Reflecting on John 15: 1-8

The branches of the vine should be especially full and beautiful these days.  Over forty-three thousand adults entered into full communion with us this Easter.  Think of that.

Perhaps it’s because they are getting married and want to share the faith of their spouse.  Or maybe a childhood friend introduced them to Catholicism decades ago, and they finally gave in to a lifelong curiosity.  Or maybe they, like so many people, long for a deep and beautiful connection with God, and they choose us as their conduits to Jesus the Resurrected One.  That’s scary, isn’t it?

But here’s the thing: if the branches are overflowing with new Catholics, and recently-new Catholics, and cradle Catholics, why don’t things seem to change? When the Denver Nuggets are in town, with the capacity crowd of 19,000 roaring the roof off the Pepsi Center, the city knows it.  There is an energy that changes the atmosphere of downtown.

Ah, we say.  The Nuggets must be here.

More than double that number joined the Catholic Church this Easter, and the Easter before that, and Easters for the last two thousand years.

Where is the pulsing, world-changing tidal wave of joy, and peace-making, and justice-seeking, and outreach to those who are estranged?  There are 1.19 billion of us on this planet.  Let’s continue to work for the day when people say, “Ah.  The grieving are comforted, the hungry are fed, families are happier and safer, and the poor have the good news preached to them.  The Catholics must be here.”

In what ways do you work to heal the world?

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on John 10: 11-18

I had the most beautiful experience on Holy Thursday.  I was sitting next to a very sweet man who appeared to be a little confused about the rituals of that unique night—the ringing of the bells at the Gloria, the washing of the feet, the transfer of the Holy Eucharist to the altar of repose.

It was then, as the lights dimmed and the congregation began to follow in procession, singing the ancient hymn of adoration Pange Lingua, that he turned to me and said, “I’m sorry.  I don’t know what’s going on.  Am I supposed to be doing something?”

What a thrill to be asked to explain “what’s going on”.  It reminded me of the ritual Passover meal, where the youngest child is prompted to ask, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” And then the rest of the family jumps in to tell the wondrous story of their liberation from slavery in Egypt.

We walked in procession, and I explained that we were remembering Jesus and his night of solitary prayer at Gethsemane before his arrest.  He listened with a heart utterly open to all the beauty that the rituals of Holy Week and Easter reveal.

And he told me, in a reverent whisper, that he was returning to the church on Easter morning.  He had been gone for forty years.

On this Good Shepherd Sunday I think of the millions who have left us, and I grieve for us and for them.  We wait in joyful hope for the day when we are all one again. Because there is so, so much beauty here. “What’s going on?” he asked me.  “Oh,” I grinned.  “I can’t wait to tell you.”

How can you tell the Good News to your own family members?

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on Luke 24: 35-48

I love to read stories about near-death experiences.  I’ve recently read two books about two different young boys who have “died” and returned, with wonderful, thrilling reports about what awaits us.

The first book, The Boy Who Went to Heaven (Kevin Malarkey), tells the story of a terrible car accident, and a boy who will be a quadriplegic the rest of his life. Yet this child (now a teenager) is radiant with joy because of what he saw in heaven when he “died”.

The second is the stunning Messenger: The Legacy of Mattie Stepanek (Stepanek).  You may have seen Mattie on Oprah or many other television shows while he was alive. He was brought back from death several times as he struggled with a rare form of muscular dystrophy that had already taken his three siblings.  “They’ve got it all wrong about the angels on the Christmas trees, “he said in wonder. “They’re so, so much more beautiful than words can describe.”  He was almost fourteen when this Catholic poet/peacemaker went home to God.

We long to believe these near-death accounts, but perhaps we have doubts about exactly what happens when we die, and if our brains play tricks on us as they are shutting down.

But today we get a glimpse of heaven ourselves, as the resurrected Jesus appears to his disciples and says, “Have you anything to eat?”  They are speechless.  Astounded.  And apparently just about to have lunch. Jesus knows just how to give them peace. When in doubt, eat together.  And there he is, in the midst of them.

Have you ever had a “glimpse of heaven”?

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Divine Mercy Sunday is a recent gift.  St. Faustina Kowalska (canonized in 2000) promoted devotion to the mercy of God, inspiring Pope John Paul II to set the Second Sunday of Easter apart as a worldwide day of mercy.  And of course no Gospel story is more filled with mercy than that of Jesus inviting a broken-hearted Thomas to touch his wounds, so to be healed of his own great wound of grief.

