Reflecting on John 10: 11-18

This world is lousy with bad shepherds. I’m thinking especially of those people who make their fortunes herding desperate people onto overloaded boats, and locking hundreds of them in steerage, knowing they will drown when the leaky ship capsizes. I’m thinking of “coyotes” who take a year’s pay to load people up in vans, and then leave them, with no water or food, in the desert to die.

Those are the bad shepherds. But the world is also bursting with great shepherds. I’m thinking of those who work to get Congress to pay more attention to poverty at home and abroad. Visit them at www.results.org.

I’m thinking of Harvard grad siblings Riley and Nick Carney, who began their life’s work breaking the chain of illiteracy by helping to build three schools in Africa, and organizing groups who donated more than 25,000 books to American inner-city schools, before either of them reached the age of twenty-one.

The good shepherds at www.againstmalaria.com buy anti-malarial bed nets for needy families. The website at GlobalGiving lets you browse, and contribute to, life-saving projects being done around the world. And at www.one.org you can join petitions backing evidence-based spending on global health.

The list goes on. I know you can add your own good works to it. I don’t know one single person who isn’t making sacrifices in order to help lighten the load of someone else. So, on this Good Shepherd Sunday, resolve to maintain your energies for good, and take courage against the terrors of this world. For behold, we have a Good Shepherd who has overcome the world.

In what good works do you find energy and strength?

If you love scripture, chances are, in the mysterious ways in which the Spirit works, Sr. Macrina Scott, osf planted the seeds that found a welcome home in your heart.

She entered Religious Life as a cloistered Benedictine, where she studied the works of the great scholars writing at the time of the Council. She went to God on Holy Thursday an active Franciscan, who took to heart the Council’s call to make the Word of God alive and active in the hearts of the Catholic laity.

It doesn’t matter where you live. Her brilliant model, the Denver Catholic Biblical School, was adapted and re-worked to fit the needs of Catholics around the world. Magazines reflecting on the daily scriptures began to thrive, and flourish today with large subscriber numbers, in part because of the educated Catholic laity which she helped create.

From the start, publishers from around the country began begging her for more. I would have said, “I don’t have time.” She said, “I’ll write a book.”

She wrote three. Her beautiful, funny, insightful treatments of the Old Testament, and the Gospel of Luke/Acts of the Apostles, remain the gold standard for bible study groups. You can find them at Tau Publishing.

She went on to create a brilliant program―the Wisdom Center―that encouraged those in the second half of life to pay attention to the spiritual adventures of aging.

When she flew home to him whom her heart loved, the news spread the old fashioned way―through communities of people who were once strangers but, like those disciples to whom Jesus appeared on Easter night, were forever bonded together because, like Jesus, she opened their minds to understand the scriptures.

Below is my reflection on her life and death:

Oh Macrina, it’s been sixteen days now since you flew to Jesus on Holy Thursday, the Marriage Feast of the Bridegroom and his Bride. Oh, what a meeting that must have been. I love to think of you and Jesus “leaning in” together, talking it all over, remembering your early years of learning how to read and tell stories in that famous red chair of your childhood. And, of course, you talked about those years of scholarly and liturgical formation at Regina Laudis. I thank God that you spent those early years of religious life leaning in to the scriptures, and the great books about how to read them that were written in those years.

I’ll bet you and Jesus HOWLED at the remembrance of that first week when the DCR ran the story about a new Biblical School being offered. You were in Berkeley (for graduation, I think) while everybody who worked at the Chancery fielded the 600 calls from earnest Catholics who had waited all their lives—-and in the spirit of all who had waited for a couple thousand years before that—for some inspired educator to teach them how to read the scriptures.

I think of Jesus tenderly speaking to you about that awful surgery you had on your neck many years ago. That was a terrible experience for you, mostly because you were shocked that, in the midst of all that suffering, you couldn’t feel his nearness. You had felt his companionship in every other journey of your life, but when you most needed to sense his closeness, he was silent. I long to know what he said to you about that dark night. But I know this: you recovered in every way, and your intimacy with him picked up right where it left off. Once again, you were teaching us, this time about  how a Christian suffers, and how a Christian remains faithful even when God is silent.

I love thinking about your reunion with your dear Sr. Antonia. I imagine the two of you embracing in the most joyful hug, and then Jesus holding you both close as you remembered together the terrors of the car accident, the painful days before Antonia flew to heaven, and the sacred and sad time that followed, when you had to go on without her.

Macrina, I had been meaning to ask you about the redness in your face, especially under your eyes and above your cheek bones, which started around the same time as your terrible fatigue, and then nausea, and then loss of appetite. I, of all people, should have thought to wonder about ovarian cancer, since I had those exact symptoms, in exactly the same order. I have never seen rosacea as a symptom, but I can see, as I look at the beautiful picture of you that is printed in the Wake and the Mass booklet, that you had it too, just as I did.

