Week 22 Friday (Year 2)

Readings: 1 Corinthians 4:1-5; Psalm 37; Luke 5:33-39

One of the biggest obstacles to meditating on today's gospel reading is the power of the word 'new'.  Advertisers know that it is one of the most powerful words they can use: notice how often things are on offer with this description: the new iPad, the new model, the new and improved formula. But the parables about new wine in old wineskins and new patches on old garments are not simply saying 'the new is better than the old'.

If we only had the accounts in Matthew and Mark it might seem that this well-established, almost obvious, interpretation is correct. The fact that it was the arch-heretic Marcion who first proposed this interpretation ought to be enough to stop us in our tracks. It became the preferred interpretation of Gentile Christians from Marcion's time to the present day. Some of the most distinguished contemporary interpreters of the Bible continue to follow this line - the religion of Jesus is 'new', and so radically better than the 'old' religion of the Scribes and Pharisees. New Christianity is better than old Judaism: is that not what Jesus is teaching here?

No, it is not. It needs to be said again: this is not what Jesus is teaching here. And it is Luke's account, read today, that holds us back from lazily drifting into this interpretation. Luke alone adds a third parable to the ones about the patch and the wineskins: 'no one who has been drinking old wine desires new, for he says, "The old is good"' (Luke 5:39). This contradicts any interpretation for which these parables are simply saying 'the new thing I bring is better than the old thing you already have'. In this third parable Jesus says it would be absurd to prefer new wine to old: everybody knows wine is at its best when it is old and not when it is new.

So this gospel passage is, thank God, more complex than it seems at first. To get out of what now looks like a contradiction - new is better, old is better - some propose that, in his final comment, Jesus is saying 'of course some of you guys will want to stay with the old rather than embracing the new thing I bring'. They are stick in the muds. But this has no basis in the text and, once again, misses the point.

So what is the point? The main teaching of Jesus here is this: 'Can you make the wedding guests fast while the bridegroom is with them?' The clear answer is 'no, it would be absurd to fast at a wedding'. Fasting when you ought to be feasting is bringing together two incompatible things. The point of the three short parables is to underline this message with a number of other absurd possibilities. Would you put a new patch on old clothes destroying both (especially a valuable old garment)? Of course not. Would you put new wine in old wineskins, destroying both (especially valuable old wineskins)? Of course not. Now that we are talking about wine, would you prefer new wine to wine that has aged and matured? Of course not. These are all absurd proposals, and any right-thinking person will answer 'no' to all these questions. In the same way any right-thinking person will answer 'no' to the question 'should you fast when the bridegroom is present'.

To be in the presence of Jesus, the bridegroom, is to be in a joyful place. It would be absurd not to be joyful, not to celebrate, when we are with him. To suggest fasting in the presence of Jesus is just as absurd as putting new cloth on an old garment, or new wine into old wineskins, as odd as preferring new wine to old.

And that is that for the moment. At this stage in the public ministry of Jesus, his relations with the Pharisees have not deteriorated to what they would become later. They are still curious about his teaching, and open, it seems, to consider what he has to say. Jesus does refer to what was to come , a time when the bridegroom would be taken away. His being 'taken away' is a clear echo beforehand of his passion. And that sad time of loss and grief will be a time for fasting. To continue feasting then would be the absurd, incompatible, thing.

Here is the heart of it: the presence of Jesus means joy, the absence of Jesus means sadness. To confuse these two situations would be absurd. To think otherwise about either of them would be folly. This is the simple and profoundly rich teaching which our wise master wants us, today, to realise.

Saint Gregory the Great - 3 September

GREGORY THE GREAT AND THE ORDER OF PREACHERS

Here is a tale of two popes, Gregory the Great (died 604) whose memory we keep today and Innocent III who was pope when the Franciscans and Dominicans were founded at the beginning of the 13th century. Gregory famously wrote in support of the missionary and pastoral expansion of the Church at the beginning of the Middle Ages. Innocent was preoccupied with the need for a fresh preaching of the gospel in the ‘high Middle Ages’. At the same time Innocent hesitated about confirming an ‘order of preachers’ for the universal Church, something Dominic wanted him to do. Early Dominican sources use a slightly strange expression to describe Dominic’s project: he wanted to establish an order ‘that would be called, and would be, an order of preachers.’ Why stress this distinction between being called, and being in fact, an order of preachers?

