Today it was my turn to preside at the community Mass. It was my turn on Wednesday of Holy Week last year as well, and I think this was the first time I presided the second time on a liturgical day in Italian.
In thinking about what to say--for I thought it only right to preach, it being Holy Week--I took the brief and simple approach that the brothers seem to appreciate, noting the parallel between the words of Judas in Matthew 26:15 and that of the disciples in general in verse 17. The disciple-traitor asks how much he can get from men, while the faithful disciple asks the Lord what he can do for him.
That was the best I could do in Italian, challenging myself to preach in Italian without notes for the first time. Four phrases. Perhaps I ought to be more advanced than that as I start to approach two years in Italy.
But here in my own language, I confess that there's more to it. Judas intrigues to hand Jesus over to his trial, condemnation, and Passion. The disciples ask where they can prepare for him to "eat the Passover." But what does it mean for Jesus to "eat the Passover" but to enter into the mystery he will reveal in parallel at the Last Supper and on the Cross, becoming himself the Passover Sacrifice such that, as John Chrysostom will remind us in the Office of Readings on Friday, his blood on our lips saves us from death just as the blood of the Passover sacrifice on the doorposts of the Hebrews' homes saved them from the Tenth Plague, the death of the first-born?
It all enters into the mystery of how God means to save us: the betrayal of Judas, without whose treason the Spirit is not handed over to us from the Cross, and the solicitude of the disciples, without whose devout preparation of the Passover we do not have the living memorial of the Passion that is the Eucharist.
Showing posts with label Holy Week. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Holy Week. Show all posts
April 16, 2014
March 24, 2013
Palm Sunday Fragments
The Lord gave me, brother Francis, thus to begin to do penance: for, when I was in sin, it seemed very bitter for me to see lepers. And the Lord himself led me among them and I had mercy on them. Leaving them, what had seemed bitter was changed into sweetness of soul and body, and I lingered a little and left the world. And the Lord gave me such faith in churches that I would pray simply and say: We adore you, Lord Jesus Christ, and in all of your churches that are in the whole world, and we bless you, for by your holy cross you have redeemed the world. (Francis of Assisi, Testament, 1-5)
April 2, 2010
Fidelium Ore Lucentem Sanguinem Veritatis
Each year, at some point between the beginning of adoration on Holy Thursday evening and the early hours of Good Friday, John Chrysostom pulls it all together for me:
I love the earthiness of the Latin translation in the LH, fidelium ore lucentem sanguinem veritatis. On the mouths of the faithful we see the shining Blood of truth. Anybody know the Greek?
If we wish to understand the power of Christ's blood, we should go back to the ancient account of its prefiguration in Egypt. Sacrifice a lamb without blemish, commanded Moses, and sprinkle its blood on your doors...In those days, when the destroying angel saw the blood on the doors he did not dare to enter, so how much less will the devil approach now when he sees, not that figurative blood on the doors, but the true blood on the lips of believers, the doors of the temple of Christ.
I love the earthiness of the Latin translation in the LH, fidelium ore lucentem sanguinem veritatis. On the mouths of the faithful we see the shining Blood of truth. Anybody know the Greek?
April 1, 2010
Bareness and Solitude
Here, as in most places I suspect, the Chrism Mass is celebrated earlier in Holy Week. This makes Holy Thursday the day of one Mass.
It might not seem like a remarkable thing, but for me one of the real jarring experiences of the priestly ministry has been the frequency of celebrating Eucharist. Fortunately in my religious life prior to priesthood, either by choice or compulsion, I more or less fulfilled the injunction that religious ought to make "every effort" to assist at Mass daily. But the one Mass a day which priests are also "earnestly invited" to offer is only the beginning at this point.
Where I work there are seventeen Masses a week on the regular schedule. Add to that the weekly average of 1.5 funerals and half a wedding or other special event, and we're up to nineteen. We are two priests on staff who enjoy the help of a retired priest who offers Mass four times a week. That leaves fifteen Masses a week to be offered by two priests. Give each a day off, and that's only 1.25 Masses to be said per day. Not so bad. Our retired brother spends about ten percent of the year away, so at these times the figure goes up to 1.6 Masses per day per priest. Because things are rarely so even, there are sometimes problems, given that we only have faculties to offer Mass twice on weekdays and thrice on Sundays.
