SS Cyril and Methodius -- 14 February

Readings: Acts 13:46-49; Psalm 116; Luke 10:1-9

Whenever I attend a big event at St Peter's in Rome I end up thinking about that moment in the gospel where James and John asked Jesus for the best seats in the kingdom. At St Peter's everybody wants to get to one of the best seats and will be very happy to tell you when they do get a good place. It means a place in front of everybody else. One year for Ash Wednesday I had a ticket which not only guaranteed me a very good seat but allowed me to receive ashes from the Pope. I found myself becoming quite jealous of this entitlement, wondering what would happen if by some misfortune somebody else took my place. I wondered whether I should make an early Lenten sacrifice and offer my ticket to somebody else. In the end I held on to it, accepted the privilege, promising that if I am offered such a ticket next year I will offer it to someone else. Although it might be a new Pope ...

I don't know how the brothers James and John got along for the rest of their lives. Paul and Barnabas are mentioned in the first reading, brothers in the faith working together, but it was not to continue like that forever. Paul was not easy to get along with. The gospel reading tells us that the disciples were sent out in pairs. The readings are chosen for the feast: we celebrate Cyril and Methodius, blood brothers and brothers in the faith who worked together in the preaching of the gospel.

We should not underestimate what an achievement of grace it is where brothers manage to work together. René Girard's analysis of the origins of civilization is well known: so many cities are founded on the blood that flows from fratricide. Cain, the first murderer, was a builder of cities. Jacob and Esau, Romulus and Remus: Augustine already talks about this in his City of God. Perhaps Girard pushes a valuable insight too far. But it is true that the vision of brothers dwelling in unity is realised only where grace triumphs over the egoism that nibbles away in each of us. Inevitably we compare ourselves with others, what they've received, how they are treated, whether they are being preferred to us. Melanie Klein identified envy as the most fundamental truth about human relations, their primary motor. Girard sees it in what he calls 'mimetic rivalry', envy in other words. Am I my brother's keeper? The one I admire, who shares my bread, very easily, and almost inevitably, becomes my rival.

Some are suggesting that Pope Benedict, at the moment of announcing his resignation, was speaking about this fact of life when he referred to a disunity that mars the face of the Church. This is what he said, thinking about difficulties facing the Church:  'Penso in particolare alle colpe contro l’unità della Chiesa, alle divisioni nel corpo ecclesiale' (I think particularly of attacks against the unity of the Church, of divisions in the ecclesial body). Is it the reason for his resignation, some asked, that he became tired of tedious infighting, bickering and jockeying among people who are supposed to be brothers serving the same Lord, preachers of the same gospel. I have no idea whether that is what he was hinting at. I took it to be a more general comment about the scandal of division among Christians that weakens our testimony to the gospel. But we all know the potential of envy and rivalry to disturb and distort human relations. We all know it in the first place in ourselves. We know how we need to work, with God's help, to cope with feelings of envy and rivalry.

Cyril and Methodius were brothers preaching the same gospel, co-workers in the Lord's vineyard. Celebrating their feast as we do each year close to the beginning of Lent reminds us that what we are invited to do in this season is not just to be reconciled with God, but to be reconciled with our brothers, and with ourselves.

Week 5 Thursday (Year 2)

Readings: 1 Kings 11.4-13; Psalm 106; Mark 7.24-30

It might seem strange to read that King David's heart was 'entirely with the Lord'. His sins were many and serious - murder and adultery that we know of - and yet he never turned aside to other gods. He comes across as what we might call an honest sinner. He 'owns up' and repents without delay when the prophet Nathan confronts him concerning his sins towards Uriah and Bathsheba. He does not try to blame anybody else which is a more familiar tactic in the scriptures (and in life generally). We are told that in spite of those sins, David followed the Lord 'unreservedly'. We see his devotion, his constant awareness of God's presence and prerogatives, when he spares Saul who is at his mercy and yet he does not kill him because he is the Lord's anointed. For David, the Lord and what is the Lord's must always be respected.