The title – order of preachers – already had a long history in the Church. Innocent was presumably aware of it and its implications, and this perhaps made him hesitate to confirm immediately an ‘order of preachers’. In fact, it is in the writings of Gregory the Great that we find the first use of that title. He used it to refer to the preachers of the gospel who follow the prophets and the apostles in proclaiming the Word of God so that the Church will grow to the end of time. The phrase is found again in later medieval writers where it belongs with the glorious band of apostles, the noble company of prophets and the white-robed army who shed their blood for Christ. The ‘order of preachers’ in the sense in which Gregory used it referred to another such group fundamental to the Church’s identity and ranked along with apostles, prophets and martyrs.

This ‘order of preachers’ was associated with the end times, a band of preachers raised up by God to call people to repentance before it is too late. Gregory saw the order of preachers at work in two parables of Jesus, that of the workers in the vineyard who come at the eleventh hour (Matthew 20:6), and that of the servant sent by his master to bring people in to the banquet which is already prepared (Luke 14:17). The preachers are those sent out to bring people in, and to bring them in even when it is late and everything is ready. On Gregory’s interpretation the ‘order of preachers’ meant ‘the preachers of the last days.’

The turn of the 12th to 13th centuries was a time of great evangelical ferment, with important movements in thought, society and culture accompanied also by an extensive religious movement and an ‘explosion of preaching’. There was a growing eschatological, even apocalyptic, sense that the Church was in the last times and that therefore an order of preachers would emerge to call people to repentance and conversion before it was too late. The bull of canonization of Saint Dominic speaks of the ‘workers of the last hour’. And an early Dominican source says the order of preachers was established through Mary’s intervention: seeing humanity in danger of destruction she pleaded with her Son and in response he raised up Dominic to establish the Order of Preachers.

For Innocent III the established meaning of the title may have been a reason why he was reluctant to recognise one particular group of men as ‘the order of preachers’, a phrase that had not only eschatological overtones but which also seemed to belong to the Church as a whole and not just to one group within it. What would we think if a pope were to recognise a small community somewhere in the world as the ‘order of apostles’ or the ‘order of prophets?’ It may be that designating a particular religious community the ‘order of preachers’ would have been just as startling to Innocent.

Nevertheless, this is what his successor, Honorius III, did, recognising Dominic and his community of friars as ‘an order of preachers’. The title originates with Gregory the Great and it is appropriate for Dominicans to acknowledge that inheritance today, when we celebrate the liturgical memory of Gregory.

Week 22 Wednesday (Year 2)

Readings: 1 Corinthians 3.1-9; Psalm 33; Luke 4.38-44

Tom Holland is a British historian who set out to show that the arrival of Christianity was a disaster for the world. that the violence and divisions it generated destroyed earlier pagan civilisations that were, well, much more civilised. Studying the facts closely, however, he arrived at the very opposite conclusion. Overall, and in spite of many dark moments, Christianity brought a gentleness and compassion not seen before. In this it was a direct contrast with the cruelty and indifference of earlier civilisations.

There are still jealousies and rivalries among us, as Paul sees among the Christians of Corinth, but as long as they - and we - maintain contact with our Christian roots, these things should not take us over completely. They remain demons with which we must struggle but the Spirit comes to help us in our weakness in this area also.

The Christians at Corinth were already dividing into groups in some kind of competition with each other. Each group had its chosen leader and Paul reminds them of how contradictory this is, as if Christ could be divided.

Instead, as we see in the gospel reading, Christ is focused and single-minded. He is intent on the mission with which he has been entrusted, preaching, healing and casting out demons. He most definitely does not set up a party of followers or supporters, telling the disciples that he mst go on to the other places and communities to which he is sent.

His disciples are not so focused, not so single-minded, and become distracted in all kinds of ways. Jealousy and rivalry are never far away. In the Letter of James it is jealousy and selfish ambition which are the bugbears, the very ordinary tendencies, we might say, that assert themselves inevitably wherever human beings come together for some shared project or purpose.