I do not mean this as a complaint. It is my honor, joy, and redemption to offer Mass for the people I serve and for the world. I am ready to do so each day at the limit of the faculties the Church gives me, should there be pastoral necessity or even utility. However, it is a very different sort of eucharistic life than before ordination.
To me it becomes the most remarkable feature of the Triduum. Given this life in which Masses are multiplied--we often have three in a row in the morning, early and later daily Mass, then funeral--the Triduum seems so bare of Eucharist. From Thursday morning to Saturday night, one only has Mass twice. At any other time of the year, at least in my job, it would be nothing unusual to celebrate Mass twice or three times as much during the same period of the week. It brings me a new appreciation for the Triduum : it's bareness and eucharistic solitude.
It might not seem like a remarkable thing, but for me one of the real jarring experiences of the priestly ministry has been the frequency of celebrating Eucharist. Fortunately in my religious life prior to priesthood, either by choice or compulsion, I more or less fulfilled the injunction that religious ought to make "every effort" to assist at Mass daily. But the one Mass a day which priests are also "earnestly invited" to offer is only the beginning at this point.
Where I work there are seventeen Masses a week on the regular schedule. Add to that the weekly average of 1.5 funerals and half a wedding or other special event, and we're up to nineteen. We are two priests on staff who enjoy the help of a retired priest who offers Mass four times a week. That leaves fifteen Masses a week to be offered by two priests. Give each a day off, and that's only 1.25 Masses to be said per day. Not so bad. Our retired brother spends about ten percent of the year away, so at these times the figure goes up to 1.6 Masses per day per priest. Because things are rarely so even, there are sometimes problems, given that we only have faculties to offer Mass twice on weekdays and thrice on Sundays.
I do not mean this as a complaint. It is my honor, joy, and redemption to offer Mass for the people I serve and for the world. I am ready to do so each day at the limit of the faculties the Church gives me, should there be pastoral necessity or even utility. However, it is a very different sort of eucharistic life than before ordination.
To me it becomes the most remarkable feature of the Triduum. Given this life in which Masses are multiplied--we often have three in a row in the morning, early and later daily Mass, then funeral--the Triduum seems so bare of Eucharist. From Thursday morning to Saturday night, one only has Mass twice. At any other time of the year, at least in my job, it would be nothing unusual to celebrate Mass twice or three times as much during the same period of the week. It brings me a new appreciation for the Triduum : it's bareness and eucharistic solitude.
March 31, 2010
The Betrayed Body
Preaching through this Holy Week I have been reflecting on something to which I haven't ever given much thought, but is as obvious as could be: The Body of Christ we offer and receive in the Eucharist is the betrayed Body.
I think it must be divine law that every rectory dining room or refectory in a religious house has to display an image of the Last Supper. Often it is some derivation of Da Vinci's treatment, which is unfortunate. (I agree with one of my great teachers, Charles Merrill Smith, that it is "one of a great painter's dubious efforts.") We have just such a Last Supper in the dining room here. As I have written about before, it was a source of daily amusement for me when I first arrived because of the inscription below the image: Amen dico vobis quia unus vestrum me traditurus est. Of all the beautiful things Our Lord said at the Last Supper--'Love one another as I have loved you,' 'I am the vine, you are the branches,' etc.--someone decided that this was the particular line that the friars needed to hear. So there it was; each day as you were getting your mashed potatoes or whatever: "Amen I say to you that one of you will betray me."
Over time, though, I've gotten over my amusement and come to appreciate it. After all, am I not a betrayer of the Lord? Any of us who have sinned after our baptism have handed over the members of Christ we have become. In our distraction and ingratitude, we have failed to discern the members of the Body of Christ we have become, and, like Judas, have settled for less by handing our Christ-ened selves over to trifles and sins.
This illuminates the overwhelming gentleness and humility of Christ in the Eucharist. Jesus takes his Body 'given up,' the very betrayal itself, and transforms it into nourishment for us, his betrayers.
I think it must be divine law that every rectory dining room or refectory in a religious house has to display an image of the Last Supper. Often it is some derivation of Da Vinci's treatment, which is unfortunate. (I agree with one of my great teachers, Charles Merrill Smith, that it is "one of a great painter's dubious efforts.") We have just such a Last Supper in the dining room here. As I have written about before, it was a source of daily amusement for me when I first arrived because of the inscription below the image: Amen dico vobis quia unus vestrum me traditurus est. Of all the beautiful things Our Lord said at the Last Supper--'Love one another as I have loved you,' 'I am the vine, you are the branches,' etc.--someone decided that this was the particular line that the friars needed to hear. So there it was; each day as you were getting your mashed potatoes or whatever: "Amen I say to you that one of you will betray me."
