What kind of king? What kind of Kingdom? Thoughts on the Solemnity of Christ the King.

What kind of king?

 

“Pilate said: So, then you are a king?”

--John 19:37

 

 

What kind of king gets scourged at a pillar and then nailed to a cross?  What kind of king gets abandoned by His friends and is dragged away and abused –helpless and alone?  Crowned with thorns and made to bear his own cross to the place of his execution…?  What kind of king do we have?  And yet we celebrate at the end of each liturgical year—the solemnity of Christ the King.

 

And yet for this solemn celebration, we read not about the resurrection, but about the trial and impending death of Jesus.  Perhaps to remind us what kind of King we have, and what we did to Him when He came among us. 

 

We were in Garland, Texas this past weekend and attended the vigil mass for Christ the King in a church we’d never been to before: The Good Shepherd.  A beautiful church. Being a stranger in a church can be a kind of blessing.  When you get too familiar with a place (or person) you may stop paying attention, stop noticing. And being someplace unfamiliar, puts us on alert. We can’t just blindly sleepwalk to the same old pew and settle into a narcoleptic stupor. The unfamiliar can open our eyes –maybe out of fear or anxiety, but also out of wonder. Suddenly, because of the new setting, or new faces and new voices, even familiar prayers can suddenly seem new and mysterious.   And in that unfamiliar setting, something new can break through; we might even finally hear the voice of God speaking to us through His words and through His people.

 

So there I sat in that unfamiliar place, surrounded by strangers, and feeling out of place, insecure, a little bit lost.  And when I heard Pilate asking Jesus: Are you a king?  I found myself looking around at the people around me, strangers, families, bored children and exhausted parents, ragged loners, and stoop shouldered elderly men and women… the rich and the poor, the very old and the very young, all of them come together, gathered, looking for something, hungering for something…

 

And it occurred to me: This is it! This is the Kingdom. Right here.  All around me.  The mother comforting her baby, the big sister helping her little brother, the father and the fatherless… exhausted and overwhelmed, the pious and the pitiful, the prayerful and the impatient.  Familiar and stranger, all of us… Gathered there like something out of the gospels; like those crowds that followed Jesus hoping for a miracle, hoping for healing, hoping for a sign; hoping for hope. Looking around I could see the merciful and the pure of heart, the meek as well as the peacemakers. I was sure some there were hungering and thirsting for righteousness, but I was also certain others were just hungering for dinner (since it was a vigil mass). But there they were… the Kingdom of God, and there I was (my wife by my side) sitting among them.

 

And sitting there, in that blessed moment I remembered something that happened just a few weeks earlier at our school Mass for All Saints day (Nov 1).

 

On holy days we usually have mass in our auditorium. When we do, I tend to be one of those teachers who stands by the wall, pretending to keep an eye on the students, trying to pay attention, while my mind wanders. So there I was, in a very familiar place, and falling into some very familiar patterns, trying to listen to the priest as he told us something about the beatitudes (which is the gospel for All Saints Day), but –as usual—finding myself distracted by thoughts of coffee and doughnuts… I remember he was making a connection between All Saints Day and the beatitudes and saying something about how there might be saints all around us, saints we never notice… I remember I liked what he was saying, but just as he was getting to his point, something happened.  At first, all I saw was one of the deans leap up from her seat and hurry to help someone. As I watched, I noticed two other teachers kneeling over a student who must have fainted. The dean rushed to them, and the school nurse was there, all of them helping this girl back to her feet, getting her up with such tenderness, such love, and such compassion. No hesitance, no fear. Without a pause, they simply stepped into the need of one of our girls.

 

That seems to me the perfect picture of a saint.  And that is what the kingdom of God looks like. A kingdom of saints… These were people I work with every day, people I often take for granted, but suddenly I was seeing them with fresh eyes, seeing them anew. Seeing them not just as coworkers and familiar faces, but as saints.

 

Perhaps it took being in a strange place, being startled out of the ordinary by the suddenness of a movement, for me to recognize it; to see the truth: the kingdom of God truly is among us.  We just have to wake up; just open our eyes and see it. See, the saints all around us. The merciful, the meek, the sorrowful and the helper… The kingdom of Christ is not like any earthly kingdom we can imagine. Not a place of splendor and riches. It is not a place of fame and fortune. It is a strange kingdom where to be first is to be last, and to live is to die to yourself and to follow a king who carries a cross. It is a place of saints hidden in the ordinary, saints who may be sitting on the pew right next to us, saints who walk always toward the need of another and never away. Always toward the king and His cross.   