But the Spirit comes to help us in our weakness. He is the Spirit of love, and it is only love that can cure our jealousies and our rivalries. The success of someone I don't particularly love becomes a threat to me and provokes envy. The success of someone I love is a success in which I share and provokes joy. It happens this way because it is love which binds us together as one family, making it possible for us to share life together and to rejoice in each other's gifts.

The love poured into our hearts by the Holy Spirit is the extraordinary, supernatural gift which carries us beyond ordinary relating and builds a new civilisation, what we call the kingdom of God. We are all God's servants, fellow workers with each other, tending the garden together, building the house of God together.

Week 22 Tuesday (Year 2)

Readings: 1 Corinthians 2:10-16; Psalm 145; Luke 4:31-37

There are three kinds of spirit spoken about in today's readings: the spirit of a person that knows the depths of a person, the unclean spirit that troubles a person and is cast out by Jesus, the Spirit of God that knows the depths of God. We need to consider all three if we are to understand ourselves fully.

Our own spirit shows itself in many ways: memory and imagination, anxiety and desire, our capacities for knowledge, understanding and love. The human spirit is seen in literature, art, music, technology, the whole panoply of activities and interests that make us to be very extraordinary animals indeed. In poetry and music, philosophy and theology, and many other ways, the 'spirituality' of the human creature is to be seen.

Unclean spirits are realities 'in us without us', we might say, that are known through their effects. As well as obvious external difficulties and obstacles, there are many ways in which human beings are afflicted and distracted from within. We continue to surprise and disappoint ourselves. 'I do not understand my own actions', Paul says in the letter to the Romans. Mean-spirited and selfish, hard-hearted and yet profoundly vulnerable, given to addiction and led by the opinions of various publics: there are many ways in which we are disturbed by the unclean spirits. Christian tradition has identified seven or eight deadly spirits or capital vices: vainglory, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy, sloth and pride.

But there is also the Spirit of God who finally reveals us to ourselves. In the first reading Paul says that the depths of God are accessible to the Spirit of God in something like the way the depths of a human being are accessible to the human spirit, but then says that actually the depths of ourselves are only now accessible to the Spirit of God and not to our own spirit. He is speaking of a new possibility, a new spiritual life, that is not simply part and parcel of the nature with which we were first created but that comes about through a new presence of the Holy Spirit in us. If we are to understand the gifts God has given us we need the Spirit of God. If we are to plumb the depths of ourselves it can only be with the help of the same Spirit.

This relativises our natural 'spirituality', placing its conflicts and achievements in a completely new light. There is a new world of wonder and admiration to which we are called. Paul speaks of new human beings who are capable of judging the value of everything, human beings who have 'the mind of Christ'. Natural spirituality is a token or intimation of what the Spirit brings. When the Spirit, the love of God, is poured into our hearts, not only are the unclean spirits put in their place but our capacities for knowledge, understanding and love are opened up to a new and truly transcendent objective, reaching even to God, in the supreme spiritual activities of faith, hope, and love.

Week 22 Monday (Year 2)

Readings: 1 Corinthians 2:1-5; Psalm 119; Luke 4:16-30

The heroes of Greek and other militaristic cultures are always the soldiers. These are the characters in these cultures regarded as showing the greatest courage and they receive the greatest honour for it. There is a transformation of courage in Christianity. There it is the martyrs who are the great heroes, men and women ready to die in witness to Christ and the faith, and to do so, like Christ, non-violently.

This transformation of courage is one of the consequences of the gospel as Paul summarises it in today's first reading. I came among you in fear and trembling, he says, knowing only Jesus and him as the crucified Christ, so that my preaching might get its strength not from any worldly kind of power or persuasion but might be simply a demonstration of the power of the Spirit.