Over time, though, I've gotten over my amusement and come to appreciate it. After all, am I not a betrayer of the Lord? Any of us who have sinned after our baptism have handed over the members of Christ we have become. In our distraction and ingratitude, we have failed to discern the members of the Body of Christ we have become, and, like Judas, have settled for less by handing our Christ-ened selves over to trifles and sins.
This illuminates the overwhelming gentleness and humility of Christ in the Eucharist. Jesus takes his Body 'given up,' the very betrayal itself, and transforms it into nourishment for us, his betrayers.
March 28, 2010
Refusing
I've written before about how sudden requests for confession have been one of the surprises of my priesthood. Well, today was the first time I refused to hear someone's confession. Perhaps it was a sin of selfishness brought on by the occasion of distracted stress, or perhaps it was good boundaries and self-care. I'm not sure.
Palm Sunday is the most stressful Sunday morning of the year. Not only is it the longest Sunday liturgy, but there is more to do in between the Masses. Between the middle and last Masses today I had exactly thirty-two minutes to greet parishioners, extinguish candles, re-set books, bring in the vessels to be re-set and brought out again, put out bread and wine, put out palms, greet servers, check in with musicians, get vested, pray my private preparation and be ready for the procession with palms. So, when I was right in the middle of this procedure, carrying out bags of palm, ripping them open and slicing the rubber bands with my trusty pocket knife, someone approached me for confession. I said that I just couldn't do it at that moment. I did point him in a direction where I was pretty sure he would find a priest who had a minute, but I still felt bad. I hate to have to do something like that for the first time.
The request was obviously unreasonable under my circumstances, but the incident reminded me that it's one thing to be able to keep appropriate boundaries, but it's quite another another to really accept them in one's scrupulous heart.
Palm Sunday is the most stressful Sunday morning of the year. Not only is it the longest Sunday liturgy, but there is more to do in between the Masses. Between the middle and last Masses today I had exactly thirty-two minutes to greet parishioners, extinguish candles, re-set books, bring in the vessels to be re-set and brought out again, put out bread and wine, put out palms, greet servers, check in with musicians, get vested, pray my private preparation and be ready for the procession with palms. So, when I was right in the middle of this procedure, carrying out bags of palm, ripping them open and slicing the rubber bands with my trusty pocket knife, someone approached me for confession. I said that I just couldn't do it at that moment. I did point him in a direction where I was pretty sure he would find a priest who had a minute, but I still felt bad. I hate to have to do something like that for the first time.
The request was obviously unreasonable under my circumstances, but the incident reminded me that it's one thing to be able to keep appropriate boundaries, but it's quite another another to really accept them in one's scrupulous heart.
October 27, 2009
Why Did You Miss Mass?
I make a conscious effort only to ask questions of penitents when it is really necessary, but this is one I ask a lot. I do it because missing Sunday Mass is a frequently confessed sin, but it is also one in which culpability is very often reduced by circumstances such as advanced age, infirmity, child care, etc.
It's a sin that I have pretty much avoided altogether in my own Catholic life, but whenever I ask someone why they missed Mass I feel a little bit of amused gratitude inside as I remember the one time a confessor asked it of me, and the whole confession ended up with the priest laughing out loud.
It all started in Assisi. In the spring of 1993 I was alleged to be studying philosophy at University College Galway, on the west coast of Ireland. We had a whole month off for Easter, so I and this other kid decided to wander around on the continent. We had no plan and no set itinerary. To this day I can only piece together where we were by liturgical time, since we always went to Mass on Sundays. I know that on the fifth Sunday of Lent we were in Paris. It's a miracle of Providence that we were able to get to Mass on time in Paris, as it was only from a chance comment from a guy with whom we were playing hacky sack on the grass in front of Les Invalides that we knew daylight savings time had started. A week later, on Passion Sunday, we were in Prague. I'll never forget it. Listening to St. Matthew's Passion read in Czech by one priest all by himself was pretty tiring. By the time of the Triduum we were in Verona; I remember going to the Vigil there and sharing my hand missal with a tall American girl. Catholic player I was, in those days. By the second Sunday of Easter, having split up with my traveling companion, I was alone in Assisi. It was there that I ran out of money.