Solomon is no saint either but is in a more serious situation because he allows his sins to lead him away from his relationship with the Lord. The Lord's anger expresses itself in the future destiny of David's dynasty, a response which is however restrained by the memory of David's devotion and the Lord's promise to him.

There is a refreshing honesty also in the Syrophoenician woman whom we meet once again in today's gospel reading. It is an intriguing moment in which Jesus seems tired and cranky, telling her that it is not right to share the children's food with dogs. Her witty response, that even the dogs can eat the scraps that fall from the table, earns her the same reward as those who had revealed their faith to Jesus and so her daughter is healed.

It seems as if the fresh air of honest dealing is fundamental in the relationship with the Lord, the God of Israel, and with Jesus, the Lord Incarnate. Because God is truth as well as love, we might say, the atmosphere of his kingdom, its culture, is honesty, trust, plain dealing. At base, that is what faith means: living in the truth, trusting the one who is the source of all truth, being humble in turning to him for help.

'The prayer of the humble person pierces the clouds and will not rest until it reaches its goal, until the Most High responds (Sirach 35.21).' This text, from the Book of Sirach, describes well the honest prayer of the Syrophoenician woman, of David in his repentance, of Job in his distress, of the widow of Luke 18 in her persistence, of Jesus in his agony, of Monica in her prayers for Augustine ... of ourselves too, perhaps, or at least those of us who can persevere in it.

Week 5 Wednesday (Year 2)

Readings: 1 Kings 10.1-10; Psalm 37; Mark 7.14-23

The wisdom of Solomon and the splendour of his court leave the Queen of Sheba breathless. She seems to be besotted, for in spite of all he already has, she gives him many gifts from her own treasuries. We can imagine the scene from places we can still visit, places like Versailles or Windsor or the Winter Palace in St Petersburg or even the Apostolic Palace at the Vatican. Kings and princes, queens and duchesses, popes and cardinals: they knew how to impress and had the resources to engage the best architects, the finest artists, the most gifted designers of clothes and gardens, the greatest composers of music.

By contrast is what comes from the mouth of Jesus in the gospel reading as he lists the things that originate in the human heart: evil thoughts, unchastity, theft, murder, adultery, greed, malice, deceit, licentiousness, envy, blasphemy, arrogance, folly. We can imagine that while the externals of courtly life were as described in the first reading, the human relations within those splendid walls were often marked, and marred, by what Jesus describes in the gospel reading. We see it often represented in films about the Tudors or life at Versailles or the Borgias.

It is not what appears externally that counts, then, what really counts is what comes from within human beings, from the heart. 'Our heart is given to the things we treasure': Jesus teaches us this, in his Sermon on the Mount. 'My love is my weight', says Saint Augustine, meaning the same thing, that I am given to the things I love. They are my passion, they are the things that may even take my breath away. So what is it that I love?

The important question is not what kind of palace can I construct with which to impress people but what kind of heart can I develop in order to enter into the fulness of human living which Jesus came to teach us: how to love in a way that is truly right and good. 'Set your heart on things that are above', Saint Paul says in his letter to the Colossians, following Jesus once again who tells us to lay up treasure for ourselves in heaven, not on the earth. It means to become rich in the resources of the kingdom of God which are the fruits of the Spirit - love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, self-control.

In this way we live with a wisdom superior to that of Solomon, building our house on rock, rich in what really matters, the love of God, which, unlike the great palaces with their pomp and splendour, will never decline or weaken and will never fade away.

Week 5 Tuesday (Year 2)

Readings: 1 Kings 8:22-23, 27-30; Psalm 84: Mark 7:1-13

Ephesians 6:2 says that the commandment about honouring our parents is the first commandment to have a promise attached: ‘honour your father and your mother that your days may be long and that it may go well with you in the land which the Lord your God gives you’ (Deuteronomy 5:16; Exodus 20:12). The matter is taken very seriously in the Old Testament: ‘every one of you shall revere his mother and his father’ (Leviticus 19:3); to strike or even curse one’s parents is an offence punishable by death (Exodus 21:15, 17; Leviticus 20:9; Deuteronomy 27:16).

