act decisively to repair the damage done to the world by
injustice, to act with justice and love in all our affairs – to
walk in light.
Still, Matthew’s story
makes more sense read at the level of symbolism and analogy than as
fact. Matthew changed a number of details from his source material
in composing his story. His point was to assert that this newborn
was a king in the line of David, not a brutal tyrant as was Herod.
Perhaps the real meaning
of the star is not that it portends something, or even that it points
the way to something. (Have you ever thought that if the visitors
had been located east of Bethlehem, and the star had arisen in the
East and they followed it, they would be going in exactly the wrong
direction?) Perhaps the star is light itself. This echoes the
exuberant theme of light that dances across the first reading from
Isaiah: “Rise up in splendour Jerusalem! Your light has come …
on you our God shines… Nations shall walk by your light, and kings
by your shining radiance… Then you shall be radiant at what you
see, your heart shall throb and overflow…” What a marvellous way
to step across the threshold into a new year. And what a marvellous
beacon of fresh hope.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the Feast of the Nativity, Christmas, December 25, 2020
Readings for Christmas Eve at night:
Isaiah 9: 1-6; Psalm 96; Titus 2: 11-14; Luke 2: 1-14.
The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.
Those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.
Isaiah 9: 1
Democracy dies in darkness.
Motto of the
you scratch the surface of the lovely story of Christ’s birth, you come
upon a markedly political layer. And this deeper meaning layer
not only tells us something about why Christmas began to be celebrated,
but takes the story to a richer and more profoundly liberating level,
both then, and now.
was born into occupied Palestine. The city of Bethlehem is still
located in, well, occupied Palestine. The Gospel writer Luke goes
to great pains to make clear that Jesus was born in the ancestral line
of King David, Israel’s own legendary king, as opposed to the Roman
Emperor. The Bethlehem-born Scripture scholar Niveen Sarras
writes, “I understand the birth of Christ told in the books of Luke and
Matthew as a religious and political response to Roman
imperialism.” She describes the brutality of Syrian legions
against the local Jewish population, and adds further, “The Jews found
themselves trapped by Roman injustice and imperialism. The only
way out was through God’s intervention, by ending the military
occupation of Palestine and restoring David’s kingdom. Our Lord
was born under these difficult circumstances.”
it surprise you to learn that Christians did not begin to celebrate the
birth of Christ until, apparently, the mid-fourth century? Easter
was celebrated annually as of the mid-second century, but the birth of
Christ in the flesh was never part of our earliest ancestors’ church
year. Instead they marked the death date of their martyrs,
because that was considered the martyrs’ “birthday into Heaven.”
contrary to common belief, there is no evidence fourth-century
Christians decided to co-opt a pre-existing non-Christian feast.
They would sooner die, and sometimes did. Severe persecutions of
Christians had persisted into the first decade of the fourth century,
and again regionally in the 360’s. Christians had always defined
their own identity as diametrically opposed to “the pagans.”
After 313 when the Emperor legalized the Christian cult on the same
level as other non-official cults, Christians were less likely to
vilify the Roman Empire as “the enemy of the people.” Church
communities gradually made their peace with the now-declining
Empire. About Christmas, the most we can surmise is that by the
year 361 when an early Nativity liturgy was celebrated in North Africa,
a sort of inculturation was seeping into Christian worship
practice. This is what gave us presiders seated above the people
swathed in vestments that make them look like Roman magistrates,
incense, altars, candle-bearing acolytes in procession, and worship in
yet, and yet … Christmas has struck deep roots in Christian faith, and
calls forth profound and poignant memories and hopes in our hearts,
year after year. When people who grew up in the church leave the
church as adults, Christmas is usually the last thing to go – more
often, it never really goes. Christmas supports and deepens human
relationships and human love, drawing us into a longing to reaffirm
that the love of other persons anchors us deeply in a love that
pervades the universe and undergirds creation. The shifting of
light and darkness, as the northern hemisphere gives promise of
emerging from short dim days and long nights, whispers hope for
brighter days, in every sense of the word.
year we’ve dealt constantly with far more darkness and fear than most
of us are accustomed to. We’ve lived every day with a growing
dread of sickness and death, our own or of those we love. Too
often we have had to sort out reliable information from misleading
claims, truth from, sadly, lies. We’ve accepted severe
limitations on our mobility and activity, undergone economic reversals
in many cases, and made difficult decisions about how best to protect
others and ourselves.
who walk in darkness need the light to be renewed, every year, in every
generous and loving encounter. And here we are, at the turning of
the winter solstice, at the celebration of a new birth, on the cusp of
a new year.
With heartfelt wishes for a happy Christmas, an increase of the light, and an abundance of the spirit of peace and hope.
© Susan K. Roll
Reflection for the
Fourth Sunday of Advent B, December 20, 2020
2 Samuel 7: 1-5,8b-12,
14a, 16; Psalm 24; Romans 16: 25-27; Luke 1: 26-38.
If you had to select a
reading from this Fourth Sunday of Advent on the basis of its sheer,
catch-your-breath beauty, I would nominate, not one of the passages
in the Liturgy of the Word, but the little snippet from Isaiah 45:8
that appears in Living with Christ
as the “Entrance Antiphon:”
Drop down dew from above,
And let the clouds rain
down the Just One;
Let the earth be opened
and bring forth a Saviour.
When the controversial new
English version of the Roman Missal
was promulgated in 2011 professional pastoral liturgists heaped up
plenty of ridicule on the use of “dewfall” in Eucharistic Prayer
II: dew does not fall, it just forms on the ground. We’ll leave
that aside for now.
At my German-speaking
parish in Ottawa we celebrated the “Rorate” Mass on the third
Saturday of Advent, at 7:00 am on what was invariably an icy cold,
dark, dank pre-solstice Canadian winter morning. Candles in glass
jars were affixed in rows along the front few pews, radiating a
flickering visual warmth in the still-darkened church. The
atmosphere was one of hushed anticipation, a feeling that something
was hidden, in the sense of the phrase in our second reading from
Romans, “the mystery kept secret for long ages.” Yet this was a
full Eucharistic celebration complete with organ, cantor, four hymns
and sung parts of the Mass. By 8 am a hesitant dawn light was weakly
penetrating the stained-glass windows. The hardy band of us who had
braved the cold and gloom on a Saturday morning trooped downstairs to
a fully lit church hall, hot coffee and a generous potluck breakfast
Not only is this a better
way to wait, I would say, but points to a better thing to wait for.
In December in the
northern hemisphere, nature and salvation history seem to merge in
the waiting for the promises of God to be fulfilled. But who is this
promised Saviour exactly? A glorious movie superhero thundering down
from the skies on his white horse to make everything right, by force
if necessary? Perhaps this is about a different kind of glory, and
for that matter a different kind of justice-making.
Let refreshing and healing
justice be formed like dew at the ground level, quite literally at
the grassroots. The promised One comes to nourish the greening of
the earth as gently as rain. And the earth opens up to bud forth
peace and safety, ethical conduct, equitable laws, the restoration of
what has been lost or robbed, and the dignity once stripped from the
The Rorate Mass gives a
glimpse, a sort of foretaste, of the sense of hush and wonder that
children and adults alike find in the Midnight Mass (… or at
whatever hour on Christmas Eve your local church celebrates it.) But
this optional, low-key, early morning celebration reflects more
vividly the hope expressed in the last verse of the Canticle of
Zechariah in Luke 1: 78-79,
By the tender mercy of
our God the dawn from on high shall break upon us,
To give light to those
who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
To guide our feet into
the way of peace.
© Susan K.
Reflection for the Third Sunday of Advent B, December 13, 2020
Isaiah 61: 1-2a, 10-11; Luke 1: 46-50, 53-54; 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24;
John 1: 6-8, 19-28
It was absolutely, deliriously glorious. And that’s not something I’d normally say about an event held in a hotel ballroom.
was the closing Eucharistic celebration at the 2015 conference of
Women’s Ordination Worldwide, the third such international gathering
(the second had taken place in Ottawa ten years earlier.) I had
been invited some months before to serve on the liturgy planning
committee. The planning process was already underway, and among
the initial ideas in place for the Eucharist was to use Luke 1: 46-55,
Mary’s Canticle, the Magnificat, as the Gospel reading.
we weren’t sure what source to take it from, and the discussion swirled
round and round on Skype. And then I remembered the version we
had sung a number of times at Christ the King Seminary when I was a
professor there. It was energetic and unabashedly radical in its
powerful call to bring to birth a vision of radically transformative
social justice. I always smiled inwardly as we sang, wondering
how much of its world-upending message was seeping subconsciously into
the minds of seminarians who would sooner die than upset the prevailing
social and ecclesial power structures.
It was Rory Cooney’s “Canticle of the Turning:”
From the halls of power to the fortress tower
not a stone will be left on stone,
Let the king beware for your justice tears every tyrant from his throne.
The hungry poor shall weep no more for the food they can never earn,
There are tables spread, every mouth be fed, for the world is about to turn.
Though the nations rage from age to age we remember who holds us fast:
God’s mercy must deliver us from the conqueror’s crushing grasp.
This saving word that our forebears heard
is the promise which holds us bound,
‘Til the spear and rod can be crushed by God
who is turning the world around.*
melody is the Irish “Star of the County Down,” and the driving rhythm
never lets up, barely pausing for breath between verses. And at
that Eucharist in the Marriott hotel the musicians played for all they
were worth, the assembly sang out wholeheartedly and the dancers, oh
gee the dancers, twirled and swirled in the aisle with gauzy scarves
aloft, on and on, until the energy could have lifted the hotel from its
foundation. We had to hope there was still a spirit of sheer joy
and irreversible hope for change in the air when Pope Francis came to
visit Philadelphia the following week.
Canticle replaces the Psalm Response in this week’s readings, or at
least parts of it do. As we saw several weeks ago with the
Proverbs 31 reading, the Scripture scholars who assembled the
Lectionary took out all the best bits. What’s left of the
Magnificat as used here emphasizes the “nice” things God promises to
do. But the Isaiah 61 reading that precedes it reminds us of what
each of us is called to do, in our own context, in our own
circumstances: to “bring glad tidings to the poor, to heal the
brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to captives, and release to
prisoners,” – and to do it all in a spirit of joy.
these times, amid the still-increasing darkness in the Northern
hemisphere and the fear-mixed-with-hope for an end to the spread and
the suffering of Covid-19, joy might seem like the last thing on our
minds. But Advent reminds us that hope tinged with joy, hope in
anticipation of joy, is right before our eyes.
© Susan K. Roll
*© 1990, GIA Publications Inc.
Reflection for the Second Sunday of Advent B, December 6, 2020
Isaiah 40: 1-5, 9-11; Psalm 85; 2 Peter 3: 8-14; Mark 1: 1-8
– or better, being a person on a mission – takes different forms, some
obvious, some more subtle. Some in words, some in deeds.
The latter could be arguably more effective in the long run.
is imprinted all over our readings for this Second Sunday in
Advent. The Isaiah reading exudes tenderness and compassion:
“Comfort, comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to
Jerusalem, and proclaim to her that her service is at an end …Go up
onto a mountain… cry out at the top of your voice.” The Gospel of
Mark cites, mistakenly (it’s not from Isaiah but from Exodus and
Malachi) “Behold, I am sending my messenger ahead of you: he will
prepare your way.” Good news of liberation can come as a public
service announcement from a messenger driven by that mission, a town
crier exuberantly shouting out, a proclamation event shared by the
people directly affected and giving them cause to rejoice together as a
the past few months we’ve known two types of proclamation, up close:
one, the good news that a new vaccine shows remarkable efficacy in
trials and may be ready for distribution soon. And then there are
the far-too-good-to-be-true announcements, shouted by a raft of false
prophets proclaiming good news that just begs to be believed – we’ll
just close down for a few weeks in March and then everything will go
back to normal, or the virus will disappear with warm weather, or
disappear after the U.S. election, or that it’s all a hoax to begin
with. There are patients on their deathbeds who still swear Covid
is a hoax.
a message giving great good news does not always come as words from an
individual’s mouth (or Twitter account.) Sometimes it comes as
past week, December 2nd marked forty years since four American women
missioners in El Salvador – Sisters Maura Clarke MM, Ita Ford MM,
Dorothy Kazel OSU and laywoman Jean Donovan – were ambushed, attacked
and killed by government forces. Archbishop Oscar Romero had been
assassinated less than a year before, in March 1980. The women
were part of the Cleveland Mission to aid war refugees in the camps in
identified with Jean Donovan. We were the same age, 28. I
had also served as a lay missioner, albeit in the relative safety of
rural South Texas. We both worked with abandoned or neglected
children, who touched our hearts. The good news we struggled to
give was one of hope – a message that these children were safe now,
that they could rely on a stable home and good meals, that they were
cared for, loved and encouraged to dream, to hope, to do their
schoolwork and build a future.
the film of Jean Donovan’s life and mission, “Roses in December,” came
out, I showed it to my students at Ithaca College once a year, quietly
mopping up a few tears at the end so they wouldn’t see (they weren’t
eulogy given by Maryknoll Sr. Melinda Roper echoes an Advent theme from
the Song of Zachariah, the Benedictus, in Luke 1: “God is calling
each of us to a more radical discipleship – one which will not be
understood by the powerful of our day. We must be wise as
serpents in naming and denouncing the evil which pervades our
world. We must be filled with compassion for those for whom
suffering from lack of basic necessities has become a way of
life. We must be moved to action which will clearly identify us
with the poor. Above all, let us not be filled with fear.
