30th Tuesday in Ordinary Time (II)
Memorial of St. Alphonsus Rodriguez, Religious
The Influence of the Insignificant

Readings: Ephesians 5:21-33; Psalm 128:1-2, 3, 4-5; Luke 13:18-21

If there is one central theme in all of Jesus’ words and works during his earthly ministry, it’s the kingdom of God. Not only does Jesus tell his listeners about the kingdom, he also speaks, acts, lives, dies and rises in such a way that those who follow him are led into the kingdom. The kingdom comes in their lives. In Jesus – in that one brief solitary life lived relatively quietly in an obscure part of the world – the kingdom is announced, inaugurated and experienced. And two thousand years hence, we count ourselves among the beneficiaries. The tiny mustard seed of Christ’s life, death and resurrection – insignificant as it may have seemed at the time – has grown to provide shelter to the birds of the air. The yeast that is Christ’s sacrifice has leavened the dough of our earthly existence – has taught us what it means to be loved and to love.

But Christ’s earthly physical life is no more – or rather isn't as it was before. It is now especially in his Church and through his people that Christ lives on. Not just through the official Church – not just at the Vatican – but especially through the local churches, the parish communities and the churches in miniature, that is, the Christian families, the husbands, wives, children… Ordinary and insignificant though we may seem God continues to desire to establish the kingdom through and in us.

This is evident also in the life of the saint whom we celebrate today: St. Alphonsus Rodriguez. He joined the Jesuits after the deaths of his wife and three children and spent the rest of his life as a sacristan and porter. Yet Alphonsus influenced the spiritual lives of many, including St. Peter Claver, who became the apostle to the slaves of Cartegena.

How is the mustard seed of God’s kingdom growing and giving shelter through our parishes and families today? How might the yeast continue to leaven the dough?

30th Monday in Ordinary Time (II)
Sex and Mercy

Readings: Ephesians 4:32–5:8; Psalm 1:1-2, 3, 4 and 6; Luke 13:10-17

If there is one area in which everyone knows the rules but finds them no less difficult to keep it’s that of sexual purity. So when we hear the first reading today warn against fornication or impurity… or promiscuity, it is not unlikely that at least some of us will feel more than a tinge of guilt. Yes, the rules are indeed easier to state than they are to live, especially in this sex-saturated yet strangely lonely consumer society of ours. And isn’t it the case that especially in the area of sex it often seems as though the harder one tries to fight against those frightening impulses the stronger they become? Is there a better way, perhaps?

The readings suggest as much by juxtaposing the theme of sex with several others that at first seem unrelated to it. Be friends with one another, says the letter to the Ephesians, and kind, forgiving each other readily as God forgave you in Christ. Friendship, kindness, mercy: what do these have to do with sex?

Isn’t it reasonable to think that in order to deal with our sexual temptations we need to go to their root? And doesn’t deeper reflection show us that we often act out sexually – whether on the street, in the bedroom, at the computer, or elsewhere – when we pine for that deep interpersonal connection to which all human beings are called? And could it be then that the path to sexual purity begins less with the strict enforcement of rules – as the Pharisees are wont to believe – than with a humble heeding of our own needs for intimacy?

Could it be that we first need to bring our loneliness, our weakness, our infirmity to Christ, who does for us what he does for the woman in the gospel today? Christ frees us from our affliction by offering us his friendship, his kindness, his mercy and love. Empowered by these precious gifts, we can then learn to befriend, to be kind and merciful to ourselves and to others. We can learn to see in ourselves and in others the dignity that befits the children of light, the dignity that prevents us from reducing subjects of love to objects of lust.

Where might sex and mercy come together for us today?

30th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)
The Evolution of Bartimaeus

Readings: Jeremiah 31:7-9; Psalm 126:1-2, 2-3, 4-5, 6; Hebrew 5:1-6; Mark 10:46-52

There is someone sitting by the side of the road... It’s a strange sight. The road is meant for traveling, not camping. Yet here he is, setting up shop. Who is he? Where is he from? What’s wrong with him? No time to ask. I’m in a rush. I’m on the road. I’ve work to do and mouths to feed. Got to go…

And there he is again, that person by the road. Doesn’t he have any place else to go? Doesn’t he know it’s very unsightly, sitting there in his rags? I wish I didn’t have to see him everyday. He makes me uncomfortable. But only for a moment. I’ve got to go… work to do, mouths to feed, bills to pay…

But there’s no escaping him. Day after day, I see him by the side of the road. Sometimes I’m in such a hurry I almost don’t notice him. But he’s there all the same. What to do? Can’t stop to chat. So little time. So much stress. Work to do, mouths to feed, bills to pay, dreams to live… Got to go…

Then one day it happens… The market crashes… a job is lost… a child dies… a spouse leaves… a tumour is discovered… All this while, rushing headlong on this road, thinking I’m going somewhere. Thinking there’s really somewhere to go. Now I’ve hit a dead-end. Drained and heartbroken… close to despair… I can’t see a way forward. It’s as if I’m blind. Darkness engulfs me… I collapse in a heap…

Again, there’s someone by the side of the road, someone who cannot see. And that someone is me…

How foolish I’ve been. Did I really think I could escape the limitations of weakness, the limitations of human living – that I could cheat suffering and death – if only I set my mind to it, if only I worked hard enough, if only I focused my efforts? I never really gave it much thought, but isn’t this how I’ve lived my life – thinking I could somehow buy my own happiness, earn my own salvation? How foolish and how blind. Now I’m beginning to see that it is really true – what is written in the scriptures – no one takes this honour on himself, but each one is called by God.

You can’t really save yourself. You need to be called.