Jesus refers to this commandment in controversy with the Pharisees and scribes who, he says, have effectively rejected the commandment of God by introducing a ‘get out clause’ into their own laws: if somebody dedicated property for religious purposes then this freed him from his obligations to his parents. But this is corruption, says Jesus, all the worse for posing as piety: ‘you reject the commandment of God in order to keep your tradition’ (Matthew 7:10; Mark 15:1-9). We need to be careful that we do not end up doing something similar, giving more importance to human traditions than to God’s commandments.

At the same time Jesus makes it clear that faith in him is more fundamental even than our relationship with our parents. We are not to ‘prefer’ them to him if we are to be worthy of him (Matthew 10:32-40; Mark 10:28-31; Luke 9:57-62; 14:25-35). Blood is thicker than water, we say. The Book of Leviticus identifies this as the reason why cursing one’s parents is a capital offence: if you curse your parents ‘your own blood is upon you’ (Leviticus 20:9). But Jesus teaches that there is something thicker than blood. ‘Who are my mother and my brothers’, he asks when told that they are at the edge of the crowd seeking him (Matthew 12:46-50). Those who hear the word of God and do it, he replies. The woman who praises Mary – ‘blessed is the womb that bore you and the breasts you sucked’ (Luke 11:27-28) – gets the same reply: ‘blessed rather are those who hear the word of God and keep it’. This is the strongest bond of all, our becoming brothers and sisters of Christ, our adoption as children of the Father, our shared life in the Spirit.

It is sometimes assumed that this commandment is for children. Ephesians 6:2 even adds the word ‘children’ at the beginning. But the original commandment does not contain the word ‘children’ and experience shows that people have more difficulty with it as they grow up. Children tend to observe it naturally (while testing the boundaries), since mother and father are the source of so many good things for them. For most children their parents fill the horizon and are as reliable as the sunrise. Adult children find it more difficult to respect their parents as they come to realise how limited and flawed they are. Just as children can be a disappointment to their parents, it seems that the opposite is also often the case, at least for a time. This is when we need to remember this commandment.

Under this commandment belong other requirements of the virtue of ‘piety’. This was the pagan world’s version of the commandment, a part of justice whereby we show honour and gratitude to those who have done for us things we can never do for them: our parents, our teachers, the communities which helped bring us to maturity (the patria, or fatherland). The pagan virtue of religion itself is the natural debt of honour and gratitude we owe to God. Of course as Christians we believe that Jesus has brought us into a radically new level of intimacy with God through the theological virtues of faith, hope and love.

The exchange between the adolescent Jesus and his human parents in the Temple at Jerusalem may seem shocking: ‘how is it that you sought me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?’ (Luke 2:49). But it serves to introduce the meaning of his mission, in which the old commandment remains in force while being taken up into the new commandment, to be given new power there. In Christ we are asked not only to honour our father and our mother, we are to love them.

This reflection was first published in Saint Martin Magazine

Week 05 Monday (Year 2)

Readings: 1 Kings 8:1-7, 9-13; Psalm 132; Mark 6:53-56

Ten days ago we heard about David’s plan to build a house for the Lord, a suitable dwelling for the Ark of the Covenant. But through the prophet Nathan, David learned that he would not be the one to build a temple for the Lord. In the first place, it was the Lord who was constructing a house for David, not the other way round. The dynasty of David, his royal house, would last forever and the temple in Jerusalem, when it did come to be built, was constructed by Solomon, David’s son.

The Books of the Kings open with an account of the death of David and the succession of Solomon. He asked for wisdom above all other gifts, enabling him to rule in such a way that peace broke out and the kingdom rested from warfare. It was now time to build the Temple and Solomon gathered the best craftsmen and artists to work on this great building which was to be the place of the presence of God. It was to house the Ark of the Covenant, the Tent of Meeting, the tablets of stone containing the Ten Commandments, and the other treasures that sealed the covenant between the Lord and the people of Israel.