Let us be filled with courage and hope, for ‘in the tender compassion
of our God, the dawn shall break upon us, to shine on those who dwell
in darkness and the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of
end of the film shows a new cohort of Maryknoll missioners at their
sending ceremony. They’re moving forward in a line going up to
communion, one by one, as the congregation sings, “Be not afraid.”
Reflection for the
First Sunday of Advent B, November 29, 2020
Isaiah 63:66b-17, 19b,
64:2-7; Psalm 80; I Corinthians 1:3-9; Mark 13:33-37
Saviour, rend the heavens wide,
Come down, come down
with mighty stride,
Unlock the gates, the
doors break down,
Un-bar the way to
O Morning Star, O radiant Sun,
When will our hearts
behold your dawn?
O Sun arise; without
We grope in gloom, and
dark of night.
Sin’s dreadful doom
upon us lies,
Grim death looms
fierce before our eyes.
O come, lead us with
From exile to our
Our first reading from
Isaiah hits hard, a cry of agony across the earth pleading to God to
overlook the sins of the people and to save them from the impending
terror of doom and death. The hymn version in German hits even
harder: a literal translation might be, “O Healer, rip the heavens
apart, come running down, down from heaven…”
On this First Sunday of
Advent, let me introduce you to the composer of that powerful hymn
based on Isaiah 63. His name was Friedrich Spee von Langenfeld
(1591-1635). He can be a companion for us in our troublous times and
our search for hope amid intense fear and foreboding.
In 1998 I was honoured to
be a house guest of two of the recognized grandmothers of the women’s
ordination movement in the Roman Catholic Church, Ida Raming and the
now-deceased Iris Müller. They lived then in Greven, a small town
outside Münster in northern Germany. When Ida heard that I was
travelling on to Trier, she exclaimed, “Oh but you must make a
pilgrimage to the grave of Friedrich Spee! He is a hero of the
women’s movement, and he’s buried in the Jesuit church in Trier.”
I knew the Jesuit church
well – it’s right across the courtyard from the original site of
the German Liturgy Institute. But I had never heard of Friedrich
Spee and somehow hadn’t noticed the tomb under the floor in a side
chapel on the right.
It turns out, the reason
why this young Jesuit priest is considered a hero today is because he
was the first cleric in his time to publically denounce the burning
of women as witches. This was early seventeenth-century Germany
where a terror of the devil and his supposed secret agents on earth,
witches, was a powerful force in society. Friedrich Spee had been
assigned to serve as confessor to many of the condemned women before
they were burned at the stake. The more he heard, the more he was
convinced that these women could not have been witches. They had
been falsely accused. He spoke out. And he suffered persecution and
great pressure from Church and society as a result.
But there’s another
reason. In 1632 the young professor arrived in Trier after a
twenty-year absence to take up a position teaching moral theology.
He found a region severely affected by a contagious sickness, not the
Plague as such but some quickly-spreading illness that caused death
with no apparent reason. Not for the first time in his life
Friedrich Spee felt a call to minister to the victims of a dreaded
He became a volunteer
nurse caring for mortally ill patients during a pandemic.
And he died of the
sickness himself at the age of 44.
Friedrich Spee lived the
hymn lyrics he had written, “We grope in gloom and dark of night …
Grim death looms fierce before our eyes.” Yet, like Isaiah, he
prayed with hope above all fear, “Oh come, lead us … from exile
to our promised Land.”
May we all find ways to
reflect and speak a powerful, vivifying hope to each other.
*English version of “O Heiland reiß
die Himmel auf,” translated by Martin L Seltz, Lutheran Book of
Worship © 1978.
Audio link to O Heiland reiß die
Audio link to Savior, tear open the heavens
Reflection for the Thirty-fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time A, November 22, 2020
The Feast of Christ the King
The Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe
34: 11-12, 15-17; Psalm
23; I Corinthians 15: 20-26,
Matthew 25: 31-46
Talk about overkill.
all these titles can be applied to this Sunday, the last of the current
liturgical year, and each one has some sort of reason that made sense,
at some level of the church, in the 20th century. But we can go a
step further, a step better, for the 21st.
34th Sunday in Ordinary Time is simply where we are in the numbering in
the Roman Missal. No problem there. If you start from
Christmas, which always conveniently falls on the same date in the
solar year, December 25th, but not on a set day of the week, you count
back four Sundays for Advent. Then the Sunday before that marks
the end of the previous church year, whichever Sunday falls between
November 20th and 26th.
Now we’re going to wade into the deep mud of how the Roman Church does politics.
used to ask students in my Liturgy course, “When do you think the Feast
of Christ the King began?” They would guess fourth century, or
twelfth century, or maybe the sixteenth. I tell them, 1925.
And they just look puzzled. I point out that the tragic and
horrifying trajectory of European fascism did not begin with Hitler in
1933. It began with Mussolini ten years earlier in Italy, the
country geographically surrounding the Vatican, and out of which
Vatican City was carved when Italy achieved unity in 1870.
Mussolini preened and strutted on his balcony, chin jutted outward and
arms folded in a show of macho defiance, all of Rome literally spread
below his feet, the Vatican was only a short distance away. And
the Vatican deployed a weapon more effective than an encyclical, more
powerful than a press release, designed to reach every believer in
every pew: a new mandatory Feast that would fall on a Sunday, when
every Christian (yes, not every Catholic but every Christian, according
to the 1917 Code of Canon Law) was required to attend Mass under pain
of mortal sin.
new Feast of Christ the King was assigned to the last Sunday in --
October. It was first celebrated on Sunday October 31,
1926. (Then I ask my students, “What’s the significance of
October 31st in the church year?” and only the Lutherans get it – it’s
Reformation Sunday!) Yes, the Roman Church placed Christ the King
on top of Reformation Sunday, implicitly neutralizing it.
pertinently, the concept of Christ as the ultimate King was meant to
set up a direct counter-argument to the despotic grasp of a fascist
dictator – that no human on earth can claim total universal power, only
Christ. This was not the first time in history that a claim of
absolute spiritual power was set loose to contradict, to trump, as it
were, an arrogant claim to personal political power.
the title that sucks all the oxygen out of the room, the Solemnity of
Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe, first shows up in the 1969
revision of the Roman calendar. And today in the Roman rite it’s
paired with an array of equally oxygen-sucking presider’s
prayers: “For you anointed your Only Begotten Son …[so], making
all things subject to his rule, he might present to the immensity of
your majesty an eternal and universal kingdom…” (from the Preface.)
take out just the Universe part and run with it. Setting aside
the suffocating power and domination images, we can remind ourselves of
the unimaginable immensity and infinity of the universe created by a
loving God. The Hubble telescope, now obsolete, detected traces
of two trillion galaxies. Galaxies. The light we see on a
starry night was emitted aeons ago and only reaches us now. And
it’s not just about science, but about a new spirituality and the
theologians and spirituality writers who are helping to shape it.
Teilhard de Chardin. Sr. Ilia Delio. Diarmuid
O’Murchu. Countless small groups of spiritual seekers who find
each other and encourage each other to penetrate with their
understanding, as far as they can, the Cosmic Christ.
may have come round in a circle here. But the prospects for a
healthy realistic spirituality are not confined to circular
reasoning. They point us toward the future.
Reflection for the Thirty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time A, November 15, 2020
31: 10-13, 19-20, 30-31; Psalm
128; I Thessalonians 5: 1-6;
Matthew 25: 14-30
the first day of class in my Grade Seven Home Economics class, the
teacher went around and asked each girl in turn, “What does your father
do?” and then, “What does your mother do?” Almost all of us could
say what our father’s job was, but very few had mothers who worked
outside the home. Most of us answered, “Housewife.” And
every time, Mrs. Betzold would gently correct each girl, “No, your
mother is a homemaker.” She used effective pedagogy. Even
our little twelve-year-old brains sensed that she was giving our
mothers’ work more dignity, more credibility, than we thought.
then in 1964 “housewife” was a common job title, as it were, and
despite major shifts in society it’s persisted. Think of the TV
shows “Real Housewives of…” wherever. The losing candidate in the
recent U.S. presidential election, during his campaign, pleaded with
so-called suburban housewives, “Please like me.”
choice of that passage in Proverbs 31 on the qualities and job
description of a “worthy wife” was not the most obvious choice to pair
with the Gospel story in Matthew about the three servants, one of whom
hid his master’s money in the ground out of fear instead of investing
it. Proverbs is used in the Roman Missal, but in the Protestant
Revised Common Lectionary it’s one of those shock and awe readings that
mark November, the end of the church year: “the day of the Lord is
near, a day of distress and anguish, ruin and devastation…” What
the RCL’s first reading has in common with this Sunday’s Gospel is the
theme of the second coming of Christ as a time of ultimate reckoning.
why did the Roman Catholic committee of Scripture scholars, working in
secret, pick Proverbs? What’s the common theme? At a guess
(and we really can only guess, since there are no explanations for the
official selection of readings) the theme appears to be the fruits of
hard work. Women’s work. Men’s work.
wouldn’t be wrong if you get a queasy feeling that there’s more lurking
under the surface of the Proverbs reading than a lovely paean to
everyday hardworking homemakers. We need to look at some of the
verses that the Scripture scholars deliberately left out:
She is like the ships of the merchant; she brings her food from far away.
She considers a field and buys it; with the fruit of her hands she plants a vineyard.
She girds herself with strength; and makes her arms strong.
She makes herself coverings; her clothing is fine linen and purple.
She makes linen garments and sells them; she supplies the merchant with sashes.
Strength and dignity are her clothing; she laughs at the days to come.
She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.
Her husband is known in the city gates; taking his seat among the elders of the land
we have a more definitive picture. This description refers to a
matron of the well-to-do class in ancient Israel. She’s not only
hardworking but artistically skilled and a shrewd businesswoman.
She’s a respected elder who teaches with wisdom. Her own stature
in the community helps secure that of her husband.
The recently deceased, eminent Scripture scholar Gerald S. Sloyan comments on this passage with almost revolutionary urgency:
are but two modern touches in this eulogy, deeply flawed as it is by
its good intentions. One is the reality of the hard labour of a
wife and mother. The other is the counsel in the first part of
verse 31, ‘Give her a share in the fruit of her hands.’ This
cannot come about contemporarily by ’letting her works praise her in
the city gates’ (husband’s shirts always starched, children neat at
school clutching their lunch money.) It can only come about by
the whole culture’s repudiating the picture of womanhood represented by
wish we could leave this reflection on a high note. Sadly, in the
current pandemic, the social and economic progress made by women in
recent decades is in danger of being significantly reversed, as many
mothers struggle to work from home, lose their jobs or even stop
seeking employment, because the children’s school schedules are
disrupted and their schoolwork must be supervised as they work remotely
Reflection for the Thirty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time A, November 8, 2020
Wisdom 6: 12-16; Psalm 63; I Thessalonians 4: 13-18; Matthew 25: 1-13
over the downtown pedestrian shopping district of the city of Trier,
Germany, is the clock tower in the Cathedral. The oldest part of
the Cathedral dates from the fourth century, the newer part from the
thirteenth, Romanesque and Gothic in harmony, the clock face in the
clean style of the mid-twentieth century. And above the face of
the clock, an inscription in Latin:
Nescitis qua hora Dominus veniet.
You do not know the hour of the Lord’s coming.
clock and its stern warning look down upon hordes of tourists
discharged from tour buses, on their way to see the Roman ruins and
plunder the attractive shops. They look down upon the weekly
farmers’ market, and the raucous annual Christmas market that runs for
a full month until December 21st. They look down upon visitors
and residents, of all ages and ways of life, from many lands of origin.
looked down on me when I spent ten days in Trier in May 1990 to carry
out a burst of initial research for my doctoral dissertation in the
library of the German Liturgy Institute. They look down on me
with every return visit, on my way to go happily hunting and gathering
liturgical oddities and helpful references, and to meet old friends
from 1990 and new acquaintances with every visit to the
Institute. They looked down when I brought my mother and my
cousin Betty to Trier at Easter 1999, as they patiently sat through a
very long Easter Vigil in the Cathedral and were welcomed by my friends
at the Institute and the St. Joseph guesthouse. They looked down
in 2011 as I and a producer for Deutsche Welle spent a day filming a
guest segment for a TV travel show, a program broadcast in German and
English to the world. They looked down as I brought a group of
Canadian students and Hildegard of Bingen followers on a study tour in
2016. And when international travel is again possible, they will
still be hovering over the Cathedral square, looking down, over Trier.
dark, rather ominous warning, “You do not know the day nor the hour…”
comes from the end of our Gospel reading for this weekend. The
story itself, of the five wise and five foolish young women on their
way to a wedding, is the second of three “watchfulness” parables in
Matthew, and it has so many logical holes in it that it can only serve
as a story with a point. But what exactly is the point?
