Some more thoughts for a rainy Corpus Christi Sunday

 

“Give them some food yourselves.” Luke 9:12-17

 

How often do we hesitate to offer help, because we think: what good will it do? I can’t solve this. I don’t have anything to offer. Or my small gift won’t make any difference? That hesitation, that fear seems to me, to be at the heart of this past Sunday’s gospel reading from Luke (Corpus Christi Sunday).  It was the story of the multiplication of the loaves and fishes, feeding 5000 people with only 5 loaves and 2 fish. A story of not enough becoming all that’s needed.

 

Too often we might find ourselves listening to these stories and saying: That’s all well and good, but they had Jesus standing right there.  I have to go home and deal with sick kids, a clogged sink, the check-engine light in my car and a neighbor who never mows his lawn. I don’t even have enough left in me to have not enough. I’m all used up.  I was feeling a bit like that myself yesterday, but let me tell you of a little gift I received—something that seemed—at the moment-- like hardly anything, but which is still feeding me today.

 

There was a bit of rain Sunday. It started after mass. A series of downpours blew through, each one seeming pretty heavy while it lasted, but followed each time by sunshine and clear skies. Anyway, at some point I thought the rain was done and I realized we had a couple of prescriptions that needed to get picked up, so I headed to Walgreens. As I was leaving, my wife asked me if I would also go next door to Randalls and get her some Kozy Shack Tapioca pudding. It was Sunday, after all. 

 

So, off I went. A few gray clouds and a few drops of rain on my windshield should have let me know what to expect. But I didn’t. I was looking forward to waiting in a long line at Walgreens so I could have some reading time. And I’d brought my copy of Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom, along with me for just such an occasion.  So, imagine my disappointment when there was literally no line. No one at the counter except the bored young clerk waiting just for me. As she was finding my medicine, I heard one of the pharmacists asking: Were we expecting this much rain?  And I looked out the drive-thru window. The sky was dark and a gray sheet of rain was pouring down.

 

And yet, by the time I paid and got to the front door, the rain was slowing down again. The cashier at the front counter was looking for an umbrella. He laughed and made some comment about thinking he left his car window down.  But, my main concern was my book. No one wants a wet copy of Absalom, Absalom.  I stuck it into the bag with the medicine, folded the bag like an envelope and headed out the door, pretty sure I could make it to Randalls without too much harm coming to me or the book.  As my wife likes to say, I won’t melt.

 

Coming out of the store, I noticed a woman walking up with an umbrella, a solemn, distracted –maybe even annoyed—look on her face. And then I heard a man’s voice, and turned to see an older man hunched over his grocery cart, looking quite anxious that he might be forced to stand there a while or risk getting soaked if he tried to get to his car. He was speaking to the woman—something I would have been quite hesitant to do—and asking her if he could borrow her umbrella to get his groceries into his car. He gestured toward a car parked just feet away at the curb. My gut instinct told me this woman was going to either ignore the man, pretend she never even heard him and just keep going. But to my surprise, she said, Sure. And handed her umbrella to a complete stranger.  It was then I noticed a group of people were there, huddled against the wall watching the rain and waiting for it to stop. And suddenly I had the bittersweet feeling that I wished I could have done that. I wished I could have been that woman. Why hadn’t I brought an umbrella? if only…

 

Then I realized, I’m driving my mother-in-law’s old car. And she always kept an umbrella (or two) in the little cubby between the front seats. So, instead of rushing into Randalls to get my pudding I turned mid stride and headed to the car. Dropping off my bag (and book) I found an umbrella right where I expected. Bright pink. Okay… A guy has to work with what he’s got. Anyway, I popped it open and headed back toward the store.

 

Standing there, outside Randalls was a woman with her adult son, a man with mental disabilities. The two of them were huddled close together near the carts, both of them looking distressed. So, I offered to help them get to their car—me and my mother-in-law’s dainty pink umbrella. The woman hesitated, but her son looked at her and made an anxious sound.  Shaking her head, she gestured: I’m parked way out there.