The Temple was to be the place of prayer, the meeting place between the people and God. It was to be the place of sacrifice and the centre in which the great liturgies of Israel were celebrated. We have been hearing about the planning and building the Temple, and today’s reading tells us about the liturgy during which the Temple was dedicated. The first great act of this liturgy was to bring the Ark of the Covenant from Mount Zion, the City of David, to the Temple and to enthrone it in the Holy of Holies, under the protecting wings of the Cherubim. Inside the Ark are the stones containing the Ten Commandments, at once the revelation of God’s wisdom for his people and the contract of their relationship with God. As the Ark is placed in its new dwelling the dark cloud in which God dwells came to settle around it, filling the Holy of Holies. This mysterious cloud both revealed and hid the presence of the Lord. It was the sign that the glory of God had come to dwell in the midst of God’s people.

There is a paradox at the heart of faith which is at once strong and certain in its grasp of truth, and at the same time obscure and mysterious. Faith, as Saint Paul says, means ‘seeing in a glass darkly’. This paradox is expressed very powerfully by the dark cloud in which God dwells. The presence of God is certain – who could doubt the presence of a dark cloud? But the nature of God, what that cloud contains, the ‘face’ of God, remains hidden. No one can see God and live, the Bible tells us, and in another text ‘truly you are a God who hides yourself’.

And yet this hidden God revealed himself to Moses and to David. At least he revealed his will for his people which gives us some understanding of what God himself is like. We are to be righteous as God is righteous and holy as God is holy. The ‘shekinah’, which was the clouded space above the Ark and between the Cherubim was regarded as the holiest place in creation. But it was simply an empty space: the people could be sure that God was there even though God’s glory was revealed simply as a dark cloud.

By contrast today’s gospel reading tells us that people ‘recognised Jesus immediately’ and flocked to him for healing. Many New Testament texts teach us that Jesus is the ‘new Temple’, the new place of the presence of God, the new meeting place between God and the people. At the moment of Jesus’ death the curtain in the Temple was torn in two. What does it mean? That holiest place is opened up to our gaze. The cloud disperses to reveal the face of God. And what do we see? We see Jesus, the human face of God. We see Jesus dying on the cross, the definitive revelation of God’s love. We see the blood poured out and the Spirit breathed forth, by which a new and everlasting covenant is established with humanity.

The only Son, who comes to us from the Father’s heart, has now revealed God to us. This Son of David establishes in his own blood the Kingdom that will last forever.

Week 05 Sunday (Year A)

Readings: Isaiah 58:7-10; Psalm 112; 1 Corinthians 2:1-5; Matthew 5:13-16

With a range of imagery the Bible speaks about a choice presented by the Word of God to those who hear it.

According to the Book of Deuteronomy the choice to observe the commandments of God or not to observe them is a choice between life and death, between a blessing and a curse. For much of the 'wisdom literature' the choice is between walking in the way of wisdom or descending the path of foolishness, depending on how we relate to others and to God.

In his preaching Jesus speaks more starkly of this choice. It is between a narrow gate opening onto a hard road and an easy and broad road which leads, however, to perdition (Matt 7:13-14). Paul contrasts life according to the Spirit and life according to the flesh, while John is fond of the imagery of light and darkness.

This Sunday's readings give us a physical and very concrete image for the choice we face between two contrasting ways of living: the clenched fist and the open hand.

Think of the difference between being confronted with a clenched fist and being offered an open hand. The clenched fist signifies threat, rejection, arrogance, exclusion, refusal, anger and violence. The open hand means friendship, help, peace, sharing, communication and connection.

Isaiah encourages his listeners to 'do away with the yoke, the clenched fist, the wicked word', and to do it by 'sharing your bread with the hungry and clothing the man you see to be naked'. Psalm 111 continues the theme: 'the good man takes pity and lends … is generous, merciful and just … open-handed he gives to the poor.'

Where the clenched fist is ungenerous, unreceptive and closes things down, the open hand is generous, welcoming and vulnerable.

Paul pleads his own openness and vulnerability among the Corinthians. I was with you in fear and trembling, he says, and in my preaching I avoided the complexities of 'philosophy'. 'All I knew among you,' he continues, 'was Jesus as the crucified Christ.'