Mercy probably looks different to each of us.  Two moments come to mind for me.  In the first, I’m presenting my high school report card to my dad, and that D in Algebra just jumps off the page.  This will in fact be the last day of my life.  I brace.  And then, mercy.  He laughs, and love compels him to let me in on a secret I would otherwise never have known.

Listen, Kathy, that’s no big deal.  I got a D in Algebra too.

Did you feel that?  That was mercy.

The second is a story from my husband Ben’s miserable fourth grade school year in El Paso.  His collar bone broken in a fight with the school bully, he struggled to find a seat on the school bus.  When the prettiest and nicest girl in the fourth grade moved over and gave him the seat next to her she said to him, Guess who likes you? And he thought, I’m the loser new kid who just got hurt in a fight.  Nobody likes me. But this most darling, wonderful girl said, Me.  I like you.

And just as the Father sent her on to that school bus that day, so he sends you.

To whom will you extend mercy this week?

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

It’s Easter.  Can you feel it?  It’s been silently making its way to us, through the chill and winds of March.  Birds who have suddenly found their way back to our back yard are greeting us with Easter song.  The single crocus in our front yard, planted by a young friend years ago who is now expecting her first baby, has faithfully pulled up out of the stone-cold ground.  Every spring it’s a delightful surprise.  You again!  We forgot all about you.  How sweet of you to keep popping up in our neglected yard, reminding us that Easter happens, ready or not.

How was your Lent?  Was your fast helpful in pulling you back from the things that are hurting you?  Are you more who you want to be, more determined to “not go back to that place of slavery” that keeps you dependent, or powerless?  That’s always my goal, and once again I didn’t achieve it.

But God brings Easter anyway, whether we had a successful Lent or not.  Our relentlessly loving God keeps sending flowers and rains, lilacs and lilies, baby chicks and baby humans.  An endless Lent is just not in God’s nature.  Easter is God’s nature, with its resurrections and Alleluias, its promise of new life, its memory of an empty tomb, and our Christ, whose triumph over the grave has opened the graves of all believers.

So once again I’ll shake off the ashes of failure, lift my face up to the sun, and hold my hands open wide.  It’s Easter, and the powers of hell cannot prevail against it.  Let the feast of the forgiven begin.

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on Mark 14: 1-15:47

As I stand with the 1.4 billion Christians who will hear Mark’s Passion today I remember again why I love Jesus so much.  I love him because he healed, and forgave, and brought forth the kingdom of God.  But most of all I love Jesus  because there is no suffering that I will ever have that he hasn’t already suffered,  no betrayal or terror or agonizing death that he hasn’t also experienced.  I love him for that.

I have friends who have been lied to by their family members, cheated out of pensions by their employers, betrayed by their spouses.   Just after Jesus agonized in the Garden about the suffering that would soon overtake him, his beloved friend Judas brought a crowd carrying swords and torches into Gethsemane and said, “The one I kiss is the one.  Arrest him.” Jesus has redeemed this.

I’ve read of mothers who have watched their children die painfully.  I’ve seen my sweet husband stand, weeping, in front of the Pieta in St. Peter’s Basilica,  crying with Mary as she held her crucified Son in her arms.  Jesus has redeemed this.

Last week my brave friend Margie dealt with the unending pain of her chronic illness. My gentle friend Karen stood grieving at the grave of her father.  My gracious friends Eileen and Mike suffered through the terrors of Mike’s surgery to remove a brain tumor.  My brave friends Mary Ellen and Dorothy and Eric  faced another day with a terminal illness.  Jesus knows their pain, their fear, their suffering.  By his cross he has redeemed all of our terrors, our agonies, our sleepless, anxious nights.  He doesn’t know of them. He knows them.

Oh, Jesus.  We love you for that.

What particular part of Jesus’ Passion can you most understand?

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on John 12:20-33

I’ve been thinking a lot about wheat lately.  I asked my friend Bob, a farmer and horticulturist, to talk to me about the mysteries of seeds and harvests.  In a conversation packed with fascinating insights connecting farming and faith he said, “The farmer knows what to expect in the future, because he (or she) has seen what God has done in the past.”

My friend Kathy offered this beautiful reflection on seeds, based on her years of teaching.  She said, “I’ve seen so many resurrections happen with my students through the years, and they’re never visible all at once.  The child who comes into your class in the fall is silently transformed through the months of the school year into the more confident and accomplished child who leaves your class in the spring.  Resurrections are silent things, sacred events begun in the dark earth and not visible to us until the green shoot rises out of the earth.”

Ah, beautiful.  No wonder Jesus used a farming image to explain what his death was about to accomplish.  When the Greeks coming for Passover—the premier agrarian festival!—asked to see him, Jesus took that opportunity to speak about the eternal life that was about to come from his death.

