Meditation for the 2nd Sunday of Ordinary Time

Meditation for the 2^nd Sunday of Ordinary Time

“Do whatever He tells you...”

--John 2:1-11

The last words we hear from the Blessed Virgin Mary are pretty good advice: Do whatever He tells you.  They are spoken in the famous Wedding at Cana story.  And much has been made of their important advice.  Do whatever He tells you.  Yes. Good advice, for sure. And because what happens next is the first miracle, or as John calls them signs, i.e.  the first manifestation of Christ’s glory, it would seem to be pretty important advice too.

In this too familiar story wherein Jesus turns the water into wine, we are presented with that striking moment when Mary comes to her Son and says: “They have no wine,” to which Jesus responds: “Woman, how does your concern affect me. My hour has not yet come.” (cf. 2:3-4) Mary then turns to the servants and gives them her advice: Do whatever He tells you.   And the servants do it and suddenly there is more than enough wine and the wine is so good that the steward thinks the hosts have held back their best wine for the last.  This wonderful little story (11 verses) is rich with theological truths that have been explored and expounded since the days of the Church fathers.  So, I wasn’t imagining that I would be making any new or important discoveries, however I wanted to try my hand at it. And yet as I set pondering Mary’s advice, I found myself instead drawn to something else even more:  What He tells them to do...

Jesus tells them to fill the jars with water, and they do. They fill them to the brim.  Then He tells them to “draw some out and take it to the master of the feast.” (2:8)  And that was somehow the part that caught my attention as I listened Sunday during mass.  That part about the water.  Jesus didn’t ask the servants to do anything magical or dramatic or exotic or even out of the ordinary.  He simply asked them to fill the jars with water.  And then He asked them to present some of it to the “master of the feast.”  It was as if I had heard this story for the first time.  I couldn’t stop thinking about that water.  It’s just water.  That is all they bring.  And yet it is wine by the time they present it to the steward (or master).   And it isn’t just any wine, it is the good wine (sometimes translated: best).  What does this little detail mean? The water?

I can’t say for certain, but I want to propose something.  Water. It is common and every day we use it to rinse and wash and flush and soak and moisten and even to drink... We give it away for free at restaurants.  We forget to shut off the sprinkler (sometimes overnight) and waste it.  But, not to worry—it’s only water. I was thinking about that.  How Jesus asks the servants to do something they probably did every day of their lives: fill the water jars with water.  Nothing special.  Just do you work.  And they did. They did it with integrity. They filled those jars to the brim.  And that was all that Jesus required of them and that was how the first sign came to be; how the Kingdom of God began to be revealed; by some servants doing their menial everyday chore.  But there is one more piece to that puzzle: they did it for Jesus. 

Do you want to bring about the Kingdom of God? Do you want to be part of a sign, part of a miracle, a manifestation of God’s glory?  You don’t have to be a priest or a nun or a missionary to a foreign land; just do your work, your ordinary every day work –but do it for Jesus. Are you a math teacher? Teach for Jesus. You don’t have to proselytize, just teach each student with love and compassion and kindness.  Are you a salesperson? Then treat each of your customers as if they too were beloved children of God. Are you an executive, a company leader: then lead with patience and love and gentleness and integrity and honesty.

Jesus isn’t asking us to go out into the desert and wear sackcloth and eat locus.  He is asking us to bring our ordinary lives and work and live them and work them for Him. Bring Him your water: your tears, your sweat, your labor, your rest, your sorrow and your joy, even your laughter; give it to Him.  Fill the jars full with it. Even up to the brim. If we do that, He will do the rest: He will turn our water into wine. And not just Boones Farm; we’re talking something really good. We are all invited to this wedding feast –come. Bring some water with you. You don’t want to miss this. 

Who will you become? Some thoughts on the martyrdom of Razis in 2 Maccabees

15 Jan 19

 “...he tore out his [own] entrails

and taking them in both hands

flung them down on the crowd...”

--2 Maccabees 14:46

This seems to me the strangest story in all of scripture.  Unwilling to fall into the hands of his enemies, a man attempts to throw himself upon his sword and misses the mark (cf 14:37-46).  Next, bleeding, but still alive, he rushes to the top of a high tower which the enemies have surrounded. From there our hero throws himself off –thinking to land on his enemies and possibly do them some harm.  However, they simply step aside and let him hit the ground.  Then, blood “spurting in all directions,” and still not dead yet,  he gets up and still has the strength and intestinal fortitude to run to the top of some rocks where he –as we read above—tears out his own entrails and flings them down on his would-be killers[1].  Certainly, this is at least one of the oddest story in the Bible[2].   It reads like a mash-up of a John Carpenter movie, a Greek tragedy and a Monty Python sketch.  But why? What is the author trying to tell us with this decidedly gruesome and strangely comical death scene[3]? 