Assisi was to be the last stop anyway. School had already started again back in Ireland, and it was time to think about getting home. Now there was a lot of random religious stuff I wanted to pick up in Assisi, so I counted out what money I had left to make sure I would have enough for the return trip and for my lodging bill at the pilgrim's house where I was staying. I calculated--or so I thought--how much I had left for religious articles, books, etc., and went out shopping. Unfortunately, I must have counted wrong, and found that after I had settled up with sister guest mistress, I was broke. All I had was my European train pass and a few Italian coins. I spent the last little bit on some fruit, and started to make my way back to Galway.
I remember that the train from Assisi to Florence left at 12:16. It was a Friday afternoon. So there I was, sitting with my backpack in the plaza of Santa Maria degli Angeli waiting around for midday. A gypsy woman came up to me and asked for money. What a joy it was to honestly say that I didn't have any! She said something in indignation and then went behind the bushes and urinated loudly. I have always wondered if this was supposed to be insulting to me. Then she came back. For reasons I have never been able to guess, she gave me a holy card of Our Lady of the Angels. I've kept it in my wallet ever since. It's been through the wash a few times, but has held up.
So on Friday afternoon at 12:16, I began my destitute journey from Assisi to Galway. Later that afternoon I changed trains in Florence and was on my way to Milan. I spent Friday night on the overnight train from Milan to Paris. Arriving in Paris on Saturday morning, I faced a crisis. You see, in Paris there are a bunch of train stations, and the one at which I arrived was not the one where I could catch the train I needed to get to Cherbourg, where there was a boat back to Ireland. And I had no money, as has been said. Luckily, in the course of our travels, when we had left one country for another, we tended to exchange our paper money but just throw the coins into our bags for souvenirs. So there I was on an otherwise lovely Saturday morning, unpacking my backpack full of foul socks and eccentric religious paraphernalia in a French train station, looking for a few old francs that I could use for enough subway fare to get me to Gare du Nord. The coins turned up, and I was on my way.
By Saturday night, I was in Cherbourg getting on the boat. (My train pass was good for the boat, too) On the overnight trip I met a bunch of Germans who were reciting lines from This is Spinal Tap. We made friends right away, of course. I was ashamed to ask them for something to eat, however. On Sunday morning we arrived in Rosslare, where I boarded a bus headed across the country. It stopped at every little place you ever heard of, and many you haven't.
Finally, at about 9 pm on Sunday night I arrived at Eyre Square in Galway, having been traveling without a break for two and a half days and without anything to eat. The problem: it was Sunday and I had not been to Mass. I knew that I had plenty of time to make the regular 10 pm Mass at the University, but instead I went to the ATM and got a pizza on the way home. My Irish roommates started screaming when I walked in; since I had missed a week of school, they had presumed my death, they said.
So, having chosen the pizza over my Sunday obligation, I went to Galway Cathedral first thing Monday morning for confession. I confessed to the priest that I had missed Mass the day before. "Why?," he asked. So I started to explain, "Well, on Friday I was in Assisi..." Now the Irish are a storytelling culture, and the priest was clearly enjoying the tale I had to tell. By the time I came to the end, he was laughing out loud. He told me that I had probably made the right decision, but nevertheless gave me absolution for the other sins, irregularities, and missings of the mark I had committed in the course of my travels.
It's a sin that I have pretty much avoided altogether in my own Catholic life, but whenever I ask someone why they missed Mass I feel a little bit of amused gratitude inside as I remember the one time a confessor asked it of me, and the whole confession ended up with the priest laughing out loud.
It all started in Assisi. In the spring of 1993 I was alleged to be studying philosophy at University College Galway, on the west coast of Ireland. We had a whole month off for Easter, so I and this other kid decided to wander around on the continent. We had no plan and no set itinerary. To this day I can only piece together where we were by liturgical time, since we always went to Mass on Sundays. I know that on the fifth Sunday of Lent we were in Paris. It's a miracle of Providence that we were able to get to Mass on time in Paris, as it was only from a chance comment from a guy with whom we were playing hacky sack on the grass in front of Les Invalides that we knew daylight savings time had started. A week later, on Passion Sunday, we were in Prague. I'll never forget it. Listening to St. Matthew's Passion read in Czech by one priest all by himself was pretty tiring. By the time of the Triduum we were in Verona; I remember going to the Vigil there and sharing my hand missal with a tall American girl. Catholic player I was, in those days. By the second Sunday of Easter, having split up with my traveling companion, I was alone in Assisi. It was there that I ran out of money.