Several Hebrew prophets had already used this bride/bridegroom metaphor
to refer to God (the groom) and Israel (the bride.) But Matthew’s
community might have applied this story to their sense of confusion and
certainly disappointment that the risen Christ had not yet returned in
glory as he had promised. Or the story might really constitute a
warning, if not a threat, that at the final judgement the sheep would
be separated from the goats (is it that simple? And how can we
know the criteria?), forever. No court of appeal.
November we’ll be hearing several weeks of readings on final judgement
and the end of the world. And on the first Sunday of Advent the
same idea, but with a different intent: now not the second
coming, but the first, the Incarnation, lies at the apex of the buildup
to which the readings lead us. Nonetheless, we have quite some
waiting, watching, and even fear, to get through before we arrive.
this writing the results of the U.S. presidential election are not yet
determined. They may be final by the time you read this.
More waiting. More foreboding. Not in the past, but right
now. Somehow the cold, dark hush of November in the northern
hemisphere fits all too well. Our faith is challenged, our hope
becomes an act of daring, and our love more necessary than ever.
Reflection for the Solemnity of All Saints A, November 1, 2020
Revelation 7: 2-4, 9-14; Psalm 24; I John 3: 1-3; Matthew 5: 1-12a
at this time of year, the veil grows thinner between this world and the
next.” I remember first hearing that many years ago from Diann
Neu as she welcomed participants to an autumn ritual. But I’ve
heard it since. The deepening darkness, bare branches and chill
hush of the weather in the Northern Hemisphere create an atmosphere
that suggests that in this season one might faintly perceive that life
really had changed, not ended, when a human life passed away.
Combining our secular calendar with the church calendar produces a
one/two flip from Halloween one day to All Saints Day the next, and All
Souls the day after that. The expression “the veil is thinner,”
especially when uttered in a low breathless voice with widened eyes,
might seem to point to a naturalistic explanation for Halloween, and
even of ghosts.
A bit creepy. Just a bit.
yet somehow, remembering those who have passed from our sight just
feels right at this time of year. As a Church community,
remembering those “friends of God and prophets” in Elizabeth Johnson’s
book title, can serve to remind us of who we are, as we see aspects of
ourselves reflected in who they are.
Beatitudes in Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount are more complex than they
appear from a superficial reading, and actually point us in different
directions than we expect when we apply these aphorisms to our own
lives. The text is poetic in nature and its literary genre
resembles chant, a composition designed to be used in common prayer;
this type of text first appeared in ancient Egypt. There are
echoes of Wisdom literature, in that God will save and protect from
harm those who practice justice in their actions and holiness in the
depths of their very being.
trait enumerated in turn represents a rich concept in Hebrew
spirituality, far richer than a one-to-one translation into English can
convey. “The poor in spirit” are not losers or suckers, but the
special recipients of God’s solicitous care. Those who mourn
their loss will receive from God comfort beyond any human
sympathy. To understand what is meant by “the meek” we need to
look at Psalm 37:11, “the meek shall inherit the land, and delight in
abundant prosperity”: their character makes them slow to anger,
gentle with others and overflowing with charity for those in
need. “The merciful” not only pardon others but love those who do
not deserve it. The “clean (or pure) of heart” practice ethical
behaviour and faithfulness to God’s commands (there’s nothing implied
about sexual behaviour). “Peacemakers” do not merely resolve
conflicts but radiate shalom, total well-bring. The lengthy final
beatitude does reflect the fact that Matthew’s community was facing
persecution for their faith, but their suffering and fear recalls a
belief in Hebrew tradition that the prophets called by God were
one of these is counter-intuitive. In fact we’re grappling with a
very subversive text, just as much in our own time as in theirs.
In this, yes, sinful world around us, the meek rarely inherit anything,
honesty especially in politics is a rare commodity, and peacemakers are
likely to be ridiculed. And nobody wants to be persecuted.
is not making empty promises. Jesus himself embodies the obvious
paradoxes. The core paradox, the very foundation of the Christian
faith, is in his disciples’ powerful, compelling experience that he was
alive again, not as a ghost but as a person whose life had changed, not
ended. Death and resurrection.
veil grows thinner. Our departed loved ones may not be as far
away as we think. And by the grace of God, the qualities and
often heroic actions of our most honoured ancestors in faith may not be
as unattainable as we assume.
Reflection for the
Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time A, October 25, 2020
Exodus 22: 20-26; Psalm
18; I Thessalonians 1: 5c-10; Matthew 22: 34-30
If you grew up with
popular music playing on the radio, or as recorded music or live
performances, you heard a great deal from an early age about love.
You heard about how passionate, delightful and tender love could be,
and on the other side, how heartbreakingly painful and utterly
devastating lost or rejected love might leave you. You could have
heard even more about the despondent, depressive side of love if you
grew up with country music. And don’t even mention opera.
Powerful emotions come
into play on either side of the love equation, positive or negative,
and either of these can batter a person like hurricane-force winds.
As the character Mr. Spock mused on Star Trek,
“Love…hmmm…humans claim a great deal for that particular
New Testament Greek has
several words that translate into English as “love,” but only one
of them, eros,
corresponds to emotional gale-force love. And that’s not what
Jesus was referring to, whatever term he may have used in his native
Aramaic. The two most common New Testament words for love are agape
and philia. Basically
these describe ethical relationships, ways of respecting others and
behaving toward others, apart from one’s subjective feelings of the
moment, because higher values are in play. One’s disposition needs
to be appropriate, but emotions as such are not the driving force.
Practicing love for others represents an ethical norm that at best
becomes habitual. And we can’t always be sure we’re getting it
For instance, how does one
love God? Scripture gives us abundant examples of God’s love for
us, but few that really show us in a practical way how to love the
infinitely transcendent and immanent God. Jesus is citing
Deuteronomy 6:5 and his interlocutor, the Pharisee legal scholar,
would of course have recognized it immediately: the fundamental
command to love God with all one’s heart, soul and strength.
Matthew shows Jesus substituting “mind” for strength. The
conscious living relationship of an individual, as part of a people,
with God, would make perfect sense in the Jewish context of the
But Jesus goes on to cite
Leviticus 19:18, “…you shall love your neighbour as yourself: I
am the Lord.” The combination of these two commandments, the
interlinking of the two dimensions of relationship in the gospel of
Matthew is unprecedented, and sets up a new moral framework. The law
itself is now dependent on love.
Healthy self-love can be a
challenge. It’s easy to tell when someone has clearly gone
overboard with egocentric self-love. But I suspect that in this time
of disrupted daily routines and a pervasive atmosphere of fear
hovering over us, self-love in the sense of self-acceptance -- an
inner serenity and balance that enables one to make a gift of self --
might be more difficult. Fear can unbalance the ways we treat others
and cloud our perception. Isolation and depression can bring to the
surface all sorts of old traumas and unhealed wounds, the words and
actions for which we still beat up on ourselves, the perfect retort
we wished we had said in some long-forgotten argument, just all the
old emotional scars that can be safely ignored in more optimistic
times. When the buzz of normal life activity dies down, too often
some dark night of the soul emerges.
All the more reason to try
harder to be aware of others who may be bogging down under the
pressure in these times, to be as gentle and patient with ourselves
as we hope to be with others, and to forgive ourselves for what we’ve
done badly, in order to find the graciousness to forgive others.
Forgiving ourselves may be the healthiest way to move toward wise
self-love, creating a reservoir of compassion to pour out generously
Reflection for the Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time A, October 18, 2020
Isaiah 45: 1, 4-6; Psalm 96; I Thessalonians 1: 1-5b; Matthew 22: 15-21
first-century Palestine, colonized by the powerful and brutal Roman
Empire, the inhabitants were required to pay taxes to the
Emperor. You needed to secure special Roman currency to do it,
not the shekels or talents we hear of when a local transaction is
mentioned, but a denarius. A Roman denarius.
is the coin that Jesus called for when he was accosted by members of
local Jewish subgroups that had already taken umbrage at his preaching,
his ministry and his popularity. In Matthew’s gospel this story
is set in Jerusalem, shortly after Jesus’ entrance in procession on a
donkey among a “very large crowd” (Mt 21: 1-11), and his angry
overturning of the moneychangers’ tables in the Temple (Mt 21:
12-13.) The moneychangers made their living by exchanging Roman
currency for the Jewish coin needed to pay the Temple tax, since paying
with a coin that bore the image of the Emperor would violate the
commandment against idols -- “graven images.” In any case, Jesus
now had enemies, even more enemies than before, and right in the heart
of the city of Jerusalem.
Matthew’s account, the Pharisees and the Sadducees, accompanied by a
small contingent of Herodians (a group Matthew could afford to alienate
since they no longer posed a threat to his late first century church),
thought they could entrap Jesus by posing an either/or question.
If Jesus had answered that it was right to pay taxes to the Emperor he
would alienate the restive Jewish people chafing under oppressive
colonial rule. If he had said it was not right, the brutal might
of the occupying government would come down on him and relieve the
local Jewish authorities of the distasteful task of prosecuting this
dangerous outlaw. Either way it would be a win.
Jesus, of course, cleverly drove it down the middle. And they backed off. For the moment.
1930’s Germany, Christians both Catholic and Protestant faced a similar
dilemma that could (and for some, did) cost them their lives:
whether the churches should cooperate with Hitler’s Third Reich.
The Evangelical Lutheran church split over the question: one contingent
called themselves “German Christians” and cooperated with the
government’s demands to “aryanize” the church and to submit to Nazi
government policies. A dissenting group, the “Confessing Church,”
issued the Barmen Declaration in 1934 calling for resistance against
Nazi ideological pressure on Christian preaching, the suppression of
church organizations and the independence of the church.
1937 Pope Pius XI issued a letter, Mit brennender Sorge (“With
burning concern”) to be read from the pulpit in Roman Catholic
Churches, effectively calling for resistance to the encroachment of
Nazi ideology and control. This letter was addressed to the
people, not to church authorities (the Vatican had signed a concordat
with Germany early in Hitler’s regime), and without naming Hitler,
called the people to refuse cooperation with Nazi racial theories and
neo-pagan ideology that subordinated the churches to the State.
Catholics were urged to follow their conscience.
clergy and faithful paid with their lives. Very early on, an
entire barracks at Dachau concentration camp was reserved for
politically dissenting clergy. A number of conscientious
objectors, like Lutheran theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, were
executed. A very few, like Archbishop Clemens August von Galen of
Münster, squeaked through untouched to the end of the war.
Bonhoeffer coined a poignant and relevant expression: “the cost of discipleship.”
here we are in October 2020. Far-right wing movements are on the
rise around the world, and authoritarian quasi-dictators preen and
shout from balconies, channeling rage and fear among their constituents
into turbulent social unrest. Groups that bear the name Christian
vociferously support radically, sometimes dangerously opposed political
Jesus said “Give to Caesar…” the Greek word apodote means to “give
back, return.” The image on the Roman coin is that of Caesar, but
the image of God – the imago Dei – is imprinted on every human
being. What, and how much, are we called to give back? And
what are we called to give forward, in order to incarnate the image of
God within this too-often damaged world?
Reflection for the
Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time A, October 11, 2020
Isaiah 25: 6-10a; Psalm
23; Philippians 4: 12-14, 19-20 or Philippians 4: 1-9; Matthew
Peace. Inner peace.
Deep peace. The peace that passes all understanding.
How elusive that can seem
when each one of us is dealing with the new challenges in our lives
posed by a worldwide pandemic with no end in sight, economic
recession, and a pervasive history of racist violence coming to the
surface. Families struggle to provide continuity in their children’s
lives and education, and too often, simply to put food on the table.
Working people fear for their livelihood, if they haven’t lost it
already. And a cloud of fear and foreboding hovers over every
personal encounter, every excursion outside the home. Will I get
sick this time? Will I carry the virus to someone more vulnerable?
How we need to hear a
message of hope now.
Real hope, in a
trustworthy message. Hope offered by trustworthy messengers.
