The child Jesus as icon of reading brain

 The story of finding the young Jesus in the temple (Luke 2: 41-50) has been on my mind recently. In that story, after looking for him for 3 days, Mary and Joseph find the young Jesus sitting in the temple with the elders and what does the gospel say He was doing? He was listening to them and asking them questions (cf. Lk 2:46). It is Christ’s first encounter with the scribes and elders, and what is He doing? Not preaching or chastising, not correcting or telling them anything, but simply sitting with them, listening to them, and asking questions.
Listening and asking questions… That phrase keeps coming back to me in prayer and in meditation and even occasionally in the produce section at HEB. I think part of why this image of Christ resonates so deeply with me is because I am a librarian and in this image of Jesus I am reminded of something dear to my heart: the act of reading. What do we do when we read but listen to the voice of another, to the voice of Homer or Melville, Langston Hughes or Mary Oliver. And as we listen we might find ourselves growing curious, asking questions; Why did that happen? What does it mean? Is it true? How does it make me feel? Listening and asking questions.
Think about what the world would be like if we all did more of that. If instead of arguing or ignoring each other, we spent more time listening and asking questions, what would the world be like? And who would we be like?
Attentive, active, deep reading is a life skill like no other, it not only exposes us to ideas and art, history and imagining, but also to the practice of listening and asking questions. If we let it, it prepares us for a life of listening and asking questions. It is like Spring Training for being present to others, practice for quietly, humbly bearing witness to their story, their ideas, their feelings through patient and quiet attention. It is a life skill desperately needed today; and if we aren’t careful in this age of scrolling and streaming and AI-ing, we just might lose it and become like those idols the prophets are always talking about:

“They have ears but do not hear
and eyes yet do not see…” --Jeremiah 5:21

 

 

 

 

 

A great and fixed gulf: Lazarus and the rich man (Luke 16:19-31)--thoughts for the 26th Sunday of Ordinary Time

A great and fixed gulf: Lazarus and the rich man (Luke 16:19-31)

  

“But that is not all: between us and you

a great gulf has been fixed, to prevent those

who want to cross from our side to yours

or from yours to ours.” –Luke 16:26

That fixed gulf has been bothering me. It sounds slightly harsh, and even hard-hearted on the surface. And that feels like a kind of stumbling block messing with my idea of God’s love. Of course, having my ideas and notions challenged is almost always a good thing. Like most people, I too easily get set in my own patterns and habits of thinking. And it is good for me to be reminded that my ideas are not God’s. But, it is a particularly painful stumbling block just now because this week I have been listening to a few voices talk of “tough love.” And on the surface, a teaching like this might seem to be an affirmation of such talk. Tough love sometimes has to set boundaries, create barriers, even fix a great gulf between people, even people who want to help.  And yet, the tough love talk I heard seemed to have much more emphasis on the tough than on the love. And the voices seemed to only grow harder the longer they talked, opinions and ideas becoming fixed... The life-giving warmth of love fading into something cold and lifeless. So I am struggling with the idea of tough love, and with this vision of a gulf that seems intended to prevent the flow of mercy or compassion, and with the idea that this gulf was “fixed” (or created) by a loving God.

Ok; so, start there. (And yes—I understand this is a parable, and I may be over-thinking things. Again, let that be part of the very premise I am about to present.)

Now, with that groundwork in place, let me for a moment ponder some ideas about that “great gulf.” My initial concern is: why? Why would a loving, merciful, life-giving God (who—in fact-- is Love) “fix” a gulf between the saved and the lost to prevent souls from crossing? What would He be preventing? Repentance? Access to His grace? To His Mercy? His love? Why?

Of course, some might answer because real love is “tough,” and choices have consequences, therefore some souls may find themselves hopelessly suffering in Hell, because they deserve it. It’s natural consequences.  Divine justice. That reading turns this great fixed gulf into an element of God’s justice. Seen through the lens of “tough love” this fixed gulf is an actual barrier –like a vast chasm between two spaces, something like the afterlife’s version of the Grand Canyon—a truly uncrossable space—even for a Heavenly Evil Knievel. And yes, that feels like tough love. But, to my ear it doesn’t actually sound like God’s love.

And so, I turn back to the parable itself, wondering if there might be a clue about that gulf and how and by who it was fixed. A truth that might reveal something about the toughness of God’s love.