Assisi was to be the last stop anyway. School had already started again back in Ireland, and it was time to think about getting home. Now there was a lot of random religious stuff I wanted to pick up in Assisi, so I counted out what money I had left to make sure I would have enough for the return trip and for my lodging bill at the pilgrim's house where I was staying. I calculated--or so I thought--how much I had left for religious articles, books, etc., and went out shopping. Unfortunately, I must have counted wrong, and found that after I had settled up with sister guest mistress, I was broke. All I had was my European train pass and a few Italian coins. I spent the last little bit on some fruit, and started to make my way back to Galway.
I remember that the train from Assisi to Florence left at 12:16. It was a Friday afternoon. So there I was, sitting with my backpack in the plaza of Santa Maria degli Angeli waiting around for midday. A gypsy woman came up to me and asked for money. What a joy it was to honestly say that I didn't have any! She said something in indignation and then went behind the bushes and urinated loudly. I have always wondered if this was supposed to be insulting to me. Then she came back. For reasons I have never been able to guess, she gave me a holy card of Our Lady of the Angels. I've kept it in my wallet ever since. It's been through the wash a few times, but has held up.
So on Friday afternoon at 12:16, I began my destitute journey from Assisi to Galway. Later that afternoon I changed trains in Florence and was on my way to Milan. I spent Friday night on the overnight train from Milan to Paris. Arriving in Paris on Saturday morning, I faced a crisis. You see, in Paris there are a bunch of train stations, and the one at which I arrived was not the one where I could catch the train I needed to get to Cherbourg, where there was a boat back to Ireland. And I had no money, as has been said. Luckily, in the course of our travels, when we had left one country for another, we tended to exchange our paper money but just throw the coins into our bags for souvenirs. So there I was on an otherwise lovely Saturday morning, unpacking my backpack full of foul socks and eccentric religious paraphernalia in a French train station, looking for a few old francs that I could use for enough subway fare to get me to Gare du Nord. The coins turned up, and I was on my way.
By Saturday night, I was in Cherbourg getting on the boat. (My train pass was good for the boat, too) On the overnight trip I met a bunch of Germans who were reciting lines from This is Spinal Tap. We made friends right away, of course. I was ashamed to ask them for something to eat, however. On Sunday morning we arrived in Rosslare, where I boarded a bus headed across the country. It stopped at every little place you ever heard of, and many you haven't.
Finally, at about 9 pm on Sunday night I arrived at Eyre Square in Galway, having been traveling without a break for two and a half days and without anything to eat. The problem: it was Sunday and I had not been to Mass. I knew that I had plenty of time to make the regular 10 pm Mass at the University, but instead I went to the ATM and got a pizza on the way home. My Irish roommates started screaming when I walked in; since I had missed a week of school, they had presumed my death, they said.
So, having chosen the pizza over my Sunday obligation, I went to Galway Cathedral first thing Monday morning for confession. I confessed to the priest that I had missed Mass the day before. "Why?," he asked. So I started to explain, "Well, on Friday I was in Assisi..." Now the Irish are a storytelling culture, and the priest was clearly enjoying the tale I had to tell. By the time I came to the end, he was laughing out loud. He told me that I had probably made the right decision, but nevertheless gave me absolution for the other sins, irregularities, and missings of the mark I had committed in the course of my travels.
April 5, 2009
Rave: Jesus Christ
Creatures of God we are in our humanity; a subtle and curious and beautiful synthesis of spirit and matter that not even the angels know. And what have we done with it? With the body we are given to serve and love each other we have abused ourselves and oppressed our brothers and sisters. With the voice we have been given to speak the truth and say "the good things men need to hear" we have cursed and gossiped and lied.
We spend our whole lives surrounding ourselves with vanities and competing for illusory securities even to the point of scarring the whole of world history in the process.We do whatever we can to have subtle or obvious power over each other, and power becomes our drug of choice.
Into this mess our Lord arrives, riding on another humble creature, into his own city. Unlike the vain kings of this world who were anointed king by grand high priests, Jesus is anointed king by an unnamed and unappreciated woman. He turns the folly of our whole lustful cult of power around by ruling from the royal throne of the Cross, on which he can't even move, much less compel anyone else to do anything.
The Almighty God reveals in Christ the dead end of our self-destructing project of lording it over each other in so many subtle ways. By placing himself below us, as a servant who willing suffers the misery that we insist on for ourselves and each other with our sins, Jesus Christ shows us the true power and authority that our nature, so wounded and shortsighted through sin, so often can't see.