The Second Reading for
this Sunday varies between the Roman Missal and the Revised Common
Lectionary. Though both are taken from the fourth chapter of
Philippians, the RM uses Phil 4: 12-14 and 19-20, which dovetails
neatly with the banquet image presented in the Hebrew Bible and
Gospel readings for today. The RCL uses the visionary and
breathtaking message of hope in verses 1-9.
Paul is writing his letter
to the Philippians from prison. It’s pretty amazing that he can
concentrate at all under the circumstances, never mind caring deeply
about a division within this community and lovingly trying to
strengthen them. He first implores two women leaders of the
community, Euodia and Syntyche, to reconcile their differences. He
appeals to other co-workers to support them in this reconciliation,
saying that all of their names appear in the “book of life” (a
reference from the Hebrew Bible that also appears in Revelation.)
Then comes the part that
leaps out at us from Paul’s difficult, life-threatening and
fear-inducing circumstances at that moment:
in the Lord always! Again I say, Rejoice!
Let your gentleness be
known to everyone. Our God is near.
Do not worry about
But in everything by
prayer and supplication with thanksgiving,
Let your requests be
made known to God.
And the peace of God,
which passes all understanding,
Will guard your hearts
and your minds in Christ Jesus.
It can be hard to imagine
a “peace that passes all understanding.” We might perceive this
peace in passing, perhaps in prayer, or unexpectedly in daily life.
I glimpsed a sense of
peace greater than I had felt in months, this past Sunday afternoon.
For the first time since mid-March I went for a drive that was not
connected to a necessary errand or someone to visit. I drove an hour
north to the shore of Lake Ontario at Olcott Beach, New York. The
beach had been closed all summer but a scattering of families and
individuals had come out, and a few of the shops and snack bars were
open for an end-of-season weekend. I spent a long time overlooking
the lapping waves of Lake Ontario, feeling the peace of the water’s
gentle rhythm, and gazing into the misty distance (on a clear day
you can see Toronto). I walked in the park above the shore where my
mother and her extended family used to spend summer days when she was
a child, renting a cottage, swimming, picnicking, riding the old
carousel or the bumper cars. At a certain point it was hard to
distinguish whether I was recalling my mother’s childhood memories
of Olcott Beach, or my own.
On the drive home, I felt
that a certain heaviness had subsided. The rhythm of the lapping
waves had lulled me into a sense of inner peace.
We often speak easily of
“making peace,” as Euodia and Syntyche probably did, as if it’s
a task we can accomplish with good will and some work. Inner peace
is something else. It’s a gift, not a task. But we can set up the
preconditions. Hope. Trust. Not to forget faith.
Reflection for the
Twenty-seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time A, October 4, 2020
Isaiah 5: 1-7; Psalm
80; Philippians 4: 6-9; Matthew 21: 33-43
The story Jesus tells in
our Gospel reading for today is just dripping with allegory. But
there’s a surface allegory (what it looks like the story is saying,
at first glance) and a deeper level.
Here is another case where
a story or saying attributed to Jesus in one of the Gospels only
makes sense when we remember that the Gospels were put in their final
written form two, more likely three, generations after the lifetime
of Jesus of Nazareth. The Gospel writers used written and oral
source material but shaped the story according to their perceptions
of what their communities needed to remember from the life and
teaching of Jesus -- and that had to do with the immediate challenges
that the communities faced in their own time.
There are some elements in
this parable that scholars believe do go back to an authentic story
told by Jesus. Absentee landlords, for example, were common in
Galilee at this time. A landowner might set up a business such as a
vineyard, then return to his own country somewhere in the Roman
Empire, depending on the local management to run the business and
make it turn a profit, part of which accrued to the landowner and was
paid to his representatives.
But the story takes a dark
turn as the local tenants abuse, even kill (!) the landowner’s
agents who come to collect. More shockingly, when he sends his son
to deal with the tenants’ refusal to pay, the tenants calculate
that they can keep the vineyard for themselves if they kill the heir.
interpretation of this story identifies God as the landowner, the
tenants as the evil Temple leaders, the servants as the prophets who
were rejected, and Jesus as the son (which would mean that Jesus is
predicting his own death.) This would illustrate a certain
interpretation of salvation history that took shape after, not
before, the death and resurrection of Jesus.
Matthew was writing for
communities consisting largely of Jews who had become Christians, as
well as some Gentiles. The Jewish members had already been ejected
from their synagogues for their allegiance to Christ as the Messiah.
For this reason the Christian community was known in Greek as
“ek-kaleo,” those who have been called out – called out of the
synagogue, that is. For their adherence to the Christian faith, they
could never go “home” again.
We know that Jesus
denounced corruption, collusion and financial exploitation in the
strongest terms – think of his rage at the commerce carried out in
the Temple precincts. Jesus regularly conflicted with the religious
leadership of his time, as his later followers would conflict with
their synagogues after the fall of Jerusalem and the destruction of
the Temple. In both cases, the new struggled to supplant the old.
The Gospel contradicted business as usual. The people entered into a
very new relationship with God that was incompatible with the old.
As Scripture scholar
Sharon H. Ringe notes, the focus of this story “is rather on the
futility of debates about, and maintenance programs for, the
institutions of this age… This puzzling parable pulls us forward
toward that unknown future.”
Perhaps these, then, are
the leading questions for us today:
What in the Church should
And, what should be let
Reflection for the
Twenty-sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time A, Sept 27, 2020
Ezekiel 18: 25-28;
Psalm 25; Philippians 2: 1-11; Matthew 21: 28-32
The famous Philippians
hymn turns up as the centrepiece of the second reading for this week
in both the Revised Common Lectionary and the Roman Catholic Missal.
And it really is a carefully-composed hymn, because of its clear
strophic structure and progression of ideas. Paul did not write it,
though he seems to have added the phrase “death on a cross.”
This means that, a generation before the earliest Gospel was
completed, and possibly before Paul’s missionary journeys,
Christians had gone beyond simply praying with the Psalms, and were
writing original hymnody for worship. Interesting.
This one is not without
its stumbling blocks however, even though it sweeps magnificently
across space and time, from the pre-existent Christ to the glorified
Saviour, with a wide perspective across the cosmos. For example,
does identifying Christ as a “slave,” then praising him for his
obedience, make slavery a laudable social norm? And for that matter,
does this hymn advocate self-abnegation to the point of willingly
submitting to death (and any form of abuse short of death?) Is this
the ideal we are instructed to emulate?
As is often the case with
Paul, context is (almost) everything. Both Lectionaries give us the
entire preceding section beginning in chapter two verse one: “…make
my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in
full accord and of one mind.” (NRSV) Paul goes on to plead with
the Philippians to reform their behaviour toward each other,
renouncing selfish attitudes and caring more for the other than for
oneself. Paul drops in the hymn text to set Christ before their eyes
as a divine prototype for self-giving. Then he follows the hymn with
gentle encouragement, reminding them that “God is at work within
Another example of how
Paul uses a pre-existent and presumably well-known text to mould the
new Christians’ actions and attitudes is found in I Corinthians 11.
In verses 17-22 he just rips into them, yelling about how they act
at their meal gatherings: “Look at ya! This one scarfs the food
so that one goes hungry, another one gets drunk, do it at home for
godssake!” or words to that effect. Suddenly at verse 23 Paul
shifts gears completely, as if he’s just taken a walk around the
block to clear his head and stopped at Tim Horton’s for coffee. He
calmly reminds them of what Jesus did at the Last Supper, blessing
the bread and the wine, in remembrance of him and in the new
covenant, so they could do the same from then on. Then Paul returns
to his theme, with better composure, and points out to the Corinthian
Christians that their selfish behaviour counts as sin in the eyes of
theologians and preachers like to remind us, is continual, not once
and for all. Unlike many born-again Christians who claim that they
found Jesus once and thereafter they’re all set for eternity, real
life brings continual challenges, and we don’t always handle them
well. A better practice is what in AA is called making “a
searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves,” with the goal
of repairing damage and healing wounds for which we’re responsible.
And, with a deep breath and a prayer, we resolve to do better, and
go on from there.
Reflection for the Twenty-fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time A, September 20, 2020
Isaiah 55: 6-9 Psalm 145 Philippians 1: 20c-24, 27a; Matthew 20: 1-16a
la Sagesse…” “Seek Wisdom, while she may be found. Call
her, when she is near… For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are
your ways my ways, says Wisdom. As high as the heavens are above
the earth, so high are my thoughts above your thoughts, and my ways
above your ways.”
I was amazed when I ran across this alternate translation of Isaiah 55: 6-9 some thirty years ago – for two reasons.
this very simply-formulated idea echoes a seldom-recognized truth: our
human reason does not help us figure God out, no matter how hard we
work at it. This is true enough when we use the traditional title
“Lord” for God. But the underlying truth shifts like a tectonic
plate when the one speaking is Wisdom:
“For my ways are not your ways, dit la Sagesse,
nor are my thoughts your thoughts.”
is radically different from the top-down, almost threatening effect
when “the Lord” proclaims his divine absolute transcendence. The
inscrutability of the Holy One is not a form of domination here, nor is
it something to be feared, even when we struggle to make sense of some
tragedy or misfortune in our lives or others’ lives.
(“Really! What was God thinking? Would a loving God do
this?? Does a loving God even exist?!”)
safer and more cherished than we may think, even in the midst of fear
and pain. Wisdom is a quality of insight, a perception that
unfolds itself to us as we seek it. Wisdom is not an achievement,
but a gift. Wisdom is something living. Wisdom supports our
footsteps when we wade into the deep. Wisdom can be trusted.
second reason I was amazed was because of where I discovered this
passage: by chance, in a tiny Eucharistic chapel above the
massive church belonging to the women’s monastery of Maredret, sister
monastery to the famous abbey of Maredsous, built in the 19th century
in the Ardennes region of southern Belgium near the French
border. The book was in French. And la Sagesse, “Wisdom” in
French, is grammatically feminine.
like its brother monastery Maredsous two kilometers away, was only
founded in the 19th century. The imposing grey stone edifices
were commissioned by a wealthy Ghent factory owner for his
youngest daughter Agnes who, like a number of young people in
post-revolution France, were caught up in the spirit of ultramontanism*
and very much taken with the idea of reviving medieval monastic
life. Agnes and several of her friends made their novitiate at a
French convent, then all returned to Belgium to a half-completed
monastery. The community established a girls’ school, ran a farm
and a ceramics workshop, and welcomed visitors and pilgrims in the
tradition of Benedictine hospitality until the late 20th century.
often made a weekend retreat at Maredret when I lived in Belgium.
The community of moniales, women monks, in full habit, sang the
complete Liturgy of the Hours in the Benedictine tradition and lived
very simple lives.
how did this jaw-droppingly radical version of Isaiah 55:6-9 end up in
their upstairs Eucharistic meditation chapel? Beats me. But
the healing and comforting image of God, the transcendent, as Wisdom,
the immanent, never left me.
developed as a conservative reaction to the violent secularization of
France in the Revolution, and as a romantic desire to adhere to a
stable religious reference point outside the national borders and thus
safe from government interference. Its Latin roots mean, to look
“over the mountains,” that is, beyond the Alps, southward – to Rome.
Reflection for the
Twenty-fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time A, September 13, 2020
Sirach 27:30-28:7; Psalm
103; Romans 14: 7-9; Matthew 18: 21-35
Jesus must have enjoyed answering
Peter’s plaintive question “How many times must I forgive?”
with an expansive rhetorical flourish calculated to knock him back on
his heels: “”Not seven times but seventy-seven times” (other
accounts read “Seventy times seven,” even better.) One can only
imagine what Peter was thinking, and it probably was not charitable.
This brief exchange, and the long
developed parable that Jesus spins out from it, clearly set the
entire transaction on a cosmic scale. No longer merely a tit-for-tat
morality lesson on how to behave toward each other, the parable
represents a profound insight into the nature of God’s unending
mercy and love. The money amounts are staggering by today’s
standards: the “huge amount” cited equaled 10,000 talents, and
one talent was worth 6,000 denarii. One denarius was a day
labourer’s wage. It begs the question how a royal servant could
end up owing such an unthinkable amount of money to the king. But
the story is designed to create a massive shift in our thinking not
only about the huge size of the servant’s debt contrasted with the
paltry debt his colleague owed him, but with the astounding mercy of
the king. With God cast as the king figure, the enormity of the
forgiven debt illustrates the infinitely generous compassion of a God
who feels from the depths of God’s very being, literally
So far so good. How does this story
work when applied to our everyday Christian lives?
It’s not a mistake that the text
reads “brother:” “Lord, if my brother sins against me…”
and “…unless each of you forgives your brother from your heart.”
The debt owed by the second servant to the first represents a very
petty transaction between two men who were social equals. Forgiving
the debt would have cost the first servant next to nothing. The
Gospel parable appears addressed to men who were equals in the Jesus
movement and (figuratively speaking) brothers in a shared mission.