So much of Maccabees (1 & 2) dwells on the suppression of the Jews, their rebellion and retaliation.  Together these two books tell the story of Israel, returned from exile, and ruled by an oppressive foreign power.  And much of the narrative is taken up by political machinations and military conflicts. But there are moments that transcend any normal historical or narrative constraints, and this is definitely one of them.

The man in question is named Razis.  He shows up at 2 Maccabees 14:37 and is dead 10 verses later.  But what a death!  And because it is described in such a graphic and gruesome manner, we are left to ask: why?  What was the author’s intention; both the human author and the Divine?

And so I have been contemplating this passage and –like some kind of ancient Mariner—stopping everyone I know and asking them: Have you read 2 Maccabees? Chapter 14? About the guy who tries to kill himself multiple times and finally flings his guts at people?  And most of my listeners look at me as if I am crazy.  That can’t be in the Bible!

But it is.

And I am still wondering what it means? What it tells me? About Razis? About the Maccabees? Ancient Israel? About life? And about God?

One thing I keep returning to is that story from 1st Maccabees about the people in the desert who submitto their death, rather than defend themselves.  Rather than fight back or even build a barricade, they choose to let heaven and earth bear witness to their innocence.  That is the first vision of martyrdom we get in this story.  And here near the end of 2^nd Maccabees we get our final vision of martyrdom.  In both cases the victims accept their role willingly.  In the case of Razis, he even inflicts it upon himself.   So far, so good... but still, I wonder: why such a brutal depiction of self-destructive behavior?  And why placed at the end of these two volumes about the heroic Maccabees and their courageous defense of the Temple?

And that makes my literary mind wonder whether there is something lurking beneath the surface of this grizzly tale. Something profound.  Perhaps a comment on all the battles and destruction that have come before it.  Is it possible that the story of Razis (whether based on an actual event or not) is an allegory of what happens to us when our society, our community, our lives, sink into a state of constant war; constant attack and retaliation? It seems to me a horrific vision of the dehumanizing nature of living in a state of constant violence, fear and conflict. Think about that vision of a man bent on his own destruction, bent on destroying himself before someone else can, with such an urgency that he tries to kill himself, fails, tries again, fails again and finally –his blood spraying out, he flings tears out his own entrails and flings them at the world.  That is a nightmare vision of life in an “occupied” land.  Razis is a good man, but the wicked Nicanor sends 500 men to arrest and execute him.  He has no power to defend himself or defeat these overwhelming forces, so he asserts his own autonomy through his effort to destroy himself before they can arrest him. And then there is that final vision of his flesh and blood spraying out onto his enemies; what does that explosion of flesh and blood call to mind but the horror of a suicide bombing.  The killer feels so helpless and so desperate that they feel no choice. What else can they do?

Here in these two bookends, the non-violent martyrs of 1 Maccabees 2 and the self-destructive desperation of a good man in 2 Maccabees 14, we are presented with two alternatives to the horror of violence and hatred.  Powerless in the face of insurmountable odds, one chooses non-violence and places themselves in the hands of God. They will let Heaven and earth bear witness to their innocence.  They will not choose evil even if it means death.  The other succumbs to a kind of desperation that drives him mad with rage and helplessness.  The second makes of himself something monstrous, a thing in search of its own destruction –as if hungering for death.

In this day and age when so many of us feel powerless and unheard, who will we become?

---

[1] All the while asking God to give his entrails back to him one day; a possible nod toward bodily resurrection.

[2] Of course, 1-2 Maccabees are not in everyone’s scripture. In Protestant Bibles, if they are present at all, they are   included with the apocryphal books.  In the Roman Catholic Bible they are with the historical books and come right after Esther, and just before the Wisdom books.

[3] Before I get too far, let me say something about 1 & 2 Maccabees. The main concern of these two books is Israel’s post exile struggles against an oppressive Greek rule (Antiochus IV Epiphanes).  So much of what we get in both of them is accounts of battles and for the most part victories as the good guys defend Israel and the Temple, and the bad guys make deals with their oppressors.  However, they are not (as might be expected) two volumes of one continuous story. Part I covers the period of 175-134 BCE and in it we meet Judas Maccabeus (the Hammer) who, in defense of the Temple, leads a revolt and defends Israel until he is killed; then his brother Jonathan becomes the defender of Israel and after a few chapters he dies, and finally we see their younger brother Simon taking charge; all of them fighting to defend their faith, their traditions, and the Temple. While, 2 Maccabees covers a much shorter period of time, focusing mainly on Judas (180-161 BCE). However, through its more focused view we get to see some very interesting characters who suffer very violent martyrdoms.