We spend our whole lives surrounding ourselves with vanities and competing for illusory securities even to the point of scarring the whole of world history in the process.We do whatever we can to have subtle or obvious power over each other, and power becomes our drug of choice.
Into this mess our Lord arrives, riding on another humble creature, into his own city. Unlike the vain kings of this world who were anointed king by grand high priests, Jesus is anointed king by an unnamed and unappreciated woman. He turns the folly of our whole lustful cult of power around by ruling from the royal throne of the Cross, on which he can't even move, much less compel anyone else to do anything.
The Almighty God reveals in Christ the dead end of our self-destructing project of lording it over each other in so many subtle ways. By placing himself below us, as a servant who willing suffers the misery that we insist on for ourselves and each other with our sins, Jesus Christ shows us the true power and authority that our nature, so wounded and shortsighted through sin, so often can't see.
April 4, 2009
Palm Sunday
The rubrics for Passion Sunday call for a brevis homilia if it seems opportune. So I don't bother to go through my usual reflection and composition routine this week.
Bracketing off the circus of "palm acquisition," it's actually a beautiful observance. To me it's a lot like Ash Wednesday in the sense that it embodies the ironies that are at the heart of Christianity. We cheer the arrival of the King and prepare a path for him. But we know that this is a King who will reign from the throne of the Cross as a tortured criminal, unable to even move his hands and feet, much less compel anyone to obey him. Unlike other ancient Near Eastern kings who were anointed on their heads by high priests to rule their people with power and strength, this is the King who was anointed on his feet by a sinner and whose power will be manifest in his placing himself below us as our servant.
To say any more than that today would be a spoiler for my Holy Thursday homily. It will be my first time preaching that one!
Bracketing off the circus of "palm acquisition," it's actually a beautiful observance. To me it's a lot like Ash Wednesday in the sense that it embodies the ironies that are at the heart of Christianity. We cheer the arrival of the King and prepare a path for him. But we know that this is a King who will reign from the throne of the Cross as a tortured criminal, unable to even move his hands and feet, much less compel anyone to obey him. Unlike other ancient Near Eastern kings who were anointed on their heads by high priests to rule their people with power and strength, this is the King who was anointed on his feet by a sinner and whose power will be manifest in his placing himself below us as our servant.
To say any more than that today would be a spoiler for my Holy Thursday homily. It will be my first time preaching that one!
April 4, 2007
Spy Wednesday
Holy Wednesday, Spy Wednesday, or Ugly Wednesday; whatever you call it, today is the day we recall the conspiracy instigated by Judas Iscariot to betray Jesus into the custody of the priestly authorities.
He's definitely one of the most mysterious characters in the Scriptures. One the one hand, via the criterion of embarrassment, that Jesus was betrayed to the authorities by one of his own disciples is probably one of the most sure things in the New Testament we can claim really happened. But why did he do it?
Was it really just malice or greed? Did he believe he was accelerating the process of the kingdom of God by precipitating a confrontation between Jesus and the Romans? Given that it was Jesus' destiny to suffer his Passion, was Judas just doing a dirty job that only he was strong enough to do, as in Kazantzakis' Last Temptation of Christ? Was he just a mediator in a prisoner exchange that was supposed to take place anyway, given the incident with the money-changers and the purification of the Temple? And, finally, if the arrest, Passion, and ignoble death of Jesus was his divine destiny from the beginning, how can Judas be faulted?
There are no anti-canonizations. That is to say, though the Church proclaims saints definitively, those whom we can be sure are in heaven with God, the Church has never claimed that anybody at all went to hell for sure. So there's hope that even Judas is in heaven with the saints. And if it's so, he's one of the first people I look forward to talking to.
He's definitely one of the most mysterious characters in the Scriptures. One the one hand, via the criterion of embarrassment, that Jesus was betrayed to the authorities by one of his own disciples is probably one of the most sure things in the New Testament we can claim really happened. But why did he do it?
Was it really just malice or greed? Did he believe he was accelerating the process of the kingdom of God by precipitating a confrontation between Jesus and the Romans? Given that it was Jesus' destiny to suffer his Passion, was Judas just doing a dirty job that only he was strong enough to do, as in Kazantzakis' Last Temptation of Christ? Was he just a mediator in a prisoner exchange that was supposed to take place anyway, given the incident with the money-changers and the purification of the Temple? And, finally, if the arrest, Passion, and ignoble death of Jesus was his divine destiny from the beginning, how can Judas be faulted?
