Denying yourself and taking up your cross: The 22nd Sunday in Ordinary Times

 

 

“…but whoever wishes to save his life, will lose it…”

--Matthew 16: 21-27

 

The readings for this Sunday are in such strange and perfect harmony that I—for one—feel grateful to whomever it was that arranged the schedule of readings so many years ago.  I believe the plan for mass readings and the revision of lectionary happened quite a long time ago—perhaps the 1970s—but please correct me, or inform me if you know the who and the when of it. But, thank you to whomever did this, and set in motion today’s cycle of readings. They sowed the seed, never knowing what soil would receive it.

 

What caught my attention in these readings was the theme of giving your life to God. And I think the most efficient way for me to address this theme is backwards: starting with the final reading—the Gospel, because I believe that the key to the series is found in the Gospel and that the other 2 readings (and the psalm) are –in some sense—clarifying texts.  One might consider these other 2 readings as forming a pair of lenses through which we more clearly glimpse the truth of the teaching in the Gospel—despite the fact that if our ophthalmologist were to hand us our new glasses with 2 such lenses we might find ourselves mistaking display cases for patients, and bathroom doors for exits, as we stumbled about trying to find our balance.  Hence, even trying on such lenses we must be cautious how we see and how we go.

 

The Gospel for today is Matthew 16: 21-27, and in it we have 2 important lessons. First, Peter’s clumsy attempt to either comfort or correct Our Lord. Immediately after Jesus hints at the fate awaiting Him in Jerusalem, Peter takes Him aside and seems to be trying to place a hand over His mouth, “God forbid, Lord! No such thing will ever happen to you.” (cf. MT 16: 22) To which Jesus responds, “Get behind me, Satan. You are an obstacle to me. You are not thinking as God does, but as human beings do.”

 

And breaking this down, we may find ourselves somewhat sympathetic to Peter’s position. Just a few verses before he was named top dog disciple.  He was renamed “the Rock” upon which Jesus would build His church (cf. Mt. 16:18).  And here –again, just a couple of verses later—he is being referred to as “Satan.” What could this mean? Well, I wonder if it has something to do with the detail of “taking Him aside”? Drawing Jesus to the side and trying to do a little damage control, Peter becomes a tempter. Regardless of any good intentions, Peter is tempting Jesus to soften or even veer away from the difficulties of doing God’s work. And by drawing Jesus aside, he is creating a situation of further temptation—a moment of secrecy, wherein temptation might grow (like mold growing in a dark corner of a damp closet).  This is a vision of how Satan works. Satan draws us into secrecy and hidden opportunities to turn away from the life that God has given us. To soften our commitments or renounce our decisions. Think of the alcoholic or the pornography addict, the gambler or the drug addict. How often does a moment of solitude become a moment of temptation? Or—more likely-- how often does temptation itself lead them to seek a moment of solitude wherein they might surrender to whatever demons is driving their desires.

But Peter is not dispensed with.  He remains the key disciples, despite what has just transpired. In fact, his failing here, prompts one of the most important teachings in all the gospel:

 

Then Jesus said to his disciples,

"Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself,

take up his cross, and follow me.

For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it,

but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. (Mt. 16: 24-25)

 

In other words, thinking like human beings means playing it safe: clinging to security, valuing comfort, earthly success, pleasures, or even just security (cf. Peter’s aside).  But thinking like God means giving ourselves completely, holding nothing back —regardless of what comes next.

 

That seems pretty clear, but then we remember our glasses and try them on, blinking and squinting through first one lens and then the other. Squinting through lens #2—Paul’s letter to the Romans—we see something interesting taking shape.  It looks like prayer, and yet it isn’t simply someone kneeling in a pew. It’s a figure working at a job, or taking time to help a neighbor, or perhaps turning off the TV, putting down their phone, or shutting off their opera records and getting up to empty the dishwasher. Perhaps even folding the laundry and putting it away. An amorous husband, putting aside his own desires to rub his wife’s feet and sing her a lullaby:

“Goodnight, Irene, goodnight, Irene… I’ll see you in my dreams…”

Through this lens we see that denying ourselves and taking up our cross, isn’t just a “spiritual practice” or a form of self-sacrifice, it becomes our worship—our prayer even.  And this reminds us that our prayer isn’t meant to be just words whispered over a meal or at bedtime, not just ritual for ritual’s sake—not even just a way of forming mental habits, but our prayer is a practice that –in fullness—should change our way of life. See through this lens, I realize: our prayer is our life, and our life is our true prayer.