 

I said, That’s okay, and raised my umbrella over her son’s head and tried to cover her as well. Before we could take a second step, there was suddenly another a young man walking with us, opening another umbrella, and saying: Now you’ll have two.

 

And the four of us walked as one to their car, he and I holding our umbrellas over the mother and the son and both of us getting good and wet.  At the car the son seemed to get more nervous about getting wet, and about letting go of his mother’s arm.  Opening his door, she helped him inside, as we stood there with our umbrellas bumping into each other, water dripping from our hair and down our necks.

 

The woman said: We didn’t expect this, and she held up a little bag that I recognized.  And I said: The pharmacy?  And the young man getting buckled into the car looked at her and said: Yes. We have to pick up our medicine. There was something slightly comical in his droning voice, as if he was repeating something he had heard –maybe once too often.

 

Anyway, with a little care we got them into their car (mostly dry) and wished them well and the young man and I headed back toward the store. The rain was letting up even more—just drips mostly. And he, as young men will do, lowered his umbrella and began closing up.  I turned to him and said, Thank you so much.  And he, giving his umbrella a shake, looked me in the eye and said:

No –Thank you.

 

And suddenly I could feel my old chin trembling and my eyes filling with tears. Suddenly I was thinking of that Gospel passage: Feed them yourselves, Jesus tells us.  Don’t wait for someone else to do it. Don’t hesitate because you don’t have enough.  Suddenly the lesson of the Gospel was quite clear. Just try. Offer. Give. Share. Whatever you have; God will do the rest.

 

Sunday morning, the rain, the anxiety, the simple need for help. It was all there. In the Gospels the Apostles tell Jesus, This is a lonely place, send the people away so they can find food and shelter. But Jesus says: Don’t send them away. Take care of them yourselves.

 

Yes.

 

And for me it all became clear because an old man afraid of the rain asked a stranger: Can I borrow your umbrella? And she said: Yes.

 

I must admit I envied her willingness to share, to simply say: yes, to someone in need. But I also envied that she was prepared, ready for that grace-filled moment.  Not just by carrying an umbrella, but despite whatever was going on in her life, by having a heart open to saying, Yes! Sure. Here you go; take mine.  Her generosity planted a seed in me that quite literally got soaked by the rain. Which means that the young man with his umbrella and his graciousness, was –in some sense—an apple falling from the tree. You see, our little gift may not be much, but we don’t know what God will do with it. We don’t know how God will use it, to change hearts, to inspire others, to feed a hunger in someone’s soul, or to just help a worried mother get her worried son safely back to their car.   

 

Open your eyes, and you will see: Miracles happening all around you. Open your ears and you will hear: the voice of God whispering His love, everywhere. It wasn’t the multiplication of the loaves and fishes this time, just the multiplication of the umbrellas, and the willingness to say: Yes! 

 

It may not sound like much, but for this soul in need on a rainy Sunday, it was more than enough.

Some thoughts for Corpus Christi Sunday 22 June 2025

 

“Give them some food yourselves.”

--Luke 9:12-17

 

The Gospel for today is Luke’s version of the famous feeding the multitude with five loaves and two fish. According to Luke there were about 5000 people who had come out into the countryside to listen to Jesus and it was getting late. The Apostles knowing it would be dark soon, ask Jesus to send the people away so they can find lodging and food.  But instead, Jesus tells them:

 

Give them some food yourselves.

 

Exasperated, the disciples complain, “We have no more than five loaves and two fish…” (9:13), and that is when Jesus tells them to have the people sit down and did something quite mysterious: He gave thanks for what little He had and shared it… with everyone.  

 

I like this story very much.  It has a special place in my heart and my life. I have been in that lonely place the Apostles worry about, a place where supplies are few, and hope seems to quickly fade. But today, the deacon at church gave a homily that focused on two things from this reading. First, that command to “Give them some food yourselves.”  Don’t expect someone else to do it. Don’t wait for the government to step in, or the church to start something. Feed them yourselves. When we see someone in need, we can’t just look away, or turn our backs on the problem.  Jesus is speaking to all of us, calling out to all of us: Here’s your chance. What are you going to do?