One of the many concerns voiced by
psychologists and counsellors during the onset of the pandemic and
the need to shelter at home for an indeterminate period of time had
to do with the danger of increased domestic abuse. One danger was
that in families where a pattern of abuse already existed, prolonged
proximity in a small shared space, coupled with frustration at the
confinement and fear of the unpredictable course of the pandemic,
would exacerbate the abuse. At the same time, physical and
behavioural signs of abuse would not be observable by outsiders such
as teachers, neighbours, or friends. In Canada a televised public
service announcement illustrated a recommended hand gesture that an
abused spouse could use during a smartphone call to signal a friend
that she was in danger, without using words that could trigger an
abuser who was within earshot.
Far too often survivors who belong to
churches tell of seeking counselling from a priest or pastor who
would try to shame the victim into returning to an abusive home,
arguing that she must obey her wedding vows, or offer up her
sufferings as did Jesus on the cross, or, of course, forgive the
abuser in the face of continuing danger. Often in couples
counselling an abuser will go all contrite, pleading with the spouse
to forgive him and return home, while claiming he will never, ever,
do it again. Soon he does it again.
The Christian injunction to forgive
each other does not extend to accepting abuse or attack, or to
allowing others to be abused or injured. No one is required to
submit to evil. One-on-one abuse, whether rooted in misogyny,
racism, or another form of structural hatred, draws strength from a
larger ideological drive embedded within a society or a culture.
One-on-one forgiveness does not begin to touch the deeper evil.
What may work better would be to cast
“forgiveness” in terms of healing for the victim, a precondition
of which must be safety and freedom from abuse. This lies entirely
within the Christian faith when coupled with the call to evildoers to
conversion, metanoia, a change of heart that transforms the
whole person, inside and out. A call to conversion on the part of
the abuser can be part of restorative justice circles aimed at
healing for an individual, a family or a society.
Jesus healed. Jesus protected the
weak. And Jesus never hesitated to call out evil. By the power of
the Spirit may we do the same.
Reflection for the Twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time, September 6, 2020
Ezekiel 33: 7-9; Psalm 95; Romans 13: 8-10; Matthew 18: 15-20
The passage in today’s Gospel reading belongs to a specific literary
genre or category known as a “household order.” There are several
examples to be found in later first-century Christian writings,
including a few from texts outside the canonical Scriptures, such as
the Didache (a text dating from the second half of the first century,
probably from Syria, in chapters 7-15) and in Qumran (1QS 6.1)
Matthew constructs a whole step-by-step process for governance in the
early Church that goes well beyond his source material. There’s
only a quick jot of a reference in Luke 17:3. This probably came
from the now-lost early source known as Q, the “Sayings Source.”
The shorthand term Q comes from German Scripture scholars who simply
called it die Quelle, “the Source,” Q for short. Scholars have
managed to reconstruct its probable content.
Clearly the early church was rife with disagreements, disputes and
potentially community-splitting arguments. After all, they were
constructing an entirely new type of mission-driven community based on
an unheard-of theological base: the death and resurrection of the
purported Messiah of Israel, the Saviour of the world. The extant
literature of the second- and third-generation Christians reflects
this, as they developed models of governance and interpersonal
intervention, and try to root them in their understanding of the will
Matthew’s process actually makes a good deal of sense: first try
one-on-one dispute resolution, then call in another one or two
community members to establish the facts more firmly, and if that
doesn’t work, call in the larger community. (There’s some
parallel here with the intervention process advised for families and
associates of alcoholics today.) Exclusion of the recalcitrant
member would be a last resort. It’s a bit ironic that Matthew
here has Jesus making a comparison with the exclusion of Gentiles and
tax collectors, since during his own public ministry Jesus freely
entered into dialogue with and even healed Gentiles. As for tax
collectors, Jesus not only acknowledged them and called them to
repentance, he famously invited himself over for dinner, as with
Zacchaeus (see the accusation in Mt 11:19.) Matthew the disciple
is identified as a tax collector in Mt 10:3.
Interestingly, what Matthew the evangelist gives us is not a top-down
model of judicial rulers imposing an arbitrary sentence, but an early
version of what we might call today a consensus-based process.
Whether used in small groups to reconcile individuals or factions, or
by way of analogy in the restorative justice healing circles advocated
and practiced by certain Indigenous communities, consensus tends toward
restoring balance, healing and wholeness, the repair of breaches and
the mending of a community. And also, dare we say, tikkun olam in
Hebrew, the repair and restoration of the earth?
Reflection for the Twenty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time A, August 30, 2020
Jeremiah 20: 7-9; Psalm 63; Romans 12: 1-2; Matthew 16: 21-27
Some weeks ago the Second Reading came from 1 Peter and spoke of the
community of believers as “living stones… a spiritual house, a holy
This week in the Second Reading, Paul encourages the Roman Christians
to “offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God,
your spiritual worship.”*
Why is the second metaphor so much more, um, off-putting, than the first?
What does it mean for a person to “offer” their own body as a “living sacrifice?”
Womanist theologian Delores S. Williams, in her book Sisters in the
Wilderness, unwraps the concept of “surrogacy” as a crime (my word)
against the bodies of Black women in history. Her Biblical
reference point is Hagar: Hagar, the slave of African origin,
whose mistress Sarah offers Hagar’s body to her husband Abraham to be
used to bear him a son and heir. Hagar not only suffered the rape
and exploitation of her body, but she and her son Ishmael were
eventually expelled from the household into the wilderness to die –
yet, by the grace of God, both survived. The parallel with the
exploitation of the bodies of enslaved African-American women is
obvious. These women have no agency over their own bodies – they
do not willingly sacrifice, they are sacrificed. There is no
virtue here, none whatsoever. This cannot be the intended meaning.
Early Christians, both of Jewish and Gentile origin, would have
perceived at Chapter 12:1 a sudden cultic shift in Paul’s
writing. He speaks not of dead animals in a ritual sacrifice, but
of living humans, a “living sacrifice” in the sense that Christians
must sacrifice their old selves, and reform their lives toward morally
right and just conduct, always a sticking point with Paul.
Paul makes his point more explicitly in verse 2, and gives us more
helpful material to work with: ”Do not conform yourselves to this
age, but be transformed by the renewal of your minds, that you may
discern the will of God, what is good, and pleasing, and
perfect.” Ethical conduct flows from a transformed mind and
heart. The “will of God,” in this sense, is not to be confused
with the forcibly imposed will of a slave master or a patriarchal
dominator. This is the will of wisdom, of clarity, a drive rooted
in the depths of divine love, not compelling, but inviting.
Mary MacKillop (St. Mary of the Cross), Australia’s heroine-saint,
wrote about the will of God with what seems at first glance to be oddly
puzzling joy: “To me the Will of God is a dear book which I am
never tired of reading. I cannot tell you what a beautiful thing
the Will of God seems for me.” Perhaps it makes more sense then
to speak of doing the “will” of Wisdom -- to do the “will” of Love.
*If you use the Revised Common Lectionary your second reading for today is Jeremiah 15:15-21
Reflection for the Twenty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time A, August 23, 2020
Isaiah 22: 19-23; Psalm 138; Romans 11: 33-36; Matthew 16: 13-20
The professor of Ancient
Church History stood before his class, stroking his beard, with a hint
of a twinkle in his eye, and announced the title of today’s
lecture: “Was Saint Peter Ever In Rome?” He then
methodically presented data considered by scholars to be reliable
concerning Peter and first-century Rome, where Paul did indeed travel,
but Peter evidently did not. Gradually over the two hours the
seminarians’ faces began to show puzzlement, then a bit of alarm, as
they began to realize where the professor was taking them. By the
time class was over some were genuinely upset: “So if Peter never
went to Rome, then Peter was never Bishop of Rome, then Peter was not
really the first Pope, then Petrine primacy … O.M.G.!!”
Down through the years
Roman Catholics were taught that Jesus, in Matthew 16:18-19, solemnly
appointed Peter as the first Pope, granting him supreme juridical and
spiritual power – “to bind and to loose”—over the entire Church.
This warrant of universal power and control was then tied into the
putative position of Peter as the first Bishop of Rome, and interpreted
as a right that could be passed down via patrilineal inheritance to all
succeeding Bishops of Rome, rather like apostolic succession.
It should surprise no one
to discover that this interpretation of the passage in Matthew was
influenced by later historical developments – quite a bit later.
Skip ahead to the fifth
century. Already in 410 Alaric had led an invasion and sack of
the mighty imperial city of Rome by tribes from the north, proving that
the Empire was not impenetrable and that the Emperor could no longer
prevent defeat and destruction. Leo I, Pope St. Leo the Great,
served as Bishop of Rome in the mid-fifth century and died in
461. The year 476 marks the definitive Fall of Rome.
In the power vacuum left
by an ineffectual Emperor and Senate, Leo was able to step in using his
position as head of the Church, now the official religion of the
Empire. One story claims that Leo stood courageously at the gates
of Rome and negotiated with the marauding forces to turn them away,
thus heroically saving Rome (later wags would say, Leo only told them
that Rome had no food either, so don’t bother.) The Empire
collapsed a short 15 years after the death of Leo. Now, Leo had
preached this interpretation of Matt 16:18 to support his claim to
civil authority as well as ecclesial power. One can imagine that
this claim to divinely instituted saving power reassured a fearful
populace conscious of their vulnerability.
But there’s something
more in these two verses that lies under the surface of the Greek,
something that makes sense for us today. In Aramaic the same word
is used for “Peter” and “rock,” kêpā’, and the pun is obvious.
But New Testament scholar Mitzi J. Smith points out the difference in
the grammatical gender in Greek: “I say to you Peter (Petros)
that on this rock (petra) I will build my church (ekklesia.)”
Petra, rock, is grammatically feminine and agrees with ekklesia,
church. So petra does not refer to Peter, but rather to the
church, the assembly of baptized Christians. The church, the
people of God called and gathered from all sides (ekklesia, from
ek-kaleo, “those who have been called out”) is the rock. And the
gates of hell shall not prevail against it.
The Gospels give us a
number of stories implying that rocky old Peter was a highly unlikely
candidate to serve as the human foundation of a worldwide faith
community. But in this story he got something right: he
managed to affirm that this Jesus of Nazareth was the Messiah, the
Anointed One, the Promised One, not a military conqueror but as, to use
the formulation in the Nicene Creed, One in Being with God. And
that affirmation, and the life commitment it demands, does lay a solid
foundation, a stable stone upon which faith communities and
faith-filled individuals can build.
Reflection for the Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time A, August 16, 2020
Isaiah 56: 1, 6-7; Psalm 67; Romans 11: 13-15, 29-32; Matthew 15: 21-28
It’s happened to me, more than once. It’s a familiar tale told
when women who work in all-male or male-dominant professions share our
stories. At a meeting a female colleague is recognized, and then
presents a proposal, a suggestion, or an overlooked insight. A
brief uncomfortable silence follows, then someone changes the
subject. A few minutes later a male colleague repeats the same
proposal or idea, and suddenly the guys start exclaiming excitedly,
“Hey what a great suggestion he made! Let’s do it!” (I was
rather proud of the time I spoke up loudly, addressing the
minute-taker, “Let the record show that I made the initial proposal and
G. seconded it.”
There was a stunned silence. For a nanosecond. Then the guys changed the subject.)
Our Gospel story today is a delight on several levels, especially
considering its original background. In the version of this story
in Mark, the woman is a Syro-Phoenician. Here she is identified
as a Canaanite. Remember that in last week’s
walking-on-the-stormy-water story, Jesus had sent his disciples over
into Canaanite territory. The Canaanites were the original
inhabitants living on the land that the Hebrews invaded and settled,
claiming that control of this land had been promised to them by
God. So the person addressing Jesus to ask for healing for her
daughter is not only stigmatized by being a woman – she is an
Indigenous woman. Indigenous Christians in Canada will say,
“We are not the Hebrews. We’re the Canaanites.”
This story also illustrates that Jesus’ own concept of who he was and
what his mission entailed only developed with time, prayer and
experience. Initially the early Church was caught between
evangelizing only “the lost sheep of the house of Israel,” or going out
to all peoples regardless. This text reflects a similar process
of gradual coming-to-awareness on the part of Jesus himself.
And Jesus was called to this monumental, life-shifting realization
because he listened to an Indigenous woman when she presented a clever
counter-argument. He conceded her logic. He did indeed
grant her request and freed her daughter from a terrible malady.
What would happen if all the voices at the table were not only “heard
into speech,” but actually listened to? What if their testimony
were granted a claim on truth? What if their reasoning and
insight, their joys and pain, arising from an unimaginably rich variety
of experiences, were followed to its logical conclusions? We
might see a tectonic shift in our entire worldview, never mind our
ecclesiology. As well we should.