There are no anti-canonizations. That is to say, though the Church proclaims saints definitively, those whom we can be sure are in heaven with God, the Church has never claimed that anybody at all went to hell for sure. So there's hope that even Judas is in heaven with the saints. And if it's so, he's one of the first people I look forward to talking to.
April 3, 2007
Holy Tuesday
Tuesday of Holy Week brings us to the beginning of of Judas' betrayal. He leaves the table, and, in John's account, receives the instruction to do things quickly.
In contrast, Peter boasts to the Lord that he will lay down his life for Jesus. And Jesus tells Peter that that very night, he will deny him three times.
Both are an invitation to mourn. We must never boast, to ourselves or others, in even the most subtle ways, that we are doing great things for the Lord and his Kingdom. For one thing, we aren't. Even if we are doing something, it is God's work, not ours. A healthy sense of holy poverty demands that we not appropriate the graces that God works in the world to ourselves, as if they were some kind of commodity or possession.
Many times we have been Judas, bringing suffering upon even the ones we love because of our attachments and fascinations with of our own agendas and selves. And many times we have been Peter, boasting to our own hearts about the glamorous things we do for God, only to find that, as soon as things become difficult and risky, we don't really want any part of it.
In contrast, Peter boasts to the Lord that he will lay down his life for Jesus. And Jesus tells Peter that that very night, he will deny him three times.
Both are an invitation to mourn. We must never boast, to ourselves or others, in even the most subtle ways, that we are doing great things for the Lord and his Kingdom. For one thing, we aren't. Even if we are doing something, it is God's work, not ours. A healthy sense of holy poverty demands that we not appropriate the graces that God works in the world to ourselves, as if they were some kind of commodity or possession.
Many times we have been Judas, bringing suffering upon even the ones we love because of our attachments and fascinations with of our own agendas and selves. And many times we have been Peter, boasting to our own hearts about the glamorous things we do for God, only to find that, as soon as things become difficult and risky, we don't really want any part of it.
April 2, 2007
Holy Monday
Monday of Holy Week brings us to the anointing of Jesus at Bethany. He must be anointed, because he is to be a king and will soon reign from the throne of the Cross. Recall the charge against him, "Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews."
The kings of Israel, and of the ancient near east generally, were always anointed with oil. But there are two aspects of Jesus' anointing that make it special. First, in every account we have, he is anointed by a woman. Typically, the kings of Israel were anointed by someone with authority, like a prophet or priest. In contrast, Jesus' royal anointing comes from someone without authority, with a lesser place in society. It is the poor and oppressed who can recognize the Lord in the world, and everyone else when they can at least admit of their inner poverty and vulnerability.
Second, at least in Luke and John's versions, Jesus is anointed on his feet. Kings were anointed on their heads. The kingdom of Jesus will be one of service and humility, not power and authority.
The kings of Israel, and of the ancient near east generally, were always anointed with oil. But there are two aspects of Jesus' anointing that make it special. First, in every account we have, he is anointed by a woman. Typically, the kings of Israel were anointed by someone with authority, like a prophet or priest. In contrast, Jesus' royal anointing comes from someone without authority, with a lesser place in society. It is the poor and oppressed who can recognize the Lord in the world, and everyone else when they can at least admit of their inner poverty and vulnerability.
Second, at least in Luke and John's versions, Jesus is anointed on his feet. Kings were anointed on their heads. The kingdom of Jesus will be one of service and humility, not power and authority.
March 31, 2007
Passion Sunday
One time I was out with another friar and somebody came up and, with a tone both quizzical and a little sarcastic, asked us, "what do you get out of this?"
The brother I was with gave the tone right back to him and asked, "I'm supposed to be getting something?"
That stuck with me a long time. It comes back to me today as I start to think about the celebration of the Lord's Passion this weekend. Perhaps in order to understand the Passion, I need to let go of any sense of "getting something out of" prayer, ministry, and the life of the disciple.
The brother I was with gave the tone right back to him and asked, "I'm supposed to be getting something?"
That stuck with me a long time. It comes back to me today as I start to think about the celebration of the Lord's Passion this weekend. Perhaps in order to understand the Passion, I need to let go of any sense of "getting something out of" prayer, ministry, and the life of the disciple.
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