 

The other thing the deacon focused on was that small amount: 5 loaves and 2 fish.  That wouldn’t even feed the 12 Apostles, what difference would it make for 5000 or more hungry people far from home? When faced with need, or someone in trouble, how often do we dismiss our own ability to help by saying: What can I do? I’m just one person. The problem is too big, or their problem is too complex. I wouldn’t even know where to start. Plus, I don’t have enough money or resources to make any real difference. Anyway, I’ll probably just make things worse. So, instead of doing anything, too often, how often do we just close our eyes and turn away? Or worse, like the Apostles, someone needs our help and we just send them away;  tell them to try Casa Juan Diego,  Star of Hope, Salvation Army or Covenant House.

 

The deacon argued that we are called by the Gospel to live lives of charity and solidarity with the poor and the hungry. Solidarity with the lowly and the afflicted.  And, he promised that no matter what we had to offer, no matter how small or humble our gift, in God’s hands it would be enough  –in fact, more than we could ever imagine. I felt the tears filling my eyes and warming my cheeks even before I realized I was crying.  That small gift was exactly what I needed. It gave me hope. At a time when America is turning its back on the poor and the lowly in favor of tax breaks for the wealthy; when refugees are being rounded up by masked officers, detained in secret places, and deported to for-profit prisons in foreign countries, for a Catholic deacon to say again and again: Don’t send them away. Don’t send them away.  Take care of them yourselves. It felt like the beginning of a revolution.

What Kind of Greatness Do We Want?--Thoughts on the Gospel of Luke for the 6th Week of Ordinary Time

What does it mean to “Make America Great Again?”  Do we know with any certainty what our current president means by that? Does he mean powerful? Respected? Self-reliant? Wealthy? Secure? Feared?  I wonder.  And I wonder if even he knows what he means by that slogan. But, I think a more important question is: Do we know what we mean by that?

 

Each of us probably has a slightly different vision of what it means to be a great country. When you think of America and greatness, what comes to mind?  The Founding Fathers and the Declaration of Independence? The Constitution? Military power? The Lincoln Memorial? The Capital? Mt. Rushmore? Maybe it’s the Mississippi River? The Florida Keys? Or the Grand Canyon? George Washington crossing Delaware? A line of covered wagons crossing an empty prairie? Benjamin Franklin with his kite and key? Thomas Edison and his light bulb? Or Rosa Parks and the courage to just sit down, or Martin Luther King Jr. and his willingness to stand up…  

 

There are many kinds of greatness: political, economic, academic, artistic, athletic… But the “Sermon on the Plain” from the Gospel of Luke reminds us how God measures greatness.  This past Sunday (2/16/25) at Mass we heard a reading of the Beatitudes from the Gospel of Luke (6:20-26):

“Blessed are you who are poor, for the kingdom of God is yours.

Blessed are you who are now hungry, for you will be satisfied.

Blessed are you who are now weeping, for you will laugh.

Blessed are you when people hate you and when they exclude and insult you,

and denounce your name as evil on account of the Son of Man.

Rejoice and leap for joy on that day! Behold, your reward will be great in heaven.

For their ancestors treated the prophets in the same way…”

 

If we ever hope to “Make America Great Again” we might want to read up on what true greatness looks like.  It appears to have nothing to do with monuments or seats of power, human wealth, reputation or comfort. Nothing at all to do with “easy living.”  And yet we might still wonder: Ok... But, what does it actually look like? In practice? Lived out?  Luke has an answer for that, too. 

Next Sunday our Mass reading picks up at the very next verse (6: 27-38) and we get a clear glimpse of the greatness Jesus wants for us:

“To you who hear I say,

Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.  To the person who strikes you on one cheek, offer the other one as well, and from the person who takes your cloak, do not withhold even your tunic.  Give to everyone who asks of you, and from the one who takes what is yours do not demand it back.  Do to others as you would have them do to you… Stop judging and you will not be judged… Forgive and you will be forgiven.”