 

Let this coming Advent be a time of strangeness. Let us all pray to be taken out of ourselves, out of the ordinary, even if it is just for a moment—so that we can see, and hear, and recognize the mystery of our king and His kingdom. A King who was born in a stable and slept in a manger, and who –if only we let ourselves see it—comes to us constantly, in the familiar and the strange, in the need of a stranger, or the kindness of a friend; there He is –if only we have eyes to see.

 

 

Thoughts on the Gospel for the 25th Sunday of Ordinary Time: The fairness of Love

 

And on receiving it they grumbled against the landowner, saying,

'These last ones worked only one hour,

and you have made them equal to us,

who bore the day's burden and the heat.'

 

--Matthew 20: 1-16

 

 

There is something quite comforting in the argument for fairness.  It asserts an equilibrium in the world that often doesn’t appear to be there, but that we think should.  The argument for fairness in any situation implies that there is a minimum to what we deserve: at least what is fair.  And what we see in this week’s parable from Matthew 20, is a story of fairness turned on its head.  It is exactly the ones who are demanding it, who have already received fairness.  They received a fair day’s wages, mutually agreed upon before they went to work. And yet, when they see that others have received the same amount for less work, they feel cheated.  They –in a sense—regret their agreement, regret the terms of their contract—so to speak-- and allow themselves to hope for more; then, in their disappointment, they complain about “fairness.”

 

Why? Because none of us truly wants what is fair.  We want something more, we want abundance, we want something like grace.  Perhaps even charity.  But we hide behind a word like “fair,” because it seems safe.  It announces that we are only asking for what we think we deserve, what we feel we have earned—what is fair.

 

But the thing is, life isn’t fair.  And—my thought is: we should be grateful.  I remember a night back in 1981-82, when I was driving home from work late at night.  I think it was when I worked backstage at the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.  (I like writing that.  Actually, I was working backstage at the Tower Theater, but that was the show they were putting on when I worked there.) Anyway, I was driving home about midnight on a Friday night after a long day at UST, and then a long night guarding the stage door at the Best Little Whorehouse… And as I drove down Memorial Drive in my old white Honda Civic (a stick shift, no AC, and only an AM radio), I remember stopping at the light at Memorial and Westcott.  I pulled up right next to a police car with 2 policemen already waiting at the light.  I looked over and nodded to them. One of them nodded back. I sat there for a bit, and then something happened, maybe I was changing the radio. KILT used to broadcast a concert from Gilley’s on the radio and maybe I had been listening to it and when it went off I probably started to change the channel, looking for something else. Anyway, clearly I got distracted and for some reason put the car in gear, let off the clutch and slowly and brainlessly drove right through the still red light --with a police car sitting right next to me. Very quickly I realized what I had done and slowed down as I expected the police car to flip on its lights and pull up beside me. But, instead after about 20-30 yards, the cruiser pulled beside me and one of the officers rolled down his window and gave me a tsk tsk gesture and a silly grin. Then, shaking their heads and laughing they drove on. Fair?  I should have been pulled over and given a ticket.  But, out of kindness, out of compassion, out of grace, the officers simply let me off with a very gentle warning.

 

None of us really wants what is fair. We want grace, we want compassion, we want love. We want to know that we were noticed and that we mattered.  We want to be appreciated so much that someone would give their life for us, if it came to that. We want the love of God to overwhelm us, because—and I think this might secretly be true of a great many of us—we don’t feel like we deserve it.

 

And so, in our insecurity, too many of us resent it when another person receives abundance and seemingly undeserved blessings. We resent the new employee who receives kudos and honors their first month on the job when we have done our job for years and never felt praised or even particularly noticed.

 

And yet, there is another element to this parable that might too easily be overlooked.  Like many parable, it begins with these words: The kingdom of Heaven is like…

 

The Kingdom of Heaven is like this… It’s not a place of fairness.  It is a place of blessing.  It is a place wherein the first will be last and the last will be first. What we must learn to realize is this: if that is what the Kingdom of Heaven is like—then that is a good thing, and we must learn to see the world, through that lens, we must learn to see our own life through that lens.  We must learn from the parable to refocus our attention on the truth.  Grace isn’t about fairness, grace isn’t about getting what we deserve, our fair share; grace is about love and if we just look at the Cross, we will get a beautiful reminder of how much fairness matters to God. 

 

The Kingdom of Heaven is like… a place where everyone is welcome, no matter when or how they come, and all will receive the same thing, in the same amount: the Love of God, overflowing, more than we could have ever imagined, or even hoped for.  Because God isn’t fair, God is love.

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.