Nevertheless, the classical Christian account of courage as we find it in St Thomas Aquinas, for example, is developed not just from the Bible but also taking hints from Aristotle. There are two sides to courage, the ancient Greek philosopher indicates, an assertive and a sustaining side. One is the courage to put oneself forward in the world, to undertake great projects and to take action in spite of fear and apprehension. The other is the courage to be patient and persevering in the face of experiences that generate other kinds of anxiety and fear: coping with illness, enduring long-term challenges, living with rejection or mockery, martyrdom. 

For Christians this second side of courage is the higher one. St Teresa of Avila even says somewhere that it takes more courage to persevere in prayer than to die as a martyr.

So courage is required if we are to follow Jesus. One kind of courage is the kind he showed in the synagogue at Nazareth when his preaching was rejected and denigrated. The other kind of courage is enshrined forever in the mystery of the cross, a courage like that of the soldier facing death with its whole weight of fear, but doing it without returning violence, freely accepting it out of love for the Father and the Father's plan for the world's salvation.

Week 22 Sunday (Year A)

Readings: Jeremiah 20:7-9; Psalm 62(63); Romans 12:1-2; Matthew 16:21-27

It was only last week, so still quite fresh in our memories. 'Who do the people say I am?', Jesus asked. And then 'who do you say I am?' Peter's confession - 'you are the Christ, the Son of the Living God' - seemed like a kind of climax. They had arrived at a true understanding of who he is. It was followed by Jesus' declaration that Peter's understanding came not from flesh and blood but had been revealed to him by the heavenly Father.

Strong stuff. Nothing stronger could be imagined. He had revealed himself to them and they, by God's grace, had understood and believed. What a shock, then, that Jesus' next words to Peter refer not to the heavenly Father, nor even to flesh and blood, but to Satan as the source of Peter's next words to him. 'This must not happen to you, Lord'. 'Get behind me, Satan.' What was happening? It seemed as if Peter's confession was a point of arrival. Now it seems as if they are not even at the beginning of understanding.

All three synoptic gospels have this turning point after Peter's confession of faith. 'He began to teach them' (Mark 8:31). 'He began to show them' (Matthew 16:21). 'He set his face to go to Jerusalem' (Luke 9:51). The first act of the drama of Jesus' life is over, the second act is beginning. They have learned something but in another way they still have everything to learn - he began to teach them, he began to show them. Has he been with them this long, already shown them and taught them so many things, and still ... he begins?

Peter's confession of faith, which last week seemed like such a wonderful point of arrival - and it was and is: on this rock Jesus builds his church! - we now see that same confession to be also a point of departure. Jesus is ready to move on to the next stage and to try to take them with him.

The first act had opened 'after John had been arrested' (Mark 1:14; Matthew 4:12). It is a first darkening of the story with the shadow of the cross. The second act opens with Jesus beginning to initiate his disciples into the deeper mystery: if he is the Messiah then his mission will be accomplished through what the prophets had foretold as the birth-pangs of the Messiah and which he sketches as follows: his rejection, his suffering, his death, and on the third day his being raised. This last bit goes over the heads of the disciples for the moment, it fails to register. They discussed among themselves at other moments what rising from the dead could mean. But not here. They do not say, 'oh that's all right then, there will be a happy ending after all!' They hear only the talk of suffering and death. 'God forbid', says Peter - the same God who had revealed to him that Jesus is the Christ, and God's Son. May this same God forbid that things should happen in the way Jesus foretold.

What a shock then to hear Jesus' words: 'Get behind me, Satan! You are a hindrance to me, for you are not on the side of God but of man'. Other translations say something like 'your way of thinking is not of God but of man'. Praised for his divinely-inspired way of thinking last week, Peter is condemned for his diabolical way of thinking this week.

The glory of the Son of Man, of the Messiah, of this Son of the Living God, is the glory of love in a sinful world. What shape will that glory take - must that glory take? - in a sinful world? If the world so loved by God is to be redeemed and healed? Jesus has just given them a sketch of the glory and it is nothing like what they - or we - would count as glory. They should have had some preparatory understanding - the experience of Jeremiah (see today's first reading), the words of Isaiah (the Suffering Servant, the birth pangs of Messiah), the very recent experience of John the Baptist. But not for Messiah himself: surely he would be the one to bring all such injustices and oppression to an end? Yes, but to end it by embracing it, by entering into it more deeply than any prophet or martyr before or since, by drinking the cup of the world's suffering - this they did not expect and they could not accept.