To paraphrase Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., “the arc of salvation history
is long, but it bends toward inclusion.” (credit to commentator
Michael L. Ruffin.)
Reflection for the Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time A, August 9, 2020
I Kings 19: 9a, 11-13a; Psalm 85; Romans 9: 1-5; Matthew 14: 22-33
Suddenly becoming aware of your vulnerability is scary … no, terrifying.
story elements in today’s Gospel work together to build up a realistic
drama of daredevil behavior followed almost immediately by a paralyzing
scream for help. Yes, to this day severe storms can come up
quickly on the Sea of Galilee. Yes the friends of Jesus were
probably exhausted by three in the morning, likely to hallucinate
ghosts … and to exercise really, really bad judgement.
friend of mine who owns a pleasure boat put it this way: When
you’re still at port and contemplating the choppy waters, you think,
“Is my boat strong enough?” When you’re actually out in the storm
your thought is, “Oh Jesus save me!”
the drama of this story is wrapped around a parable of epiphany, a
divine appearance, an unexpected hero turning up against all reason to
stretch out a saving hand. Jesus speaks up to reassure his
friends with ancient familiar words, “It is I,” ego eimi
in Greek, which would resonate immediately as the name revealed by God
to Moses in the burning bush: “I am who am.” The closing
line, “Truly you are the Son of God” puts emphasis on the point of this
story as a revelation of the true identity of Jesus.
is often the case, to make a seemingly fantastical Bible story make
sense, we need to re-cast its shape by studying the story through the
lens of the period in which it was written down, and the early
Christians for whom it was written. When we do that, the
narrative takes second place to the structure of the story as a parable
about the conditions faced by Matthew’s second- and third-generation
Christians who were regularly forced to pay a high price for their new
faith. When Jesus required the disciples to get in the boat and
go ahead to the opposite side, he was sending them into Gentile
territory. When their boat was “tossed about by the waves, for
the wind was against it” this represents the opposition and even
persecution that many early Christians were forced to undergo.
When Jesus walks toward them on the sea, the story element here runs
parallel with Canaanite myths and Hebrew Bible stories that show God as
the master of the storm, coming with power on rainclouds and
tempests. When Peter begins to sink he calls instinctively for
help to the figure of Jesus, who does indeed save him, as did the God
of the Psalms. The message for frightened Christians would have
been on the necessity of faith, and reliance on the saving power of the
our own time, vulnerability has become almost a way of life.
Whether it comes from the daily reminder that certain symptoms might
indicate a potentially fatal disease, when we try to protect even more
vulnerable family members, or even when we look at the larger horizon
and see dangerously authoritarian rulers whom no one seems able to
stop, we do not need to be reminded how fragile are the conditions of
our lives, and the susceptibility of our bodies to disease.
say this is a challenge to our faith may be an understatement.
And yet with the limited tools available to us (Zoom.
Facetime. Old-fashioned phone calls. Food donations.)
we can support each other in faith and speak a reassuring friendly word
or a message of hope. While acknowledging that race, economic
means and overall health play a role in the relative vulnerability of
different persons, we can nonetheless work toward compassion and
solidarity by reminding ourselves that we are, inevitably, all in this
Reflection for the
Eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time A, August 2, 2020
Isaiah 55: 1-3; Psalm
145; Romans 8: 35, 37-39; Matthew 14: 13-21
Okay. It’s sitting right there,
glaring at us. We have to deal with it.
At the end of a classic feel-good story
with a whiz-bang miracle of a resolution, we find this line: “Those
who ate were about five thousand men, not counting women and
This line is often ignored or dismissed
lightly by Scripture scholars and teachers, as if –as if what? –
women and children don’t eat much? As if they were not supposed to
be there anyway? As if they, well, didn’t count ?
And it’s not as if the author of
Matthew just made a slip of the quill, because the same idea turns up
again in an almost identical feeding-in-the-desert story in Matthew
15:38: “Those who had eaten were four thousand men, besides women
Even today the custom persists in a
number of world cultures that the men in the family are fed first,
and can eat as much as they wish. Women and children only eat the
leftovers afterward. If this were the underlying assumption it could
explain the author’s emphasis on the huge quantity of leftovers in
both stories, even after the women and children had eaten: twelve
baskets full, in today’s Gospel account. The quantity of leftovers
emphasizes the scope of the miracle.
If we, however grudgingly, grant this
assumption, the interpretation by Benedict T. Viviano O.P. in The
New Jerome Biblical Commentary gives us a perspective that moves
addition is very important, because the total figure could well come
to 20 or 30 thousand; and it happens again (15:38). Since the total
Jewish population of Palestine at the time is estimated at half a
million, Jesus is presented as feeding a tenth of the population.
This gives to the two feeding stories a social character, which makes
them different from healing stories. Besides nature miracles or
moral miracles … we must see the social miracle.”
So the story represents a radical
leveling-out of society, in which rich and poor alike can share in
the feast. A positive and inspiring point, but it doesn’t address
the gender oppression.
Many years ago Rosemary Radford Ruether
proposed that what really happened was that, after one participant
brought out and offered their packed lunch to share, so did another,
and another, until finally everyone shared what they had brought, and
all together there was far more food than needed to feed everyone.
At the time this radical take on the story flew in the face of the
conventional image of Jesus the divine wonder-worker magically
multiplying the one little lunch into huge quantities of food and
symbolically anticipating the Eucharist presided by a male priest
acting in persona Christi.
More recently, Megan McKenna in her
book Not Counting Women and Children: Neglected Stories in the
Bible took Ruether’s commonsense interpretation a step farther:
she argues that no woman, certainly no woman caring for a child,
would go out into the wilderness without carrying a sufficient supply
of food. But men might, as Jesus did in the temptation story when he
went for forty days without food. Women and children would probably
So with Jesus’ act of taking and
blessing one person’s offering of food, this act of courageous
sharing set off a chain reaction of bringing out bags and bundles of
food and drink to pass around. If so, the point of the story is that
it was precisely the ones who “didn’t count” – women and
children—who made the miracle happen.
What happens to our concept of
Eucharist when we locate the initiative in the hands of the poor and
And anyway, where did those
twelve empty baskets come from?
Reflection for the Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time A, July 26, 2020
I Kings 3: 5, 7-12; Psalm 119; Romans 8: 28-30; Matthew 13: 44-52
a good story, or a telling comparison, can work to convey an insight
more vividly and colourfully than an explanation. …and then,
sometimes it doesn’t. The Gospel writers didn’t cover up the fact
that Jesus’ friends and supporters were sometimes slow to get a
clue. In whatever order, or on whatever occasion, Jesus may have
told stories to make a point about God’s presence in the world and in
human lives, the Gospel writers sometimes just piled the stories up,
one after another. When we read them in sequence it’s a bit like
turning a gem or a crystal so that the light hits its facets from
different angles, and a concept emerges that’s much richer than any one
or two standalone stories.
Gospel reading for today in the RC Lectionary presents three comparison
stories, which in Matthew’s text follow the story of the weeds and the
wheat used for last week’s Gospel . But this week’s Gospel
reading is more fully developed in the form used in the Revised Common
Lectionary used by most mainstream Protestant denominations, in which
two short little throwaways precede them: the mustard seed and the
yeast. Both of these quickie stories show how the living presence
of God -- the reign or kingdom of heaven, in Matthew -- emerges and
swells to massive size from tiny, unpromising beginnings. A
mustard seed (at least in the little vials of mustard seeds you can buy
from souvenir shops in Israel) is a tiny grain. And then there’s
the yeast mixed into the flour to raise the bread. Did you know
that “three measures” of flour equals roughly 23 kilos or 50 lb?
This is not a job for your simple sourdough starter. This yeast
has to leaven a serious quantity of bread to feed a large household
follows these stories with the parable of the weeds and wheat, and then
three more stories. The point of these later stories is not
quantity, but quality. One can imagine the disciples scratching
their heads over the idea of getting so excited about finding a
particular treasure, or a pearl, that the finder sacrifices every other
possession for its sake. Finding the treasure is one thing,
letting it transform your life is another. One commentator,
Frederick Dale Bruner, writes, “The joy of the discovery of Jesus
Christ ‘in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge’
(Colossians 2:3), has always moved men and women into large and
life-changing decisions and acts of what may seem to others like
what about the fish? Think of this: the rejected portion of the
catch undoubtedly consisted of fish without fins or scales, and
shellfish, precisely the seafood that was prohibited under the law of
kosher. Jews couldn’t eat it anyway. This story echoes the
weeds and the wheat, not only in the element of selection but in the
point of comparison about waiting for the time to be ripe: “Thus it
will be at the end of the age.” In this story only the angels are
able to discern what to keep and what to let go, not humans, and only
in the fullness of time.
you understand all these things?” “Yes,” they said. Well,
maybe. Matthew’s community would be sorting out what these story
texts (and several of them are unique to Matthew and have no precedents
in other early Christian writings) meant for them in the lived reality
of their late-first-century community. Rereading these teachings
through the lens of the resurrection of Christ would give them a level
of depth inaccessible to the original disciples and followers of Jesus
of Nazareth. His death and resurrection took place at a certain
historical point in time. Sometimes, for us as for them,
hindsight can be 20/20.
Reflection for the
Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time A, July 19, 2020
Wisdom 12: 13, 16-19; Psalm 86; Romans
8: 26-27; Matthew 13: 24-43
when life seems to swirl
around us in a confusing mess of options, possibilities and potential
dangers, we want it simple. Either/or. A or not A. “Chocolate or
sometimes life seems more
manageable if we discover, or can create, an enemy. At least we’ve
screened out all the distracting and disorienting shades of gray.
first glance dualistic distinctions
can look like handy tools for organizing, categorizing and making
sense of confusion, and in scientific and mathematical fields they
may work very well. But in the humanities dualisms can conceal
hidden assumptions about value. A dualism presents itself as a
clean, even split – black/white, left/right, male/female, the list
goes on endlessly, and then ventures into more obviously value-laden
terms: good/evil, nature/nurture, body/soul, us/them. In each case,
if you probe a little, one of the two elements emerges as the more
highly valued, better, more important or more desirable of the two. In
other words, a dualistic split misrepresents itself – it’s
never truly value-free.
superficial reading of our Gospel for
today can lead us tumbling down the path of rigid dichotomies, of
identifying ourselves with the Good, and our purported enemies with
the Bad. If this happens, we lose both the depth and the wisdom of
the story that Jesus tells, as well as its energizing messages.
parable of the weeds among the
wheat is found only in Matthew, although it may be a reworking of the
parable of the growing seed in Mark 4: 24-29. The way this story has
been first expanded and then explained
tells us a lot about the conditions within Matthew’s community of
early Christians, and how they saw themselves in their own culture
and society. “Harvesting” or “gathering” point to an
allegorical interpretation of the story as the gathered community of
believers, much as the list of interpretations in verses 36-43
present an application to different groups of those who hear the
Word. Clearly this was the experience of the earliest Christian
missionaries, “apostles” in the broadest sense, at the time this
Gospel was written.
an agrarian metaphor this story
makes sense when you realize that the “weeds” that were sown
among the wheat were probably darnel, which looks very much like
young wheat when both are in the initial sprouting stage. Workers
could easily root up good wheat, or for that matter leave the darnel
in the ground, where it would eventually choke off the wheat and
sicken any cattle, sheep or goats that might munch on it. This
analogy would be very clear to Jesus’ hearers: leave both to grow
until they can be recognized, or more specifically, be patient and
allow enough time to distinguish among the various currents in the
Christian community, and to discern what would serve and what could
damage the community.
pitfall here would be to say, we
Christians will simply reject what is “worldly” and claim to be
chosen of God – we’re the wheat, everyone and everything else is
the darnel. That would result in a paralysis that stops us from
living and doing the Word of God here and now. That’s not who we
are. That’s not our call.
for our ancestors the real
polarity was about the radical demands of their new Christian faith
and the fact that it set them in direct opposition to the
all-powerful Roman Empire. In this sense Christ vs. Caesar, or
Christ vs. Emperor, is another dualism, though in fact it’s not far
from the mark. Early Christians had to be absolutely sure of their
commitment to the faith because it could cost them their lives. This
is partly why the catechumenate in Rome lasted several years. The
imperial persecution of Christians persisted well into the fourth
another message here that
rings true today: the Christian community is never without a need
for self-examination and housecleaning. The saying that the Church
is semper reformanda, always in need of reform, is
as true now
as it was in the 16th century, or for that
Vatican-II era. Yes we need to discern carefully, listen until the
time is ripe, but then to decide and do the work of cleaning and
reforming: “see, judge, act.” What needs to be done today so
that the Church can speak with credibility and authenticity? What
needs to change so that all the voices can be heard, all persons be
fully respected as children of God, and a much-needed message of
healing and hope be proclaimed?