The crucified Christ opened his hands and arms and heart on the cross to give us the definitive revelation of God. This heart open to the world contains a love beyond all expectation and beyond any natural hope, a love beyond any singing or telling of it. The God who opens wide his hand to satisfy the desires of all who live (Ps 145) has now opened wide his heart to bring to eternal life all whom He has chosen (Eph 1:11).

There may be many reasons why, at times, we choose the way of the clenched fist rather than the open hand: hurt and disappointment, tiredness and indifference, fear and misunderstanding, selfishness and disdain.

Whatever the reasons, the clenched fist always involves turning from our own kin and denying, in effect, that others are of the same kin. The open hand, however, means turning towards others as our kin, fellow human creatures, brothers and sisters, children of the same heavenly Father sharing a common call and a common hope.

Just as the presence of salt and light cannot be hidden and their absence will be noticed, the kindness of the good person cannot be denied and the shock of the clenched fist will stop us in our tracks. The good works of the open-handed shine forth so that people might praise the Father for the holiness they glimpse in His creatures. We have come to know that this is what God is like, causing his sun to rise on bad as well as good, and his rain to fall on honest as on dishonest people (Matt 5:45).

In many parts of the world the sign of peace at Mass is a simple handshake and often its exchange is perfunctory and lazy. But it symbolises something crucial, the difference between two ways of approaching our neighbour and of approaching life.

Are we to turn in and close ourselves away, hardening our heart and clenching our fist? Or are we to follow Christ by opening our hands and our hearts, by reaching out to others in generosity and justice? What is the point in opening our hands in prayer to God if we do not lend a hand of kindness to our brothers and sisters in their need?

This homily first appeared on Torch, the preaching website of the English Dominican Province

Week 4 Saturday (Year 2)

Readings: 1 Kings 3:4-13; Psalm 119:9-14; Mark 6:30-34

In the wilderness sheep wander but people learn. If they have a good teacher, that is. Jesus' response is classic, then, teaching them 'many things'. Another translation has 'at some length', it seems to mean something like 'everything'.

When we are lost in a wilderness we are apt to learn. We have lost our sense of direction, are not sure where we should go, what we should do, where food and shelter are to be found. So we are disposed to learn, docile in an exceptional way in exceptional circumstances.

Teaching and learning are mysterious processes, perhaps we should say one mysterious process. Is it a matter of drawing out what is already inside but has become hidden in some way, forgotten, or is it putting something new into a person, new knowledge, new understanding?

Two great teachers of the Christian tradition, Augustine and Aquinas, say (following Jesus in the gospel) that God is the only real Teacher. Our appreciation of the truth comes about as a result of God's presence and stimulation in the human mind. Human teachers can serve that process but only God teaches us interiorly, can reach inside our minds to assist processes of understanding and knowledge. It is not a kind of magic, though, even with infused knowledge or special gifts of understanding and knowing. We must learn and if something is to become really 'ours' then it must take the shape of our sensation, our perception, our understanding, our language.

Jesus is our righteousness, our peace, our wisdom, our justice. He is the one who can teach us all things, the only one who can do this. He does it, Aquinas says, through the questions he asks his disciples, the signs he gives them to illustrate and support his teaching, and the love he has for them. (We can only teach people we love.) Augustine speaks of Jesus on the cross as 'magister in cathedra', a professor on his chair. Here is the deepest love, the most compelling sign, and the most disturbing question posed by this Teacher as he enacts in his own flesh and blood the truths and values he spent his life teaching.

Moved with compassion for the needy crowd, Jesus began to teach them. The need of the neighbour takes precedence even over the time we might like to spend alone in prayer with God. Solomon is praised in the first reading because he asked for wisdom. In Jesus we believe we have been given the Wisdom of the Father. He is a light to guide us in our knowledge and understanding. He is a Teacher to lead us in our actions and decisions. He is a Doctor of truth and goodness, curing our ignorance and healing our weakness.