 

This sounds like true greatness to me, and only by measuring ourselves against these simple and clear instructions will we know the true measure of our greatness.  Turning away the hungry and disparaging or ridiculing our opponents (or enemies) will never make us great.  Instead, we should listen to the Blessed Virgin Mary and simply “Do whatever He tells you.” (John 2:5)

Left alone… Some thoughts for the 4th Sunday of Advent

 “And the angel left her.” –Luke 1:38

 

And the angel left her… In the story of the annunciation, the angel Gabriel appears to a young virgin named Mary, in a small town called Nazareth. While the young woman is alone, perhaps working on some chores, weaving a cloth, mending a tunic, or doing the Wordle, the angel comes to her with a startling message, something impossible even to imagine: that she, a young woman with little experience of life, and no particular security or position in the world, will become the mother of God. Mary is young and –like all of us—probably had plans for that day. She may have needed to go to the well and gather water for washing or for cooking, she may have had plans to do some shopping at the market, or to go for a walk and listen to the birds singing in the trees. And—like all of us—she had needs, desires and was disposed to the normal human limitations and difficulties of bodily existence: needing warmth and food and rest and a safe place to sleep at night. But this announcement of an unplanned pregnancy isn’t just some unexpected interruption to her plans to go hang out with friends. This announcement also put her life in peril, made her suspect in the eyes of her world, in the time and place where she lived the angel’s joyous announcement made her vulnerable to accusations punishable by stoning.  There is nothing easy or simple about the angel’s announcement. Like an earthquake, it must have shaken the very foundation of Mary’s existence, tipped over any well-ordered plans or expectations she had for the life she was planning, and shattered them like so much clay crockery.  And what happens next?

 

The angel disappears. Leaves Mary alone in a world that must have seemed utterly changed, yet still strangely “normal.” What was she supposed to do next? What would you do? What would I do? What would any of us do?  I think most of us would begin to doubt, begin to question? Did it really happen? Did an angel really appear? Or was it just a dream? Did an angel really say that? Or am I going crazy?

 

The angel leaves Mary, with no assurances of safety, no security against the meanness and hardness of the world. Mary knows that many (probably most) people will not believe her, and certainly she knows what they will suspect, even accuse her of.  And yet there she stands, alone with the memory of what has happened, what has been promised.

 

Many of us can feel especially alone at this time of year. Christmas holds so many memories and expectations for most of us: the lights, the trees, the music, the gatherings. Families getting together, friends throwing parties, going to church, holiday pageants, opening presents on Christmas morning.  All of it involves being with others, coming together in groups small or large. And to someone with no family nearby or friends to invite them over for a Christmas dinner, this time of year can feel particularly lonely.  All around you others are celebrating and singing around tables crowded with laughter and conversation, while you sit alone watching one more Hallmark movie or one more version of A Christmas Carol. Maybe that is why so many of the best Christmas songs are nostalgic and filled with longing… dreaming of a “White Christmas,” that never comes. (Can I get an “Amen,” Houston?)

 

But left alone, Mary doesn’t sit pondering her fate, or even questioning her sanity.  She gets up and goes “in haste” to her cousin Elizabeth, whom, she has just learned, is also unexpectedly expecting…  The gospel reading for the last Sunday of Advent 2024 reminds us of Mary’s haste to see her cousin. And I think that reading is the perfect lesson for how we should “make a straight path” in the wilderness of our world.  Mary’s example is our lesson.  Instead of worrying about herself and her own safety, she hears of another person’s need and she goes to it. She makes a straight path toward it –in haste, even. I think that tells us something about how we might straighten out our own lives and our own paths.