A reflection for the
Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time A, July 12, 2020
Isaiah 55: 10-11; Psalm
65; Romans 8: 18-23; Matthew 13: 1-23.
as from the heavens the rain
and snow come down, and do not return there till they have watered
the earth, making it fertile and fruitful … so shall my word be
that goes forth from my mouth.” (Is 55:10) I am writing this
during an intense heat wave that has already broken daily records.
Every evening I go outdoors carting jugs filled with water to try to
keep the tomatoes in the garden, the potted flowers, the berry bushes
and young shrubs alive, knowing that missing just one day of watering
in 34-degree Celsius weather could doom a vulnerable plant.
Scripture scholars who assembled
the three-year Lectionary in the years following Vatican II plotted
out each Sunday’s selections by following a semi-continuous reading
of the Gospel (Matthew in Year A where we are now, Mark and some John
in Year B and Luke in Year C) for the Sundays of Ordinary Time. Then
they selected a passage from the Hebrew Bible as the First Reading
that anticipates the central theme or idea of the Gospel Reading. In
today’s Gospel Jesus constructs a fairly elaborate story about the
fates of different seeds based on the soil on which they fell, then
goes on to explain each aspect in symbolic terms representing those
who hear the word of God. Clearly the early Church that preached
Christ crucified and risen was finding a wide variation in how this
radical message was received – some don’t fully understand and
fall away, some welcome the message but only for a short time, and
some hear the word but let other concerns take priority in their
lives. Still others hear the word with openness, let it take root
and grow, and bear fruit in carrying the message forth and living it
to the full. In every case the Word can only thrive in a hospitable
climate, with attention and nurture. At first reading it looks as if
the emphasis is on the individual hearer and how well she or he
carries out the responsibility of nurturing the word. In fact, we’re
not the starting point. The Word represents God’s invitation to
us. God takes the initiative. Ultimately the point is not first
about what we do with the Word, rather what the Word does with us,
and in us.
Gospel parable of the sower is the
main course, so to speak. The hors d’oeuvre was the
from Isaiah 55, a snippet out of a breathtakingly powerful and
elegant passage on the infinite transcendence of God, and how this
God gives life and nourishment to the earth, and to us, as simply as
the falling rain. The New Jerome Biblical Commentary,
research reference for scholars and preachers, puts it in strikingly
expressive terms: “The word comes gently from God, never intended
to remain suspended like clouds in midair, but to soak the earth and
to be drawn back toward God like plants and trees. God’s spirit is
infused within human beings where it brings forth divine fruits.”
the creation motif serves as a
starting point, this could be a good Sunday to meditate on the
unrelenting process of climate change and the potential devastation
it poses to the earth and its fertility. Widespread drought over
many regions of the earth. Wildfires in Australia, California and
elsewhere. Melting glaciers and ice cap, rising water levels. All
around us. How are we called to bring healing to the earth now, in
the hope that some progress can be made to reverse the massive
damage? How can we participate in “renewing the face of the
A reflection for the
Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time, July 5, 2020
Zechariah 9: 9-10; Psalm
145; Romans 8: 9, 11-13; Matthew 11: 25-30.
metaphors played well to
the people to whom Jesus was speaking, and to some extent they do for
us today, even if our experience with farm animals is limited to
visiting a horse farm or a petting zoo. When two working animals are
yoked side by side they need to be able to work together in good
balance. That means that they need to be fairly evenly matched both
for strength and for temperament, otherwise the stronger, or more
headstrong, animal would pull the plough crooked. This may have been
the reason for the micro-commandment that appears as part of a list
in Deuteronomy 22:10, “You shall not plough with an ox and a donkey
yoked together.” Ploughing is teamwork.
to a “yoke” elsewhere in
the Scriptures presume a heavy iron farm implement, as in Deuteronomy
28:48, “He will put an iron yoke on your back until he has
destroyed you.” or Sirach 28:20, “For its yoke is a yoke of
iron…” I can’t even imagine holding up under that kind of
weight. Not a yoke of wood, which is heavy enough, but iron, across
the back and neck of a living being. If these passages and the
realities they reflect were in the back of their minds, how much more
would those who heard Jesus’ message be struck by this powerful
contrast: “for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Jesus
promises relief and refreshment. This text has come down through the
centuries as a soft fragrant breeze in the heat, so to speak, of life
losses, tragedies, pain, terror, simple discouragement, or a lack of
hope. To this day we try to comfort mourners and sick persons with
these words of Jesus.
yoke used here as a metaphor does
not, repeat not, refer to the Cross.
illustrates why we need to be careful about picking up a Bible,
reading it, and just assuming that the primary or only interpretation
of a particular passage is what may come to mind for us today.)
First-century rabbis are on record as describing accepting the yoke
of the Torah, which brings comfort and rest, “…removing the yoke
of worldly occupation.” Jesus here reassures his listeners that he
is gentle and humble, not like teachers who may come across as
demanding or harsh. He is speaking in line with the teaching of some
rabbis of his time.
there’s an even more remarkable
contrast built into this passage. The writer or writers of the
Gospel of Matthew are consciously depicting Jesus in the character of
Wisdom personified, traditionally a female figure. In the Hebrew
Scriptures Wisdom invites all who hear the call to share in her
instruction as they would share in nourishing food and drink, even
“to put your neck under her yoke” (Sirach 24: 26) Wisdom spreads
a table and invites all to partake. Jesus invites, “Come to me all
you who labour and are heavy burdened, and I will give you rest.”
we don’t carry this yoke
on our own. A yoke is built for teamwork. That’s what Christian
community is for.
reflection for the Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time -- June 28, 2020
8-11, 14-16a; Psalm 89; Romans 6: 3-4, 8-11;
Matthew 10: 37-42.
Wednesday, June 24, marked the birth of John the Baptist, a major
ecclesial feast celebrated beginning in the late fourth or early fifth
century, and an even more major feast, if that is possible, in the
province of Québec today. When making travel plans you would
be well advised to avoid Québec City centre-ville on the evening of
June 23rd, unless by chance you were looking for a rompin’, stompin’,
screaming, beer-bottle-breaking street festival with hordes of euphoric
people swarming the streets until dawn. I speak from
certainly noticed that the summer solstice on June 20th has passed, the
longest day of the year (in the northern hemisphere of course) and from
now on the hours of daylight will begin to diminish, just a few minutes
per day. The dating is no coincidence. For our
early ancestors in the Christian faith the birth of John the Baptist
was celebrated precisely on the summer solstice, and the birth of
Christ on the winter solstice. Why the few days’ difference
in calendar dates between then and now? Because the ancient
and medieval church was using the Julian calendar devised by Sosigenes
for Julius Caesar in the first century before the common era.
Dates were reckoned by counting backwards within a month, so for
example, the date of the birth of Christ on December 25th was called
“the eighth of the Kalends of January,” that is, the eighth day before
the first of January. So how did John the Baptist land on the 24th of
June and not the 25th? Because June, then as now, had only
thirty days. The eighth of the Kalends of July would have
been the 24th of June.
years the slight inaccuracies built into in the Julian calendar added
up until the calendar no longer coincided with the cycles of the sun
and stars. The Gregorian calendar reform of 1582 re-booted
the solar calendar and placed the solstices and equinoxes on the dates
where they fall today.
But in the
early church St. Augustine, for one, thought that he had God’s ultimate
plan all figured out. He preached, probably exuberantly, “See
how perfectly God designed the universe so that our Lord Jesus Christ
was born precisely as the hours of sunlight increase, and his precursor
John just as the hours of daylight wane. And we know God did
this because of the passage in John 3:30, the words of John saying, ‘He
must increase and I must decrease.’” (Historical
note: we have no proof of a yearly feast of the Nativity of
Christ on December 25th before the mid-fourth century, and even that
early evidence is dicey.)
I find something intriguingly cosmic, almost mystical and perhaps
prophetic, about linking these key Christian feasts to the phenomena of
climate and sky on this one small planet. The insights and
courage of the prophets both ancient and modern comes to the fore in
our readings, Jeremiah last week and Elishah this week. For
Christians John the Baptist is the prophet par excellence not only
because he points directly to Jesus, but because of the core
significance of Baptism. In today’s Gospel Jesus is quoted as
saying, “Whoever receives a prophet because [s]he is a prophet will
receive a prophet’s reward.”
possess a wealth of scientific data on the genesis of the universe:
just imagine trying to explain to our ancient ancestors that God
created at least two trillion galaxies – not stars, galaxies—and that’s
only the product of our limited knowledge now. But sometimes
we need the prophets among us to unfold the deeper connections, to
trace the living presence of God among us, and to teach us to trust in
the wisdom of God incarnate in space and time, yet infinitely beyond
space and time.
A reflection for the
Twelfth Sunday of the Year -- June 21, 2020
Jeremiah 20: 10-13; Psalm
69; Romans 5: 12-15; Matthew 10: 26-33
can’t have been easy for Jeremiah,
the boy-wonder among the Hebrew prophets. We first meet him in
Chapter One arguing with God, with characteristic adolescent
oppositional behaviour. He answers the beautiful passage “Before I
formed you in the womb I knew you,” with “Oh, but I do not know
how to speak, since I am only a child.” Meaning, “No.” God
doesn’t take it: “Do not say, ‘I am only a boy,’ for you
shall go to all to whom I send you, and you shall speak whatever I
the second half of Chapter One
through Chapter 19 Jeremiah indeed goes out on the mission to speak
the word of God, forcibly proclaiming his, well, jeremiads. His
violent polemics accusing the people of Israel of idolatry and
betrayal of God use striking, often shocking imagery. He compares
his listeners to animals in heat, thieves, adulterers and exploiters
of the poor, just for starters. He pauses to dangle promises of
peace and prosperity if Israel will only repent, then turns around
and paints hideous pictures of the gruesome fate that awaits them if
they do not..
the time we reach Chapter 20, which
includes our first reading for this weekend’s liturgies, Jeremiah
is arguing with God again. He had just offended the chief officer
and priest Pashhur, whom he names “Terror all around,” and ended
up in stocks overnight. In a passage that departs from the usual
dramatic unfolding of one threat after another, Jeremiah turns around
and blames it all on God.
“O God, you have seduced me, and I
let myself be seduced.
You have overpowered me and you have
I have become a laughing stock all day
long. Everyone mocks me….
friends are watching for me to stumble.
be trapped and we can prevail against him,
revenge on him.’ …
Lord of hosts,
you test the righteous, you see the heart and the mind;
me witness your
vengeance upon them,
to you I have
committed my cause.”
Jeremiah implores God to destroy his
enemies. Not the first time in history this prayer will be recorded,
nor the last.
embedded in this passage is
Jeremiah’s awareness that he has been sent. It wasn’t his own
idea, it never was. He is the instrument, the channel, of a powerful
message not his own. “If I say that I will not mention [God,] or
speak any more in his name, then within me there is something like a
burning fire shut up in my bones; I am weary with holding it in, and
find an echo of this sense that a
message, a mission, is burning inside and must be pursued no matter
what, in the Gospel reading for this weekend. “What I say to you
in the darkness, speak in the light. What you hear whispered,
proclaim on the housetops.” Yet even so, it takes courage and
willingness to risk, potentially, everything.
message might be something a member
of one’s family, or a friend, does not want to hear. It might be a
long-held secret that slowly poisons the thinking and feeling of an
individual, a family, or a social group. That’s on the micro
level. On a macro level, in these days throngs of ordinary people,
in cities all over the world, are “proclaiming from the housetops,”
or more specifically on the street, a call to justice and an end to
institutionalized racism. Now, as then, the message burns and the
messengers will not rest, cannot rest, until governments hear, laws
are enacted, and an entire society repents from hundreds of years of
entrenched injustice. Our ancestors were called by their own
prophets to do no less.
A reflection for
Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ,” June 14, 2020
Deuteronomy 8: 2-3,
14b-16a; Psalm 147; I Corinthians 10: 16-17; John 6: 51-58
Canada and many regions in the
U.S. have rotated the feast of Corpus Christi to a Sunday, other
parts of the Catholic world have kept it on its original Thursday
date. This is the case in traditionally Catholic areas of Germany
such as the ancient Celtic/Roman city of Trier, located near the
Luxembourg border. Trier is the site of the German Liturgy Institute
and its extensive library, and I have visited regularly beginning
with my earliest doctoral research in 1990.
year I happened to be in Trier on
Corpus Christi Thursday. I didn’t know it was a civic holiday and
that the entire city closed down until the afternoon. The purpose of
closure was to clear the downtown streets and pedestrian shopping
area for the populous Corpus Christi procession. It began with a
festive Mass in the Cathedral, then the Eucharistic procession wended
its way along city squares and colourful flowerbeds, from station to
station, sometimes to hear a choir anthem, or a brass band, or a
brief homily, followed by silence and a prayer. Then the procession
went farther, stopping at the next station and the next, ending two
aspect that stayed with me was the
experience of slow, deliberate walking, moving in concert with a
devout crowd, as prayer. This was not a trod-till-you-drop
pilgrimage, but a measured, deliberate pace that created a sort of
ground tone of communal internal peace, with interludes of music and
visual ceremonial, dancing so to speak over the top.