It grieves me that you tried and tried to get answers for all these spirit-sapping symptoms. You were ready to die—had been ready, really, since Antonia’s death—but I wonder if you might have wanted to stay with us much longer if your ovarian cancer had been diagnosed early, as mine was. No wonder you told so many people that you didn’t know what God wanted you to do in the next years of your life. You knew, in that secret and holy place where your body tells you the truth and waits for your conscious mind to know it, that dying was your next great adventure.

And then, of course, there was your dream. It appeared last fall. You dreamt that you were sitting, completely comfortably, in a crypt at the mortuary. Beside you was a companion. You both were in a kind of holding pattern, waiting for the journey you would take together. As you pondered this in your heart, you realized that your companion was Jesus.

You knew, of course. You tried to tell us all. You knew that you weren’t well. You knew that you were exhausted, and then nauseated, and then just sick. But on the day of your diagnosis, on March 24^th, the Vigil of the Feast of the Annunciation―the exact day, eleven years earlier, of my own diagnosis, but with a much different prognosis―you were filled with joy. Finally, a confirmation of that which your soul knew. There was an actual, medical reason for your dis-ease. You were dying. You had, perhaps, six months. You were elated, and, as always, you found the perfect words to describe the indescribable. I have my ticket! You finally had the entrance pass to heaven.

And then Jesus, who had seemed so silent in that earlier surgery years ago, sang your name just like the Bridegroom in that Song of Songs verse that you loved so well: “Arise, my beloved, my dove, my beautiful one, and come!” There was no confusing his voice. You spent your lifetime listening to it, and teaching the world how to hear it too. You knew his voice, and he knew yours. And so you flew to him so that you could be with him for the Holy Thursday Marriage Feast.

Your Sisters are grieving. They look out the window and your tidy, cheerful little house is dark. You aren’t there, to greet them, to love them, to listen to them, to know them in that expert way that you know the people you love. It is still Holy Saturday for them. They are waiting, and watching for signs that the stone has been rolled away.

Oh, Macrina. How blest are those who knew you in this life, and will always hear that glorious laugh, and hear your HILARIOUS answers to our deepest questions. Go to Macrina for counsel, and then stand back. It is NEVER going to be what you expect. You’ll go home reeling. And then, in just a little time, the voice of Lady Wisdom starts to dig deep inside you, planting seeds that will bear fruit for the rest of your life. I will always get chills when I remember Angeline leading the assembly of those who love you in a refrain to Lady Wisdom at the Wake. We were singing to you.

And so, for some it is Easter. And for some, it is still Holy Saturday. We will all probably go back and forth between the two for many years. But whenever two or more are gathered to read scripture, there you will be in their midst, helping them find their story in the STORY.

That’s where we will find you. That’s how we will know that all is well with your soul.

Reflecting on John 20: 19-31

I have an aversion to a particular childhood game. What sort of sadist thought that children would enjoy walking around a circle until the music stops, then scramble to sit in the chair behind them? The tension is that there are only nine chairs for ten kids.

That insecurity about being the one for whom there is no chair―and hence exiled to the sidelines with the other weeping losers―has never left me. I have positioned myself to always be around the winners, to always, paraphrasing Carly Simon, be where I should be all the time.

That’s why I cringe for poor Thomas. He, too, tried to be where he should be all the time. When the disciples discouraged Jesus from going to Judea when Lazarus was sick, it was Thomas who said, “Let us go also, that we may die with him.” When Jesus promised that he was going to prepare a place for the disciples, it was insecure Thomas who asked to know exactly where that place was, so that he could follow. He wasn’t going to be left behind if Jesus did something wonderful in his absence.

So wouldn’t you know, it was this same disciple who happened to be away on that Easter night when the risen Christ appeared. How utterly frustrating for Thomas to arrive back and hear that he had just missed Jesus, that he was alive and had appeared to the others, but not to him.

As Thomas learned, it is never the Divine Mercy of Christ that we be left behind. By his cross and resurrection he redeemed us from Musical Chairs. He has secured a place for us, forever. Blessed be he.

How does the Easter Season bless you with the awareness of the Risen Christ?

We did it. We made it to Easter, safe and sound. Contrary to how we felt, say, around the Second Sunday in Lent, our prayer, fasting and almsgiving did not, in fact, kill us. And yes, many of us did not succeed for the entire season, but we’re here anyway, Easter bonnets donned and the Easter ham in the oven.