Okay, so far so good.  But then we have that other lens; what I am calling lens #1. This lens is the reading from Jeremiah. In this bitter, tirade against God, we see the lesson of Christ as if through a prism (to use an ophthalmological image)—the prism of Jeremiah’s experience; his life lived for God.  And what we see is a kind of frightening clarity to the outlines of such a vague and sweetly sounding life.

“You duped me Oh, Lord, and I let myself be duped…
All the day I am an object of laughter, everyone mocks me...”

 

The prophet has denied himself, his own plans, his own choices, his own life and he has taken up his cross, his mission, the mission of proclaiming God’s message to Israel.  And, even though this was a mission from God, given by God to Jeremiah, it has been an utter failure; nothing good has come of it, only derision and reproach. And rejection by God’s people and their leaders. Things are so bad, that Jeremiah considers giving up, turning away, abandoning his mission (and perhaps God as well).   

 

“Even when I say to myself, I will not mention Him;

I will speak in His name no more,

then it becomes like fire burning in my heart,

imprisoned in my bones;

I grow weary holding it in;

I cannot endure it…” (cf. Jeremiah 20:8-9)

 

 One lesson we can pretty clearly derive through this lens is this: Giving your life to God does not assure you of comfort, security, honor or praise. In fact, as Jesus reminds us again and again in the Gospels: it often leads straight toward Calvary and the cross.

 

Which leads me to my last thought:

Today at mass, listening to the readings, I looked up at the wall and saw that I was sitting right under the image of Station VII: Jesus falls a second time. And for some reason, I kept gazing at that image even thought the mass went on—the 1^st reading, the psalm, the 2^nd reading; I stood up as everyone else did for the gospel, but I was still gazing at that image above me: Jesus falling a second time. And I realized: that is the entire message summed up in one image, right there!  Jesus falls a second time.  He is denying Himself and has literally taken up His cross, and the path he trods isn’t easy. He stumbles once and is ridiculed and abused, but He doesn’t give up. He rises, takes up His cross and continues the journey, knowing that He will stumble again (even a third time), but every time He gets back up and takes up the cross again. Never quitting, never turning away from the call to deny Himself, take up His cross and follow God’s call, to walk ever more closely with God. His will to serve His Father, our will to be like Him, to follow Him –that is the worship Paul is describing; that is the way to fulfillment, to becoming like our Lord, our God. When we are hungering for our addictions, we are seeking momentary pleasure or respite; it is ephemeral and passes away. It is, in the end, a moment’s satisfaction that leaves us even hungrier; as if we had drunk saltwater in an effort to slake our thirst. As if sin stirred in our souls an appetite for hunger itself.  And no matter how often we feel sated by a moment’s pleasure, the desperate need returns, the satisfaction fades, the pleasure disappears, that life is like foam from a wave, melting in the sand; there for a moment, then gone. No matter how desperately we try, it is a life we cannot cling to, because it is already lost even before it is gone.

 

Like the psalmist says: my flesh pines, my soul thirsts… for God, for you Oh Lord, my God whom I seek. (cf. Psalm 63).

 

Our flesh, our soul, our very being thirsts for God and only one thing will satisfy that longing. Let go of your safety net, your ego, your broken dreams; lay down the life you hoped for, the life you planned, the life that society keeps telling you will bring honor and success and power, and look around you for the cross that is waiting just for you.  It is there, waiting for you to take it up and find –for the first time, perhaps—you are finally alive.  Yes, you will stumble. Yes, you will fall. Like Peter, like Jeremiah, like Jesus Himself… But that’s okay. Get just get back up and remember one thing: Don’t be afraid. This is what it means to truly be alive! You, me, all of us… Quite literally, we were made for this.

 

 

 

Mourning for the one we have pierced--Thoughts on Zechariah 12:10 (not 10:10)

 

“I will pour out on the house of David

and on the people of Jerusalem,

a spirit of grace and prayers,

and they shall look on him whom

they have pierced and they shall mourn

as if for an only son, and they shall grieve

as one grieves for a first born…”

 

Zechariah 12:10

 

 The familiar passages of scripture, the ones we hear over and over again—year to year—are often the most comforting.  They show up, unannounced, like old friends or family –and (like family & friends) often just in time for the holidays.  And, we know them so well everything feels automatic.  We hear that familiar voice, the cackle of a familiar laugh, and we are suddenly transported. For instance, when my oldest friend (David) stops by for coffee, we almost immediately become a couple of 4^th graders again—talking about teachers and kickball, St. Jerome’s and Ridgecrest Elementary, trips to K-mart and T,G & Y. We don’t think about it, we just fall right back into the old days and ways without even trying. 

