And who is my neighbor --Some thoughts for the 15th Sunday of Ordinary Time & the Parable of the Good Samaritan

 "But wanting to justify himself,
he said to Jesus: And who is my neighbor?"
Luke 10:25-37

The Catholic church follows a liturgical cycle of readings. What this means is that the readings at each mass are pre-determined, scheduled, following a 3-year plan. The cycle completes itself and starts over every 3 years. Years are designated A, B & C---and currently, we are in year C.  What this means in practice is that instead of a priest or liturgist selecting particular passages from scripture because they fit some pastoral concern or address a specific issue, the readings are determined by the cycle and every 3 years on the 15^th Sunday of Ordinary Time, we hear the same series of readings including the story of the Good Samaritan. One of the odd blessings about such a system, is that the choice is not ours, the message is not selected by us, but imposed upon us and that imposition, if we allow it, can become a blessing of opportunity.  It calls us out of the hamster-wheel of our habits and hungers and preferences, and invites us to look at life through a different lens, see the world around us from a different point of view.

 

And so, in the midst of all the strange and terrible goings on in our country, a president who seems to think he is a king, a congress that acts like cartoon minions, and agents of the government running around in masks arresting nursing mothers, day-laborers, and college students, we might have wanted to hear a message about justice or about the collapse of society, about God’s wrath on corrupt leaders… But, instead this Sunday at mass we will hear the parable of the Good Samaritan, and each of us will be given the opportunity to consider: what kind of neighbor am I?  

 

The story of the good Samaritan is probably one of the most familiar of all the parables. It is the story of a man who is beaten and robbed and left for dead on a roadside and three people who walk by his naked body.  Two of them, a priest and a lawyer, keep going. They see the man, but walk on without helping.  Only the third, a Samaritan (someone Jesus’s audience wouldn’t have wanted to associate with), stops and helps the man, caring for his wounds and taking him to safety.  Re-reading this parable I have come to wonder if it may be the most radical of all the parables.  Not only does the Samaritan stop and help the wounded man, but he takes him to an inn, watches over him, then pays the inn-keeper extra money to help.

 

And it all starts with a lawyer asking about the law, about the rules, asking about what is required to be a good Jew; as if he is trying to get Jesus to say: these are the minimum requirements to avoid breaking the law, to stay out of trouble with God.  The lawyer has quoted the law to Jesus, the rules: You must love God with all your heart, and love your neighbor as yourself.  And when Jesus affirms it, the lawyer, as if looking for a loophole, asks: But, who is my neighbor?

 

The lawyer’s simple question reverberates with the self-justifying sound of fear. Behind it one senses a fear of obligations and limitations, and the very human worry about having enough, about running out of time, energy, resources. But instead, Jesus answers with a story of generosity and compassion, discomfort and self-sacrifice.  The Samaritan is on a trip, headed somewhere, he doesn’t know the man, has no obligations toward him, and yet he alone, of the three responds with love; he alone sets his own plans and needs, perhaps his own obligations and limitations aside responds with compassion, selflessly allowing the needs of another to become an opportunity to serve.   Historically, Samaritans were seen by the Jews as outcasts or rejects; heretics and half-breeds. And yet it is the Samaritan, not the “good Jews,” the Priest and the Levite, who shows concern for the victim, who treats even a stranger with compassion, with love.

 

Instead of answering in legal terms, Jesus flips the question with a story about radical kindness. Shifting the focus from requirements and culpability to generosity, He asks the lawyer: Which of the three, do you think, acted like a neighbor?  He turns the focus away from othering, from borders and tribal distinctions --who is my neighbor—making it personal –what kind of neighbor am I? 

 

Who is my neighbor, the lawyer asks, and Jesus responds with a parable about a stranger, and radical compassion.

 

Jesus is challenging us to act with love not just toward family and friends, classmates or co-workers, not just the easy and the familiar, but to treat with love, with radical generosity, even when its uncomfortable, when its unplanned and disruptive to our schedule, even when it’s scary.  He calls us to see through the Law into the Love. A Love that connects, that binds us all, friend and foe, family and stranger.

 

And there are few stranger than our current president, and few more frightening, and possibly none who needs love more –unless, of course, we count the widows, the orphans, the homeless, the refugees, the prisoner, the naked, the hungry, the thirsting…

 

And yet, even as I write this, I wonder might we not find all these qualities lurking somewhere beneath the prideful and belligerent façade of this man who seems to think he is a king.  And yet, again, are we not called to love all people? Not just those who are easy to love, who make us feel comfortable, or safe. The real opportunity comes unplanned, in the uncomfortable, in the chance to give of ourselves completely, without expecting anything in return.  

 

And one thing this parable makes uncomfortably clear: it is impossible to love someone if we are too busy “othering” them. Whether it is the immigrant, the refugee, the disabled, the different, or just a poor victim left wounded and naked in a ditch.

 

One of the blessings of having a liturgical cycle, is that readings are forced upon us; imposed, instead of proposed. And because they are, they can catch us off-guard, unprepared, surprising us with their prophetic truth and demanding that we pay attention.   In a sense, they come as unexpected as an encounter with a stranger in need. Whether it’s comfortable or not, we are called to listen, to engage, and if we are willing—to respond, to be changed, to let the words challenge and change us.  

 

Perhaps this moment in American history is a similar kind of challenge. We can debate the president’s policies and behavior all we want, but we must realize—he is ours, we elected him, and in some very frightful way—he is us! He is a challenge to be met, and we can either keep walking, pretending we don’t see, or we can stop and say: this cannot be. I must do something.

 

Is this not a time when we musts stop looking at borders and races, memberships and “tribes,” and instead open our eyes to the humanity of all people, look upon even those who don’t look like us, act like us, think like us, not as a problem to be avoided or cast out, but as an opportunity to encounter and become. Instead of asking: Who is my neighbor? we must ask: Who is in need? And what can I do to help?  In this unexpected and unplanned moment, we find not just a challenge or a duty or an obligation, but an opportunity to become the people we all want to be, the person who walks toward the cross, the neighbor who—in our hour of need—we all hope to see.

 

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.