Who can live with the consuming fire? (3rd week of Advent)

“On Zion sinners are in dread,

trembling grips the impious;

Who of us can live with the consuming fire?

Who of us can live with the everlasting flames?

The one who practices virtue and speaks honestly,

who spurns what is gained by oppression,

who brush their hands free of contact with a bribe,

who stop their ears from hearing of bloodshed,

and shut their eyes to avoid looking on evil...”

--Isaiah 33:13-16

This reading from morning prayer touched me today.  And oddly enough, I read it by accident.  It wasn’t the reading for this morning –I was on the wrong page.  And yet... isn't that often how God works.

Anyway, the reading merged nicely with a short conversation I had last night. Shortly before bed, I was talking to a friend who has just decided to read Dante.  She bought her husband a beautifully illustrated copy of the Commedia and as she looked at the pictures, she became interested in the poem.  And so, I woke this morning still thinking about our conversation.  One thing that troubled her was the question of whether the poem were true.  Had Dante actually “died” and travelled through Hell and Purgatory and Heaven, then returned to life to write his poem.  Well, first, in the poem he isn’t dead. He makes his journey through the realms of the afterlife while still alive but guided by the spirit of the dead poet Vergil. And, second, I explained to her that as far as I know, the poem had never seriously been treated as a diary of an actual event.  However, I added, that didn’t make it any the less true. 

A mystical vision is another kind of truth –and I compared Dante’s poem to the visions of Teresa of Avila and Catherine of Siena. Though Dante is no doctor of the church, it seems to me that the vision contained in his Commedia is as profound and possibly as theologically valuable as what we find in the works of many saints and mystics.  And surely that element of the poem must have come from God.  But it was getting late and we both needed to attend to other issues, so we made vague plans to get together someday soon and continue our discussion of truth and poetry and mystics. Yet, something must have been left unsettled in my soul; because I woke still thinking about our discussion.

And then there was this reading: 

Who of us can live with the consuming fire?

Who of us can live with the everlasting flames?

Indeed, who of us can?  The consuming fire; the everlasting flame; what a devastating and yet perfect vision of Hell.  Who can live with that?  In Dante we see the suffering of the damned and often readers are struck by the horror of such punishments; it is what attracts many new readers to the poem.  I know from teaching the poem that often students are intrigued by the question of justice when discussing the punishments (Dante’s contrapassos).  But then they almost as quickly turn to the subject of mercy (and loopholes).  But what about... what if... What if someone couldn’t control himself? What about people with psychological problems? What if someone didn’t know something was wrong?... what about...what if...

But the poem isn’t about punishment (or justice) in a legalistic way.  It’s about freedom and choices and love.  What I read in Dante is that Hell isn’t a geographic place (on an actual or imaginary map) but a state of mind, of souls, of heart; it’s a commitment of sorts.  Take for instance Canto XXX of the Inferno.  This is a scene of devastating destruction and the souls within that vision of a kind of “everlasting flame” dwell not just in dread, but in misery and discord; beating each other, heckling each other, angering and frustrating one another through and by their every act, every word, every choice—because they seek not compassion or love, but only superiority and self-justification.  And yet, what would happen if Mother Teresa were to suddenly find herself walking amongst these souls?  Would she find herself in the same Hell?  Or would she immediately set about caring for the sick and the helpless; would she not comfort their pain and distress?  Ease their suffering with her gentle touch.  And in her compassion and love, Filled with love and compassion, she would see not evil but only souls in need.  And, filled with love, she would be filled with God; she would be dwelling fully in His presence and is that not the very meaning of Heaven? To be fully in the presence of God... So, even as she walked among those who made themselves damned she –through her love-- would be in a kind of Heaven.  

“Who of us can live with the consuming fire?”

The one who loves. The one who practices virtue.  The one who speaks not bitterness and cruelty; who utters no lie of self-deception and justification but speaks only truth in utter humility.  The one who stops her ears at words of anger and hatred, who closes his eyes to evil.  The one who walks in love...

Heaven is where we make it...

And so is Hell.