So when they told me that Jesus of Nazareth was passing by I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t care what others said or thought. He is my only hope, I said to myself, he is my salvation. He will show me a way out. He will let me see again. So, shamelessly, I cried out as loudly as I could. In a voice choked with emotion, I begged him to have pity on me.

And wonder of wonders, he called me over. Jesus of Nazareth – the Son of David, the promised Saviour – he actually called me. What do you want me to do for you? He asked. I wasn’t sure what he would do when I told him. At first I thought he’d simply point me in the direction I was to go. I thought he’d simply open my eyes to a road I’d not seen before, a way out of my predicament. But he did much more. He actually led me along the right path.

It was a mysterious path – narrow and winding. But as long as I kept him in my sights, as long as I held onto him – sometimes tightly holding his hand, sometimes barely clinging to the fringe of his cloak – I didn’t fall. Steep as it sometimes was, with him leading me, I persevered on the road. And as we traveled, I couldn’t help but be reminded of that verse from Jeremiah: I will bring them back… all of them: the blind and the lame… women in labour… I will comfort them as I lead them back, by a smooth path where they will not stumble.

Still, as the road wore on, parts of it began to seem strangely familiar. I began to suspect that this was the road to Jerusalem, the road to Calvary. In some ways it seemed like the same road on which I’d faltered those many days – or was it months, or even years – ago. I was reminded of that very spot where my first journey had ended, that place where I’d collapsed by the side of the road. And fear gripped my heart. But the Saviour’s steps remained sure, his guiding hands firm.

At the crucial point where I thought I would once again collapse under the weight of my difficulties, he took my place. He offered his shoulder to the dark wood of the cross, his hands and feet to the cold steel of the nails, his life for the sake of my own.

And yet, miracle of miracles, in spite of his sacrifice – or rather, because of it – he lives! And so do I!

Indeed, as the psalmist sings, in Christ, in Jesus of Nazareth, God has done great things for us. He has opened our eyes and planted our feet firmly on the path of life. He has taken away the tears of our sorrow and filled us with laughter and music.

There is so much over which to rejoice. There is so much to celebrate. But even as we exult, we need to keep moving. For there are still many others waiting to see again, many others waiting for the call of salvation.

Yes, there is still someone sitting by the side of the road…
What are we doing about it?

Feast of Ss. Simon and Jude, Apostles
Citizens and Apostles

Readings: Ephesians 2:19-22; Psalm 19:2-3, 4-5; Luke 6:12-16

Metaphors and analogies are very useful, even essential, when we wish to understand spiritual realities. But we must be careful when using them because they are not without limitations.

Consider, for example, the two metaphors used in the first reading to describe the great privilege of being a Christian. Unlike an alien – who is always an outsider, someone who doesn’t quite belong – a Christian is a citizen, someone whose place in the country is assured, someone who has a right to be here. Similarly, to be a Christian is to find oneself incorporated into something much larger, more solid, more significant and even more beautiful than oneself, much like a brick or a stone is incorporated into an imposing building.

Important as these metaphors are, however, they are not without their limitations. When we think of a foreigner gaining citizenship, for example, isn’t there the danger of thinking purely in terms of a homecoming, a settling down, a coming to rest? And when we think of the spiritual life in terms of a building, isn’t there a danger of seeing it in purely static terms? Buildings don’t move from place to place. Isn’t this why the first reading speaks of this building in dynamic terms – as still being built?

In contrast, when Jesus calls the Twelve in today’s gospel reading, he doesn’t only greet them with a joyful welcome to the family. Jesus calls them apostles – ones who are sent. And it is this same element of sending, of moving out, that is emphasized in the responsorial psalm: their word goes forth to all the earth. When we become citizens in the Christian family, when we become incorporated into Christ’s Body, we share in the power that flows out of the life, death, and resurrection of Christ, not just for ourselves, but so that we too can be sent out to others.

Becoming Christian is as much a sending-out as it is a homecoming.

Where and to whom are we being sent today?

29th Friday in Ordinary Time (II)
Crowds and Prisoners

Readings: Ephesians 4:1-6; Psalm 24:1-2, 3-4ab, 5-6; Luke 12:54-59

Jesus said to the crowds… So begins our gospel reading today. Indeed, in Jesus’ day, there must have been many who hung around Him, many who came to check Him out, or perhaps even to ask for healing, or for advice. And yet few actually became his disciples. Few followed him on the road to Jerusalem. And fewer yet actually made it to Calvary. Who, we might ask, are these crowds? What are they like? We get some indication from what Jesus says to them today.

Hypocrites! He calls them. You know how to interpret the face of the earth and the sky. How is it you do not know how to interpret these times?... Why not judge for yourselves what is right?

These are intelligent and clever people – not unlike our own high-tech generation – and yet something keeps them from acknowledging Jesus as Lord. Something prevents them from becoming disciples, from committing their lives to His Way, from following Him on the road to Jerusalem. This reluctance is understandable, especially when we consider how the author of the letter to the Ephesians describes himself in the first reading. I, the prisoner in the Lord… Quite apart from the horrors of Calvary, true commitment – any kind of commitment, let alone commitment to Christ and His Cross – often feels like a kind of imprisonment. It limits our possibilities – to be married to one, for example, is to forgo all the others. And so we hang back.

And yet, quite paradoxically perhaps, to remain free as the crowds do leads only to a different kind of imprisonment. One becomes enslaved by one’s own selfish whims and fancies, not to mention those of others. Isn’t this what Jesus means when he warns that the judge and bailiff will have you thrown into prison?

Far better to commit one’s life to the one Lord… and one God who is Father of all, over all, through all and within all.

Where is this commitment leading us this day?