 

For me, it is he same with familiar sayings and bits of information.  I can’t help but see the number 714 without thinking of Babe Ruth.  That was how many homeruns he hit.  Until Hank Aaron came along, it was considered the unbreakable record in baseball. For me, it is still the most important statistic in all of sports history.  But is that because I see it through the lens of nostalgia? I read that number on a sheet of paper, a computer screen, and without thinking, automatically, I see Babe Ruth circling the bases on those impossibly twiggy legs of his. 

 

I read these words from Zechariah and I immediately think of the Stations of the Cross. I picture Jesus pierced by the Roman soldier’s spear.  And –to some extent—that is appropriate.  The words evoke that image, and they are often read as part of the liturgy during Lent,  often included as part of the Stations meditations we read, when we pray the Stations of the Cross.  But, the other morning when I was reading these words, for some reason I paused for a moment and wondered: Wait a minute!  Why? Why would the Israelites return from exile in Babylon, be restored to their homeland, have a spirit of grace and petition poured out upon them, and suddenly begin mourning? Who do they look at? Who have their pierced?  Not Jesus, because these words were written at least 300-500 years before He was born.  Who have they pierced, and who are they looking upon? 

 

You see.  When I automatically think of Jesus, I’m not really reading the words? I’m not really paying attention to the text (or the context).  In a sense, I’m only reading what I expect to read—not what is actually on the page. And that’s not actually reading. 

 

So I went back to the words on the page in my Book of Christian Prayer, and then I looked them up in my Bible. And when I did, two things stood out to me: first, the citation in my prayer book was wrong; probably a typo.  It referenced Zechariah 10:10-11a, however, the words actually come from Zechariah 12:10-11a.  That stood out to me, because it reminded me that even experts with all their degrees and training can make mistakes.  Can get things wrong. Second, rereading the words in my Bible, I found myself struck by the context of the exiles returning to Jerusalem.  God promises to smite their enemies and to pour upon them a spirit of grace and petition. So why does the author include those words about that pierced one and mourning as if for an only child?  It sounds like it should be a time for celebration and cheers of joy, prayers of thanksgiving. But Zechariah speaks of mourning as if for a first-born child. Why had I never noticed that before?

 

Because I was blinded by prejudice—by pre-judgement. I had already made up my mind what the words meant, what they prefigured, and so I didn’t actually read the words, I read only what I expected from them. Sometimes 714, is just a number—not a statistic.

 

But this year, reading these familiar words with new eyes, I was astonished by their power and beauty and profound and personal message.  And it all started with a bit of curiosity: Why do people who are being saved begin to mourn? And who, exactly, is this pierced one that they are looking at?  And suddenly I knew. They are morning not for an only child, but as if for an only child.  They are being blessed by God, and they are mourning because they know they do not deserve God’s grace. They are mourning because the one who saved them, the one who is blessing them, is the one they pierced—not with a lance, but with idols and betrayals and hypocrisy and sin.  And I was stunned.  Suddenly I remembered the times that I too had experienced kindness and generosity at the hands of someone I had betrayed or gossiped about, or just thought ill of. I felt again the shame and the sorrow of knowing my own failing, my own weakness and smallness. How little I deserved the generosity and kindness, and how ashamed (and yet grateful) I was to receive them.

 

And that image recalled to me the reason these words are so important to our reading for Lent, for Holy Week, for contemplating the Passion of Our Lord. Because they remind us, not just of the lance of the Roman Soldier, but of he lance of my own sharp tongue, the piercing lance of my own selfish heart, my self-serving pride, and of the one who poured out His blood for us anyway.

 

And so, today—as I write this—on easter Monday, I read these words and think not of Lent and the Passion, but of Easter and the Resurrection.  I look upon the one I pierced and see Him resurrected,  pouring His spirit upon me, upon us all, as He brings us forth from the exile of sin (and death), restoring us to life and opening for us gates of a new Jerusalem: His Blessed Kingdom.