Unless a grain of wheat shall fall upon the ground and die it remains but a single grain with no life.

Like the husk of grain, we cling to this life because it’s all we know.  But there is a secret seed inside us, a soul that has been plotting resurrection quietly throughout our lives.  Jesus knew it, and promised it, even as the Cross beckoned.

What things have had to die in order for you to live more fully?

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on John 3: 14-21

“Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert,
so must the Son of Man be lifted up,
so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life.”

A little background on this strange passage might help.  Way back in the time of the Israelite sojourn in the desert, the Hebrews suffered all the trials of desert life.  They were hungry and thirsty, and the daily manna was so monotonous that they cried out to God, saying We detest this miserable food! God then added to their misery by “sending” snakes to bite them!  Yikes.

They repented of their rebelliousness and asked God to forgive them and take the snakes away.  And here’s what’s fascinating: God’s cure for the “snake-bit Hebrews” was for Moses to mount a bronze serpent on a pole and have them gaze on it.  And those who had been bitten were cured (Numbers 21:4-9).  Wow.

We’re right in the middle of Lent now, and the struggle with our own hungers and thirsts is in full gear.  Might we take inspiration from Moses, and look straight into the heart of that which has wounded us so badly in our lives?  Can we ask for the grace to gaze on the piercings of our pasts? The jobs we’ve lost, the deaths we’ve grieved, the gifts we’ve squandered, the children who’ve struggled with addictions and loss of faith—Jesus asks us to look on them, and then look on Him, raised up on the cross.  Here, oh Israel, is your true healer.  Gaze on him.  Trust that he can take you the rest of the way, through this Lent and every wilderness ahead.

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on John 2:13-25

The Temple (Rembrandt)

Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.

Ain’t that the truth?  How many times have we understood our lives only after the passing of years?  If only we had had the wisdom and poise we now possess way back when we really needed it, like at that high school dance, or when we were raising our kids, or caring for failing parents.

Today’s Gospel is a good example of this vexing reality.  When Jesus is asked on what authority he takes a whip to the moneychangers and the animals in the Temple, he says Destroy this Temple and in three days I will raise it up.

No one understands.  What could Jesus possibly mean?  Everyone knew the Temple had been under reconstruction for 46 years already (and in fact was not completed until 62 AD, only to be destroyed by the Romans eight years later.)  So what could Jesus mean?

Ah.  Perhaps the light dawned as Peter and the Beloved Disciple and Mary Magdalene stood in the empty tomb that Easter morning and counted backwards.  Three days in the tomb.  In three days I shall raise the Temple up. Ah.  Jesus was the new Temple.  And he had to die in order to raise it up.

The Gospel says that after the resurrection Jesus’ disciples remembered that he had said this, and they came to believe the Scripture and the word Jesus had spoken.

Even the disciples had to “understand backwards”.  That which was hidden in life became astonishingly clear through death. And after that, no threat of martyrdom could keep them from carrying the Gospel to the ends of the earth.

What event in your life can you now understand more clearly than when it happened?

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).

Reflecting on Genesis 22, 1-2,9a, 10-13,15-18

I wonder how many listeners of this terrifying story of the sacrifice of Isaac will say today, “I’d choose hell rather than slay my child in order to ‘do God’s will.’”

And those schizophrenic people who have killed their children because they “heard God’s voice” are now confined in mental institutions.

We search for a loving God here, and, truth be told, a loving Abraham too.  Because if we were Isaac, about to be strapped on the altar of sacrifice because our father was “obedient”, I think we’d say Who wants a father like that?

Of course, the story was written to address the horrific practice of child sacrifice in ancient Canaan, where the murder of male children was common in order to appease the indifferent gods of harvest.  The biblical story says to the minority Hebrews, “See? God never desires the murder of children.”

Second, it was easy for the earliest Christians to see Isaac as a “type” of Jesus himself, carrying the wood of the sacrifice (the Cross) up Mt. Moriah (later identified as Jerusalem).  God tells Abraham that God alone will provide the sacrifice, and we see in this story a prefigure of Jesus, the Lamb of God.

Finally, this ancient story can touch us as we offer back to God what we have cherished and lost in our lives−−our parents, our loves, our health.  God asks, Can you trust me to restore them all to you?  Can you “reason that (I) am able to raise even from the dead” (Heb. 11:17)?

Easter awaits.

What loves have you entrusted to God?

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I have come to light a fire on the earth; how I wish it were already burning (Lk.12:49).