 

This Christmas, do you know someone in need? Do you know of someone who will be alone?  Give them a call. Write them a letter.  Better yet, walk over and knock on their door.  Get up and go “in haste” toward that need.  Perhaps that need is the gift you will find in your stocking this year.  Is there someone you haven’t spoken to in a long time? A family member or an old friend? Give them a call. Have you heard about someone in the hospital? That knowledge is a gift. It is a seed planted—in your heart-- waiting to bear fruit in a visit, or a phone call.  

 

Too often, we miss those gits because we are too worried about what to say, or do, or what will people think of us? Maybe we are even afraid they won’t be glad to see us… Don’t let fear get in the way of kindness.  Make haste… Become the love you want to see in the world. And know, that love is always the straightest path to joy, to peace, to renewal, to Christ. And to the certainty that we are never truly alone. Even in our darkest hour, the love that lights the world, is waiting for us—there at our side, like a candle in a window, or a star atop a tree—it is always there just waiting for us to look up and see.   

 

Merry Christmas to all, and to all not just a good night, but a blessed one, too.

Rejoice in the Lord… Making your path straight (The 3rd Sunday of Advent)

 

“Shout for joy, O daughter Zion!

Sing joyfully… the Lord is in your midst,

you have no further misfortune to fear…

The Lord, your God, is in your midst…

He will rejoice over your with gladness…

He will sing joyfully because of you…”

--Zephaniah 3:14-18

 

“Rejoice in the Lord always.

I shall say it again, rejoice!”

--Philippians 4:4-7

 

Last week the readings for the 2^nd Sunday of Advent encouraged us to make a straight path, and there was a sense that this was the point of—a time of straightening our path, straightening our houses, straightening our hearts, in preparation for a special visit.  In some sense, at this time of year, our daily lives become a kind of practice for this Advent lesson.  We rush around preparing ourselves and our homes for visitors, straightening up rooms, straightening up the yard, the path from the driveway to the front door, the path from the front door to the living room and the dinner table. We pick up dirty laundry, put way half read books and unfinished puzzles, unread mail gets piled up in a closet, and the cat litter boxes get scooped and cleaned and fresh filter. The path through the hallway to the bathroom gets swept and lightbulbs that have flickered for months or gone out weeks ago suddenly get changed. Everything is freshened, straightened up—we say. Rooms are vacuumed and cleaned, even the lamp shades get dusted …  We are filling in those valleys we have allowed to form, and mountains (of laundry, old mail, dishes) are suddenly made low.   In a very literal sense, Advent is a time of making straight and smoothing out the rough ways.  But why? Because we are expecting someone, a visitor, a friend or family member, perhaps even a stranger or two –your sister’s new fiancé, or your brother’s college roommate, somebody from work is stopping by--with their spouse…  And sometimes all of this preparation and rushing around can feel exhausting, overwhelming, taking the fun and the magic out of the season, leaving us drained and feeling more like a humbug than a herald angel who may or may not sing.  

 

And yet, this week, on the third Sunday of Advent, we have an added instruction: Rejoice!  And just so we get the message, it’s repeated in the readings, and it is the focus of the day.  The third Sunday of Advent is called “Gaudete” Sunday, which is Latin for rejoice.  And as I ponder making straight my paths, both spiritual and literal, it occurs to me that prayer and fasting and changes of behavior and appetite are important, but perhaps the most important change we have to make is in our attitude.  We have to stop looking at this whole God thing –our relationship with Him—as fear based, as if God was out to get us.  According to Zephaniah, the only way God is out to “get” us is to sing joyfully because of us.  God loves us, wants to spend eternity with us… rejoicing.

 

Have you ever been invited to a holiday party that you didn’t want to go to, but you felt obligated to attend. Perhaps your spouse had a work event, or there was a family gathering, a reunion, a holiday get-together… Whatever it was, think back: did you feel uncomfortable? Or did you feel at ease? Did you feel resentful or did you feel joyful?   And how did that attitude affect the party? Your behavior at the party? Did you try to put on a happy face and “grin and bear it?” Or did you (like I too often do) try to find a corner where you could hide with a cup of cider and a plate of cheese?