As Act Two of the drama of Jesus' life opens, the disciples still have everything to learn. We still have everything to learn in the face of human suffering, of the world's evil, of the reality of sin and death. 'God forbid, Lord, this must not happen to you, to us!' But notice how the apostles and disciples did quickly come to understand when the events foretold by Jesus actually took place. Paul sums up so well what they had learned from Jesus - 'offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, let yourselves be transformed, renew your whole way of thinking, so that you will discern the will of God' - not of Satan, not of flesh and blood, not of this world - 'and so know what is good, acceptable to God and perfect.'

This is today's so apt second reading. And this is what Jesus is beginning to teach them and to teach us who are always at the beginning of this understanding. At first he teaches them in words, later in his actions and in his passion. The same for us - we learn the way of Jesus not just by understanding his words but by entering into the mystery of the Cross, through prayer, through our own suffering, through sharing the suffering of others, through seeking to understand what it means truly to love another. It is a wisdom we learn only through the renewal of our minds - over and over again - and the transformation of our hearts - over and over again.

Passion of John the Baptist - 29 August

Readings: 1 Corinthians 1:26–31; Psalm 33; Mark 6:17–29

Herod feared John the Baptist, and whenever he heard him speak, he was perplexed. He was afraid because he knew that John was holy and righteous, yet he enjoyed listening to him. Herod is the classic example of an indecisive person, drawn to what is good, perhaps even capable of seeing what is right, yet lacking the strength of character or moral maturity necessary to follow what he knows to be right and to order his desires accordingly. In a sense, Herod is ‘the man in the street’.

How common is this ambivalence in the face of holiness and righteousness? The Bible speaks of it often, in very different moments and contexts throughout the history of the people. ‘This people honours me with their lips, but their heart is far from me’ (Isaiah 29:13; Matthew 15:8). ‘Purify your hearts, you who are double-minded’ (James 4:8). ‘How long will you waver between two opinions?’ (1 Kings 18:21). ‘I do not do the good I want to do, but I do the evil I do not want to do’ (Romans 7:19).

Herod is not a likeable figure, and we might easily dismiss him as pathetic and ineffective. The frequency with which the Bible exhorts the people to resolve their wavering, reminding them of their own duplicity, is enough to assure us that the problem is not Herod’s alone, and that where we say ‘his’ or ‘theirs’, we should in fact say ‘mine’ and ‘ours’.

We see Herod’s problem in dramatic terms; indeed, it has often been dramatised by composers, playwrights and painters. For us, however, it is more useful to reflect on our own duplicity, on how this problem is present within ourselves. In what ways do I waver between different opinions? In what ways do I see what is good and yet do what is wrong? In what way do I continue to profess in words that I follow Christ whilst my heart, at least in part, is elsewhere?

We might find John the Baptist admirable but a little off-putting, a man of integrity, yes, but somewhat fierce in his manner and his teaching. As long as we see him in this light, we are more or less on Herod’s side, fearful of what John asks of us and yet eager to listen to him. For what he proclaims is simply the kingdom of God, the good news. His message is the message of Jesus, just as demanding and uncompromising. ‘Wretched man that I am,’ concludes Paul, reflecting on his own indecision. ‘Who will deliver me from this body of death?’ (Romans 7:24).

When we confront this problem head-on within ourselves, we arrive at the same question. Is it a problem of character or of upbringing? Is it a problem of nature or of nurture? Is it a matter of good fortune or misfortune? Is it simply a desire that proves too strong for reason?

Herod does not know whom to turn to for help, and the tragedy of John’s martyrdom ensues. Paul, on the other hand, knows whom to turn to: ‘Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ, our Lord.’ Let us, too, continue to look in that direction, towards the One whom John the Baptist pointed to as the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Our hope is that He may also deal with the sins of my indecision. He teaches us not to be afraid, but to seek, to ask and to knock. He asks us to open the door to Him and to allow Him to strengthen us in holiness. He can do this, even though at times we may be like Herod.