May 2016 I organized and directed a
Study Tour on “The Spirituality of Medieval Women Mystics” in
Belgium and Germany, focused on the Beguines and Hildegard of Bingen.
And I jigged the schedule to be sure we would be staying in Trier on
Corpus Christi Thursday that year so that the students and fellow
voyagers on that tour could absorb something of the rich
prayerfulness and sense of spiritual depth that comes from walking
that Eucharistic pilgrimage today, as their spiritual ancestors had
done for eight centuries.
a saying, God has a wicked
sense of humour. By the time the Study Tour reached Trier, I could
not walk. Literally. Could. Not. Walk. I was having a painful
flare-up of arthritis in the knees and had just limped my way through
the first two weeks of the tour. In Trier my students were literally
pushing me around, rattling precariously over the cobblestones in a
rickety wheelchair we’d rented from a local hospital.
Christi was made a feast of the
universal church in 1264, ostensibly on the basis of a 1246 vision
attested by a woman mystic, Juliana of Liége. At the same time the
question of how to imagine that bread and wine becomes the Body and
Blood of Christ was being hotly debated in the new universities, and
paved the way to speak of transubstantiation.* This was oddly
similar to the coincidence of the 1854 proclamation of the Immaculate
Conception as a doctrine of the Catholic faith, and the appearance of
Mary to Bernadette Soubirous at Lourdes, who introduced herself with
“I am the Immaculate Conception. Hmmmm.
the Eucharist is not
static, but dynamic. Eucharist is a verb. Even the first-century
Didache uses the word as a verb:
“When you eucharistize,
eucharistize thus:…” The new-old custom of a solemn Eucharistic
procession through the city, past the McDonald’s and through the
tenth-century market square, is Eucharist in motion, physically,
spatially. After all, the purpose of food is to nourish a living
being, so that organic processes continue and flourish. Sharing the
Eucharist, in communities large or small, undergirds and gives
impetus to the mission to live one’s Christian commitment actively,
as an invitation to all. Even quiet contemplative prayer before the
exposed Blessed Sacrament shores up one’s reserves of strength. And
thus nourished, we go forth.
only became a point of required doctrine in the Catholic Church in
1994 with the publication of the Catechism of the Catholic
Church. Throughout the centuries since the high Middle Ages,
no one dared
presume to say that we know exactly how God does it. Even the
Council of Trent merely stated that transubstantiation was the “most
apt” way to describe how bread and wine could become the Body and
Blood of Christ.
A reflection for the
Most Holy Trinity, June 7, 2020
Exodus 34: 4b-6, 8-9; II Corinthians
13: 11-13; John 3: 16-18
Floyd, + 2020. Eric Garner, +
is terrifying. Utterly
terrifying. The body screams out for air, and none comes. If not
only the neck is compressed, but the back and lungs as well, no
breath of life can enter. Life departs the body, squeezed out
violently. No one should die like that.
good friend of mine, a Church of
England priest, told me of her experience keeping vigil with the
family of one of her parishioners who was dying of Covid-19. She
wrote, it’s a horrible death, a death by asphyxiation. The gasping
goes on for hours, for days. No one should die like that.
week the church celebrated one of
the great feasts of the liturgical year, the feast of Pentecost. In
the Catholic tradition Pentecost is preceded by a Vigil and followed
by an eight-day octave. The Gospel is introduced by a poetic sung
Sequence, giving this feast a high dignity that Pentecost shares only
with Easter. Pentecost celebrates the coming of the Holy Spirit, and
indeed, “re-spirare” in Latin refers to breath. In church
circles we speak easily, rapturously, of the breath of the Spirit,
the breath of God calling forth creation, heaving over the entire
earth, “Lord send out your spirit and renew the face of the earth.” In
John 20 Jesus breathed on his disciples and said, “Receive the
Holy Spirit,” a Spirit that gave them power to manifest the living
presence of God on the earth.
last Saturday night, on the Vigil
of Pentecost, I sat in a trance watching the TV news, live local
coverage of the aftermath of violence following a demonstration in
downtown Buffalo. A van was fully engulfed in flames. Police were
lining up to block an entrance to Niagara Square. Then the camera
caught a perfect shot of an individual in black pants running up to
Buffalo City Hall carrying a box that spouted flames, and tossing the
box through a broken ground-floor window. A few minutes later
flickering lights appeared in the window. City Hall was on fire.
the breath of life had been
violently extinguished, not for the first time, of a person of colour
at the hands of white officers trained and sworn to serve and
protect. No one should die like that.
the liturgical year we move easily
from one Sunday to another, one high feast to the next, Pentecost
last week to the Holy Trinity this week. One week we celebrate the
breath of God as a living being, and the next week we celebrate the
eternal dance of three living divine beings in a perpetual dynamism
of shared, and sharing, life. “Three yet one” makes very little
logical sense. Preachers turn themselves into theological pretzels
trying to explain the Holy Trinity coherently. But one way to start
is to begin with breath, the breath of the Spirit.
Hebrew, it seems, there is no word
for stationary air, only air that moves. “In the beginning, the
earth was a formless void, and darkness covered the face of the deep,
while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.” (Genesis
1:1.) The divine breath of life, the life that animates the three
living persons of the Trinity. And all persons. “Take away their
breath, and they return to the earth.” (Psalm 146:4.) No one
should die like that.
M. Shawn Copeland, an
African-American theologian, writes, “We need Jesus to breathe on
us, to gift us with the Spirit, to Apostle us to action and service
so that our brothers and sisters might breathe. Might live. Might
for me, my wake-up call came this
morning with a quote: “Don’t use the reading you haven’t done
as an excuse for the action you haven’t taken.” Guilty as
reflection for the
Feast of Pentecost, May 31, 2020
Acts 2: 1-11; Psalm
104; I Corinthians 12: 3-7,12-13; John 20: 19-23
I was teaching I used to have
great fun with this passage from Acts 2. I’d read it loudly, with
vigour and increasing energy, faster and faster, “We are Parthians,
Medes and Elamites, inhabitants of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia,
Egypt and Libya near Cyrene! We are Jews and Jewish converts from
Rome! We are Cretans and Arabs! We are Romulans, Klingons, Borg! Yet
each of us hears them speaking in our own tongue!!!”
I’d visually scan the class.
students would look up from their
laptops with a vague “Wait, what?” look on their faces. With
some it wouldn’t register. But often a few would break out in
mile-wide grins, and I knew that I had found the Trekkers in that
class. As the course went on, every once in awhile I’d play to
them, dropping an obscure Trek reference into a lecture on some
aspect of liturgy, delighted that for a few seconds I had them
relaxed, smiling and totally on board.
point of course was that the
mission of the ecclesia gathered in the name of the risen Christ was
to all peoples in the known world, not only to Jews and fallen-away
Jews. The first century church had a hard time hammering out this
point. Peter in Acts 10 describes how he had to overcome his
revulsion at Gentiles, whom he saw in his dream as “unclean
animals,” before he could answer the call to travel to the home of
Cornelius the Roman centurion to preach the story of Christ. Paul,
who would go anywhere, and Peter represented two opposite
interpretations of the church’s mission – internal (as in, only
to Jews) or external (to anybody, Jews included.) They finally
reached a truce at the Council of Jerusalem in 50 A.D. in affirming
the mission to preach the Gospel to all the peoples of the earth.
the Star Trek reference isn’t all
that far off base. Look at the stunningly cosmic imagery, the
incomprehensibly broad and breathtaking scope of the Spirit portrayed
in our liturgical texts for the major feast of Pentecost. The
antiphon of the Responsorial Psalm is, “Lord, send out your spirit,
and renew the face of the earth” (I can hear Lucien Deiss’
exuberant musical setting as I write this.) The Pentecost Sequence
preceding the Gospel embraces both the cosmic dimension and the
richly personal one: “Come, Holy Spirit, come! And from your
celestial home shed a ray of light divine! Come [Protector] of the
poor! Come, source of all our store… In our labour, rest most
sweet, grateful coolness in the heat; solace in the midst of woe. O
most blessed Light divine, shine within these hearts of yours, and
our inmost being fill! …Bend the stubborn heart and will; Melt the
frozen, warm the chill…” Our Gospel reading shows this cosmic
Spirit emanating as a physical breath from the risen corporeal being
of Christ, somehow present and perceptible among his friends. And
the second reading concretizes the long-lasting effects of this
Spirit in the visionary and prophetic statement, “For in one Spirit
we were all baptized into one body, whether Jews or Greeks, slaves or
free persons, and we were all given to drink of the one Spirit.”
in Hollywood would one think of
evangelizing the Klingons, never mind the Borg. But human
imagination today grows out of the fact that our understanding of the
universe, though paltry, trains our technology on distant phenomena
and stares into vast infinite reaches, far beyond the vision of our
ancestors. The Hubble telescope detected traces of two trillion
galaxies, and the Hubble is now obsolete. What is this Spirit that
fills physical space utterly incomprehensible to our tiny human
minds? and that, at the same time, fills and transforms human hearts
down through the generations on this tiny, fragile planet? Our
ancestors were awestruck. And even knowing so much more
scientifically, so are we.
A reflection for the
feast of the Ascension, Sunday May 24, 2020
Acts 1: 1-11; Ps 47; Ephesians 1:
17-23; Matthew 28: 16-20
Passover Seder is celebrated by
Jewish families and groups as a fully inclusive family meal and
ritual, children included. The operative commandment is, “And you
shall tell your children on that day…” of all the events leading
to the liberation of the Hebrew people from slavery in Egypt and
their forty-year journey to the land they believed God had promised
them. From the well-known Four Questions posed by the youngest child
(“Why is this night different from all other nights? …”) to the
telling of the story in such a way that the children can feel like
they were really there, to energetic songs such as “Dayenu” and
“I Know One,” the children’s imagination is stimulated and
their enthusiasm engaged. They are both the primary rationale for
this festive family ritual, and totally engaged participants.
Seder ritual includes leaving one
chair unoccupied and one extra glass of wine at the dining table --
for the prophet Elijah. Just in case he comes. At some point one
adult might suddenly cock an ear and say “Hush, did you hear that? A
knock at the door! Do you think it might be Elijah?” And the
kids clamber over chairs and rush headlong to the door to see if
to Jewish scriptural
tradition, in II Kings 2:11, Elijah ascended. “As they [Elijah and
Elisha] continued walking and talking, a chariot of fire and horses
of fire separated the two of them, and Elijah ascended in a whirlwind
into heaven.” So, as the story goes, Elijah never died. That
implied he could come back again. Maybe at the same time as the
coming of the promised Messiah. Or as a surprise guest at the Seder.
idea that the risen Christ ascended
above the clouds and disappeared has precedents both in
Judaeo-Christian tradition and in other cultures of the time. The
tomb of the wealthy Julius family in third-century Rome shows a male
hero in a chariot flying across the sky. If you knew Roman mythology
you would say immediately that this represents Apollo. But if you
were privy to the fact that the Julius family were closet Christians
in a time when Christians were subject to persecution, you could
study the figure more closely and see an equally plausible image of
the risen Christ, merged with the figure of the sun in Psalm 19:4-6,
rising in the East and driving his chariot across the sky. The image
conformed to official Roman religion while hinting at their secret
account in Acts of the ascension of
Christ otherwise looks like a classic example of the Christian story
cast in terms of oh-gosh miracles and in-credible witness accounts. If
you believed that the earth was flat, with the underworld below
the earth’s surface and heaven in the sky above, it might make
sense to imagine that Christ is now physically located in the
overhead spirit realm. This imagery persists in hymn and prayer
language right up to the present.
ever there was a passage in
Scripture that looked like pure myth, this is it. Taking this story
literally isn’t likely to produce more of a reaction than “oh
yeah, right. Like that really happened.”
this is where reading on a
metaphorical level unfolds another level or levels of meaning. Luke
modeled the ascension of Christ on the great chariot flyaway in the
story of Elijah. The old covenant, and the new. Whatever the first
disciples’ lived experience may have been, they had to grapple with
the fact that Jesus of Nazareth was no longer with them – but a
Christic presence certainly was. A definitive leave-taking on the
part of this risen Christ they could see and touch was a prerequisite
for the coming of the Holy Spirit, an entirely different sort of
living presence. The generation of Gospel writers told the stories
as they had been handed down in those first three generations, with
all the bits mixed in – factual, questionable or clearly
metaphorical – to tell the future generations, as Jewish parents do
today, who they are, where they came from, and what this means for