 

All around me people are chatting, laughing, talking –some even singing—and I am huddled on the edge of a couch with my little plate of cheeses and a wadded napkin that I keep unwadding to dab at some imagined crumb in my beard or on my lips. Trying to look pleasant, and yet desperately hoping not to be seen. And completely miserable. 

 

That discomfort and that constant self-awareness… That is a kind of Hell for me.

 

But does it have to be?

 

What if I made a straight path not for the cheese tray, but for the first person I see, even if it is someone I have never met before?  What if, instead of treating the party as an obligation, I rejoiced that I was invited. And what if I let that joy become my calling card, my greeting to anyone and everyone I met—whether I know them or not. What if I simply rejoiced, and let myself be seen? What if I took myself and my ego less seriously and let myself laugh and smile, be silly, be uncomfortable, and even occasionally embarrassed—and didn’t worry about what anyone thought about me or my cheese?

 

Well, what could happen?  Well…

 

One, I might find myself becoming more approachable —creating a kind of straight path for someone else to escape their own discomfort, for them to find someone to talk with, someone to laugh with or share their stories with, perhaps even someone they can rejoice with.

 

Two, it might allow God to work through me, to reveal through me the joy He feels whenever 2 or more are gathered…

 

Three, perhaps the best way for any of us to make a straighter path for God to enter into our lives, is to become more and more like Him. every day.  And perhaps the first step, the most important step, has nothing to do with rules or laws or even creeds and practices, but with our attitude.

 

But what does that mean? What does it look like in daily life? All smiling through the hard times and laughing off the struggles? Or just smooth sailing. No worries. Let a smile be your umbrella! Probably not.  Think about Mary and Joseph, given glad tidings by an angel, called to rejoice, but what happened next? No room at the inn, baby born in a stable, sent fleeing for their lives by Herod’s army, years in Egypt living in exile, and then her Son, the good news that the angel proclaimed, is cursed and called a madman by neighbors and friends, accused of blasphemy, abused by the powerful, and finally betrayed and crucified.  This rejoicing thing doesn’t sound like milk and cookies. It might be hard work, it might require a little more effort than simply turning your frown upside down.  Habits are hard to break. If –like me—you have a habit of trying to avoid crowds and hide with a book (or some cheese), you may find the Christmas season a little more challenging than merry and bright.  And yet, all we can do is try. Try to be joyful. Maybe that’s why Paul says it a second time: “Again I say rejoice.”  He’s reminding us, don’t give up! There is nothing more to fear…Just open the door. God will do the rest.

And if we need an example, someone to look to when we are struggling to rejoice, let us look to Mary. Ask yourself, how did Mary handle things when they got too big, too strange, too hard? She pondered them in her heart (cf. Luke 1:29; 2:19; 2:51).  And perhaps that is how we must handle things too. Perhaps that is how we train ourselves to rejoice. We train our hearts and minds to ponder, to contemplate, to allow the seed of God’s grace to be planted within us and give it time to grow, nourishing the soil of our soul with contemplation and pondering.  If something makes us uncomfortable, or anxious, let us ponder why. Perhaps, and let us ask God to open our eyes to the joy He is planting within us, the joy He feels at being in our presence—even when things aren’t going well, or at least not like we planned, or hoped.  Let us spend time pondering why we are afraid, and where we might discern God’s presence—even in what frightens us.  For me, that might mean looking for God’s presence in a stranger at the party, in the face of a stranger at the mall, or the eyes of an old friend I haven’t seen for years. In those moment of discomfort and challenge, where do I find God? And how?  That is worth pondering. And that is the path to joy.

This year, whether I am at the school Christmas party or the neighbor’s holiday gathering, or eating tamales with family I rarely see, when I get that urge to excuse myself and hide, I just need to take a moment to ponder and remember: There is nothing to fear. God is already here. With me. Right here. Right now. In this moment, and in these people. In fact, He is with me always…

 And even when times get tough, that is a reason for rejoicing.