“There was a rich man who used to dress in purple
and fine linen and feast magnificently every day.
And at his gate there used to lie a poor man called
Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to fill
himself with what fell from the rich man’s table.
Dogs even used to come and lick his sores…”
Luke 16: 19-21

Do you notice another gulf in this story? The gulf between the rich man’s table and his gate? The gulf between the rich man’s feasts and Lazarus’s hunger? The gulf between his fine linen and purple garments and Lazarus covered with sores that are licked by the dogs. And what about those dogs? Are they there at the rich man’s gate to drive away poor ragged beggars? Or were they wild strays that also hungered for scraps, and licking the wounds of Lazarus was somehow a comfort to them and perhaps even him?

Ah, but I must let those dogs run free for now, and return to that fixed gulf. As I read this parable, that gulf isn’t fixed by God—but by the rich man. And it isn’t waiting for him somewhere in eternity, it is forming inside of him every time he feasts, and every time he turns away from the needs of the beggar who waits at his gate. It isn’t a sign of God’s judgment, but of the choices, the blindness and the selfishness that have shaped his life. It is a habit of the soul and is fixed by choice, not by God. The rich man lived a life of chasms and barriers, a life of self-protection, and self-defense one might say, protecting his own comfort and defending his own security with wealth and gates and dogs (maybe) and protecting himself from discomfort and vulnerability by carefully managing his finances and willfully turning away and ignoring others—especially those unpleasantly in need. This fixed gulf is not an imposed barrier or punishment from a righteously indignant God, but a sign of a Loving God’s willingness to allow His creation the freedom to be who and what we choose to be. Even if that means we make a private Hell from our own choices.

And this reading—again, let me remind you (and myself ) that my understanding could be clouded by my own willfulness or prejudices, focused through the lens of my own theological preferences, BUT… there are two things about God that seem pretty clear to me: 1st, that the Love of God excludes no one, and 2nd that the way we receive that Love is what determines our eternity. Are we open to it? Do we long for it? Have we nurtured within ourselves the desire to be in His presence, to enter fully into His love? To die to ourselves and say with utter certainty: Thy will be done? Or have we nurtured within ourselves a desire to become our own gods, to selfishly protect and defend our own opinions and ideas like they were sacred idols, make an altar of our own security and safety, putting always our own desires and needs on that altar, and chanting always to ourselves: My will be done?

In fact, I wonder now, isn’t it clear that—how we live shapes that gulf and fixes it in place. A tough love that excludes others, drives them away, ignores their humanity or has no patience, compassion or sympathy for frailty and weakness --that kind of love --Is it really love? Or is it actually an emptiness that creates a gulf and fixes it inside my own heart by ignoring those in need, the vulnerable, the challenging, the lost, those who are different, those who make me uncomfortable?

Or have I built a bridge across that gulf by opening my heart and life to those in need, by feeding the hungry, caring for the sick and the sorrowing, visiting the prisoners of poverty and loneliness as well as those in actual prisons?

 

In other words, we can hide from love behind a gulf of “toughness” or we can lay down our lives, take up the cross, and let the Love of God become a bridge between us. 

 

And all of this does have (for me) a very personal connection.  I had a brother who was not easy to love. He was an addict, a thief, a drunk, a man who would promise to change, but found the effort often beyond him. And there was a time when I turned away from him. Didn’t want him around my family, my children because I was afraid of what he might do or say.  He made life hard, uncomfortable. And things often got broken when he was around—vases, toys, feelings.  I was afraid of him, of what his needs might demand from me, and of losing the secure, comfortable life I was trying to build for myself.  In the end, as he was dying in utter poverty, his dog, always beside him, his only comfort… I have to wonder.  What would have happened if I had taken up his cross, instead of driving him away?  I was not a bad brother, helping him with money when needed, talking to him on the phone for hours when he would call… But I was not a brother who was willing to lay down his comfortable life for the sake of another.  My love wasn’t tough.  It was cowardly.

 

The memory of my brother, and my failure, has shaped my life. Every day I must ask myself: Have I fixed a gulf or become a bridge? Which kind of love sounds tougher to you? And which one sounds more like Jesus?

Take up your cross and follow Me, Jesus says.  Talk about toughness.

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 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.

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.