Oh, it feels good. We lived with empty sanctuaries and purple drapings for forty long days. Outside, the early spring kept tempting us to behave as if Lent had yielded early this year, as if we were no longer held to its demanding timeline. But then we stepped back into church and were reminded that we are part of a universal fast that does not end just because it’s warm outside.

Is it just me, or has it become much more painful to keep Lent these days? My theory is that there is so much Easter in my daily life―so much beauty, so much fun, so much food, so many books, so many friends, so much prosperity, that keeping a fast from any of it seems much more restrictive than it did in my youth.

But fast I did, in my weak and puny way. I certainly don’t deserve Easter, but, thank God, no one ever does. Yet, despite all of our failures, Easter has finally arrived, with its fragrant flowers and lily-trumpeted sanctuaries. What a feast for the senses!  Bring on the Easter sacraments― the Baptism waters, the First Communion chalices, the Confirmation oils.

For lo, the winter is past, and the flowers appear on the earth (Song of Songs 2:11). Therefore, let us keep the feast.

How are you planning to keep the fifty-day Easter feast?

Reflecting on Philippians 2: 6-11

You probably didn’t realize it, but in the Philippians reading this weekend we heard perhaps the oldest hymn in Christendom. Certainly the earliest Christians sang the psalms every day, and probably even a musical version of the crossing of the sea on holy days in the Temple. But Paul’s recitation of the hymn of kenosis―the self-emptying―of Christ on the cross suggests he knew that this beloved hymn was being sung by the Church at Philippi, which was the earliest Christian community in Europe.

Perhaps it was the On Eagle’s Wings of the first century―a well-known hymn that everyone could probably sing by heart with a little help. But why did Paul choose to include it in his letter? I wonder if its beautiful prelude is a key: though he was in the form of God, he did not deem equality with God something to be grasped at.

Paul, that super-educated Jew, that Pharisee who studied with the greatest rabbi of his day, that tri-lingual missionary par excellence, eventually admits in this letter that all of that perfect pedigree is just “worthless refuse”.  The only thing that matters is that he gain Christ, and be found in him.

Let this mind be also in you, he writes. Don’t compete with each other. Don’t think that whatever status you hold in the world means anything in the kingdom of God. Christ, who was God, chose to take the form of a slave. So it must be with you.

Our western culture is crazy for fancy letters behind our names. Somehow that means we have accomplished something. But at our deaths we only need three letters: F.I.H.

Found in him.

In what ways are you making sure you are found in him?

Reflecting on John 12: 20-33

Where do you live? Come and see. With that invitation, Jesus draws the first disciples to himself. They have heard of him, but that’s not enough. They want to know him.

It’s interesting that in the earliest three gospels—called the Synoptics because they tell the story with the same eye―Jesus calls the disciples away from their fishing boats and into public life with him. But in John’s gospel the first disciples seek him first. They approach him, and he invites them to come and see.

What a great Lenten message for us. The spiritual life is sometimes illuminated with “God encounters”―moments when we feel the Holy Spirit alive in us, and we joyfully respond. This was the experience of Peter, James and John when Jesus found them and called them.

But most of our spiritual lives―which is to say, our real lives―is spent actively seeking Christ, positioning ourselves so that we may encounter him where he lives.

So that’s our great, soul-stirring quest. Do you have a place of encounter with him, where you find the Holy Spirit every time you go there? Some friends find Christ every time they serve a meal to those who are homeless. Others seek him where he lives by living and working in the most challenging places in the developing world.

For me, any school where children are safe and happy is where Christ seems to dwell in delightful abundance. But I know that I must come and see him in the schools where children are hungry, and not safe.  As Mother Teresa said, “There is Christ in his most distressing disguise.”

Where do you go to find Christ where he lives?

Reflecting on John 3: 14-21

Many years ago, Father Raymond Brown, the world’s authority on the Gospel of John, gave a seminar in Denver. The hotel room was packed with adoring students―clergy, members of religious communities, theologians and scripture students all gave rapt attention to every fascinating insight he gave us into this most soaring and symbolic gospel.

At noon we all happily went into the ballroom for lunch, and he, a health nut, went out to swim a few laps in the hotel pool. Later in the afternoon, as he was teaching the section we heard in today’s Gospel, he told us this story:

You know, while you all were sitting and eating at noon today, I was swimming laps in the pool. I took off my crucifix and put it on the chair, and when I was done swimming I was putting it back on when a young man approached me. He said, “I see you wear a cross. Are you sure you know Jesus as your personal savior?” I said, “Thank you for asking me. I try every day to know him more and more.”