 

Reading these familiar words, I had my eyes opened. I realized something about God’s word, that it requires vulnerability and curiosity—if we want to really read it, we have to open ourselves up to the risk of having our ideas and our hearts changed. A reading lesson for an old librarian—and a life lesson for all of us. Pre-judging something (or someone) can cause us to miss out on so much…

Palm Sunday 2023--Why should we expect anything different? Thoughts on the Passion from the Gospel of Matthew

 

“And many women were there, watching from a distance;

the same women who had followed Jesus from Galilee

and ministered to Him.” –Matthew 27:55

 

 My usually approach to contemplating scripture is to see what stands out to me as I read it—what troubles me, or confuses me; what makes me pause and wonder why.  And this morning as I was reading the Passion narrative from Matthew, there were a few bits and pieces that caught me off guard. First this passage about the women, which makes me think about how often it is the women who remain faithful, who stand up when there is trouble and never turn away: mothers, wives, sisters standing by the bedside of the dying, visiting the sick, holding the hand of the prisoner .  Why is that women are the ones who so often show this courage (or faithfulness)?  Is it because women so often go unnoticed? That soldiers and guards don’t feel threatened by their presence, don’t even acknowledge it often enough.  Them—they’re just women.  That humility and that invisibility, is it something that women learn early in life and is it that abuse or that bias that gives these women the courage to remain close to Jesus, after all the apostles (males) have fled in terror and confusion?

 

I wondered about that for a bit.  And then I wondered about an interesting image from the Garden of Gethsemane scene.  What caught my attention this time was the three disciples that Jesus took with Him when he went off to be alone: Peter, James and John (cf. Mt 26: 36-46).  The same three He took with Him when He was transfigured on the mountain (cf. Mt. 17: 1-8).  I also noticed another similarity. In both cases a cloud comes over Jesus. On the mountain it is a literal cloud (the presence of God), but here it is a figurative cloud—a sadness and anguish.  And reading this morning, I wondered: Was this moment not another kind of transfiguration? On the mountain the disciples witnessed the Godliness of Jesus through a transfiguration, and here they glimpse (perhaps only for a moment) the fullness of His humanity through His anguish. He tells the three, “My soul is sorrowful to the point of death…” And just like on the mountain, the three friends are found on the ground, there in fear and awe; here in the garden they are exhausted and have fallen asleep.  So again I wonder, why?  Is Matthew trying to tell us something with these parallels, or am I just misreading these stories through my own idiosyncratic lens? 

 

But then something else occurred to me.  The story itself: the Passion and death of Our Lord.  What does it mean to us? What does it teach us about the Love of God?  And what does it teach us about what we should expect from a Christian life?

 

“Take up your cross, the master said, if you would my disciple be…”  sings the old hymn. And so we are reminded again and again of that call to follow Christ, and what it means to follow Him.

 

But still, we hear this same story year after year, over and over again.  For almost 2100 years, now.  And yet, we still seem to expect a different ending. Every year as we read this story—a kind of strange anticipatory hope comes over me, as if this time—perhaps—the disciples won’t flee, this time, the guards won’t abuse, this time the priests won’t spit, this time Pilate won’t give in, this time Judas won’t betray.  This time, things will be different.  This time victory won’t come in the form of a cross. But that is my way, that is our way; it isn’t God’s way.

 

“Take up your cross, the master said, if you would my disciple be…”  the old hymn sings. And yet we still look for another way, an easier way.  We look for a victory that feels more safe, that seems more comfortable, more to our liking—more victorious (by our standards).  But that isn’t the victory God chose, and it isn’t the victory He calls us to. 

Each time you look at the cross, you see the victory of Christ, the throne—so to speak—of God’s victory.  So why after hearing this story for 2100 years do we keep looking, hoping, expecting something easier, something different?  Why do we keep thinking we should be able to have victory without the cross? Hosannas without the Passion? 

 

Recently I read or heard someone talking about how anti-Catholic (or anti-Christian) bigotry was the last acceptable prejudice.  I don’t know if this is true or not, but the speaker seemed quite indignant about it. And this morning I am wondering –why not? If Christians are truly following their master, shouldn’t they expect to be rejected? Shouldn’t they expect that the only crown they will receive in this world will come with thorns, and it will be bejeweled only by the drops of their own blood.

 

Instead of demanding glory, or mercy or even respect, when faced with the brutality of sin, Jesus accepted the abuse and gave "[His] back to those who beat me/ [His] cheeks to those who plucked [His] beard;/ [His] face [He] did not shield from buffets and spitting." (cf. Isaiah 50:4-7). 

 

Why do Chrsitians imagine anything else? As Jesus warned us, if they treat the Master in this way, will they treat His servants any better? (cf. John 15:20) Instead of demanding respect, perhaps Christians should follow the example given in Isaiah; stop trying to protect our faces from the spitting and our backs from the beatings, and take up our Cross and follow our King--to His throne.

 

After 2100 years, there are still so many lessons for us to learn, and I fear—none of them will come easy.

 

I wish you a blessed Holy Week and I pray that you will find, as you take up your own particular cross, that you are not alone. There is someone’s shoulder lifting it right there beside you.

 

God Bless you, and I will see you the other side of Easter!