The audience went up in a roar! Can you imagine the nerve, the naiveté, the ignorance of that young man, approaching the great scholar and asking him if he knows Jesus! But Raymond Brown was confused by our response. “Why is that so strange? Just because a person studies scripture doesn’t mean that they necessarily know Jesus. I was grateful that he cared enough to ask.”

The next time you see someone holding up John 3:16 at a football game, don’t judge. They are willing to risk looking foolish on the chance that they might help us know Jesus better.

Have you ever risked looking foolish so that someone might know Jesus?

Reflecting on John 2: 13-25

Follow the money. That’s usually the quickest way to get to the bottom of any great sin. Scratch the surface of nearly every war, every oppressive political system, and every “custom” in a culture that puts some on the inside and the rest on the outside, and you guessed it.  No matter the official rationale, the real reason is always money.

But is money the root of the evil Jesus tries to expel when he acts out so shockingly in the Temple?  Maybe. Some commentaries say that the high priest received a percentage of the profits from the sale of the cattle used in the sacrificial offerings for the Passover celebrations. Jesus’ disruption of that lucrative commerce may well have been the reason why those authorities eventually set out to kill him.

Other commentaries note that this buying and selling was taking place in the outermost section of the Temple where the Gentiles were allowed to pray. Imagine the stench, the cacophony, the squealing of the tens of thousands of animals bought and sold in that space just before Passover. And this is the space assigned to the non-Jews who came to the Temple to pray.

Ugh. Might it be this very rudeness, this lack of openness to people of all backgrounds, which Jesus finds so repulsive?

My favorite explanation is this: Jesus is making a statement about the terrible slaughter of innocent animals in order to appease God’s wrath.  I don’t want your sacrifices, said God through the prophet Hosea. I want you to love me (6:6).

I want you to love me, says Jesus to us. That has always been the sole reason for Lent.

How is your Lenten fast drawing you closer in love with Jesus?

Reflecting on Mark 9: 2-10

In that moment of blinding light, they saw Jesus as he truly was. Transfigured. Dazzling. And chatting with Elijah and Moses themselves. The apostles didn’t want to leave the mountain. They didn’t want to set their faces to Jerusalem, and the cross whose vertical beam was already pounded in and waiting on Calvary.

They had been with him, of course, when he cured the demoniacs, and the leper. He had come to them on the water during that terrifying midnight storm. He had even fed five thousand with a few loaves and fish. They were enveloped in the mystery and wonder of it all.

But now they saw him as he truly was, full of light, and full of grace. They had a glimpse into the kingdom.

Do you ever sense the kingdom when you observe people?  I love to watch them as they come forward in the Communion procession. As Thomas Merton observed, they have no idea that they are shining like the sun. There is something about the point of vulnerability in people that, like the crack in a vase, lets the light in.

Here comes the awkward teenage boy, pulling up his pants and pushing back his hair. Behind him is his poised and beautiful sister, presenting the face of confidence and composure that she practiced so hard in front of the mirror before Mass. They have no idea how brightly they glow.

Here is the parish leader, the one who organizes and motivates and serves. And there is the newcomer, unsure, too often unwelcomed, hungry and hope-filled. How brilliant is their light.

And of course the light doesn’t diminish outside the church walls. There is the clerk at the grocery store, bravely fighting her arthritis and carpel tunnel syndrome. There is your kind, agnostic neighbor, shoveling the walk of the elderly man down the street.

And you can’t see it, but the radiation coming out of you is almost blinding.

This week, be blessed by observing the light that comes from the people in your life.

Reflecting on I Peter 3: 18-22

It only comes up in the Sunday readings once every three years, but it’s so intriguing that it catches our ear every time: in the Spirit he went to preach to the spirits in prison (I Peter 3:19).

If that sounds familiar, it’s because we pray it every time we say the Apostle’s Creed: He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended into hell.

You read that right. The Church took this portion of Peter’s letter so seriously that it found its way into the creed. Christ actually visited all the just who had lived before the time of Christ and released the spirits in prison.

In fact, a beautiful, ancient hymn sung on Holy Saturday recounts that Christ visited Adam and Eve:

He has gone to search for Adam, our first father, as for a lost sheep. Greatly desiring to visit those who live in darkness and the shadow of death, he has gone to free from sorrow Adam in his bonds, and Eve, captive with him.  He says, “I order you, O sleeper, to awake. I did not create you to be a prisoner in hell. Rise from the dead, for I am the life of the dead.”

How does time and space work with God?  Had all who died before Christ’s resurrection waited out those thousands of years in “real time”?  Or is there perhaps a “wrinkle in time”― a mere blink that separates this life (and death) from eternity?

Be at peace.  The God of heaven and earth (and under the earth) will not stop searching for us.

Is it hard to imagine that hell might be empty?