Our Lady of Sorrows - 15 September

Readings: 1 Corinthians 12,12-14, 27-31a; Ps 100; John 19:25-27 OR Luke 2:33-35

Along with the scripture readings the Church's liturgy for today also proposes the sequence, the famous Stabat mater dolorosa, so beautifully set to music by many great composers, most recently by the Scottish composer James Macmillan.

How can such beauty - think also of Pergolesi's setting of the Stabat mater - be built on such unpromising foundations? It is all about pain and loss, sorrow and abandonment. These are not things we seek out or try to provoke. They constitute suffering which in its literal meaning refers to what comes to us, what is imposed on us, what we can only either accept or protest.

In another powerful and beautiful work of art, Oscar Wilde's letter from prison called De profundis, he explains that he came to see suffering as a revelation. His words about it are quite extraordinary. Clergymen get as far as describing suffering as a mystery. But it is a revelation. We find Oscar Wilde repeating, unconsciously it seems, the words of Simeon, that through the suffering of Jesus and Mary the secret thoughts of many are laid bare. 'In suffering', says Wilde, 'one discerns things one never discerned before. One approaches the whole of history from a different standpoint. Sorrow is the supreme emotion of which man is capable, it is simply true and it wears no mask.'

'There is no truth comparable to sorrow', continues Oscar Wilde, 'there are times when sorrow seems to me the only truth. Other things may be illusions of the eye or of the appetite, made to blind the one and cloy the other, but out of sorrow have the worlds been built, and at the birth of a child or a star, there is pain.' 'The secret of life is suffering', he concludes.

The clergyman proposing suffering as a mystery might use the same words - the secret of life is suffering - and struggle then to show how suffering and love go together. But the suffering man or woman who has tasted sorrow to the depths can speak these words with authority: the suffering man or woman who has had this revelation, can say this with authority: the secret of life is suffering.

Oscar Wilde again: 'Now it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there is in the world. I cannot conceive of any other explanation. I am convinced that there is no other, and that if the world has indeed ... been built of sorrow, it has been built by the hands of love, because in no other way could the soul of man, for whom the world was made, reach the full stature of its perfection.' In no other way than suffering could the soul of man, for whom the world was made, reach the full stature of its perfection. So sorrow must be the work of love, and Jesus too, although he was Son, as we read in the Letter to the Hebrews, learned to obey through suffering, and having been made perfect, became for all who obey him, the source of eternal salvation.

This homily has been largely given by Oscar Wilde, speaking de profundis, out of the depths of pain, sorrow, loss and abandonment. It is better to quote him than to repeat banal and hackneyed phrases about the mystery of suffering. He speaks of what it revealed to him. And that unites immediately with Mary's pain as she stands at the foot of the Cross and with Jesus' pain in the garden and on the Cross.

Our celebration of the Eucharist today, when we meditate on Mary's pain and sorrow, could well be followed, later, by listening to Pergolesi's or Macmillan's setting of the Stabat mater, or by reading Oscar Wilde's De profundis, and in doing so praying to God for all who today are asked to realise the revelation that lies hidden in suffering.

The Triumph of the Cross -- 14 September

Readings: Numbers 21:4-9; Psalm 77 (78); Philippians 2:6-11; John 3:13-17

With just one exception, whenever the Bible refers to an only child, it is in reference to the child’s death. (The exception is Proverbs 4.3). In the Book of Judges, for example, we read of Jephthah, a judge, who made a foolish vow. If the Lord helped him in a particular campaign, he would sacrifice the first living thing he met on his return home. To his dismay, this turned out to be his daughter who was his only child (Judges 11.34). 

 

The prophets speak of the particular sadness involved in mourning for an only child (Jeremiah 6.26 and Amos 8.10). Zechariah in particular speaks of a time when a spirit of supplication will be poured out on the inhabitants of Jerusalem and a fountain will be opened to cleanse them. When they ‘look on the one whom they have pierced’, he says, ‘they will mourn for him as one mourns for an only child, and weep bitterly over him, as one weeps for a firstborn’ (Zechariah 12.10; 13.1).

This sense of special sadness continues in the New Testament, particularly in the Gospel of Luke who notes that three of the children restored to life by Jesus were the only children of their parents: the widow’s son at Nain (chapter 7), the daughter of Jairus (chapter 8), and the teacher’s son (chapter 9).

The most important of the only children of the Old Testament is Isaac. He was the child miraculously given to Abraham and Sarah in their old age. The promises made to Abraham, through him to the Hebrews, and through them to the whole world, rested on Isaac. Bizarrely, God asks Abraham to sacrifice Isaac (Genesis 22). He is to take Isaac, ‘your son, your only son, whom you love’ and offer him as a burnt offering to God. Isaac himself carries the wood for the sacrifice though he is unaware of who the victim is to be. At the last moment God intervenes, satisfied that Abraham has passed the test, and a ram is offered in place of the boy.

The Jewish people believed that the promised Messiah would be raised up by God as a reward for the faith Abraham showed on that occasion. This is what Saint Paul is thinking of when he says that ‘God did not spare his own son but gave him up for us all’ (Romans 8.32). He spared the son of Abraham but he did not spare his own son.

The most important references to an only son in the Christian scriptures are those passages in the writings of John where Jesus is described as the only son of the Father. Keeping the story of Abraham and Isaac in mind helps us to understand what is happening between the Father and Jesus.

God so loved the world that he gave his only son, we are told, so that everyone who believes in his name may be saved through him (John 3.16-18). The first letter of John famously declares that ‘God is love’. We know this because ‘God sent his only son into the world so that we might live through him’ (1 John 4.9). The promises first made to Abraham are fulfilled in ways beyond anything old father Abraham could have imagined. Just as Isaac carried the wood for the sacrifice, so Jesus takes the cross upon his shoulders (John 19.17).

The prophecy of Zechariah is fulfilled in the moment of Christ’s death. His side is pierced with a spear. The inhabitants of Jerusalem look on the one whom they have pierced (John 19.37). The fountain opened in the heart of Jerusalem is the blood and water flowing from the side of Christ. John tells us that the glory of Jesus is the glory ‘of a father’s only son’ (John 1.14). This means death, the death of a beloved child, in all likelihood a sacrificial death.

It seems strange that we must look to the cross of Jesus to see his divinity. What glory is there in this man dying without beauty, ‘from whom others hide their faces’ (Isaiah 53.3)? We think we know what God is, what is appropriate for God and what is not. So we transfer the ‘glory’ to some other moment in the story. We cannot see it in the cross. But no one has ever seen God, John tells us, so how can we be so sure of what is or is not fitting for God? ‘It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known’ (John 1.18).

It is in the death of Jesus that God is revealed because it is in his death that the love which God is, the love of a Father and his only Son, is finally revealed to the world.

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 You will find here another homily for today's feast.

Week 24 Sunday (Year A)

Readings: Sirach 27:30-28:7 [27:33-28:9]; Psalm 103; Romans 14:7-9; Matthew 18:21-35

This Sunday’s readings challenge two pieces of popular wisdom. The first is that a person who has had a particular negative experience will automatically be sympathetic and understanding towards another person having a comparable experience. Much pastoral care and counselling support operates on this basis and it seems reasonable. We expect that those who have experienced a particular loss or anxiety will be better placed to help others undergoing that loss or feeling that anxiety.

But the servant in the gospel parable has no sympathy for the man who owes him money even though his own creditor had just released him from a much greater debt. His action is astonishing to those looking on and it remains astonishing to us, to the point where we may well be unmoved by the torture to which he is subjected at the end. We might even find ourselves rejoicing in that torture and saying ‘well good enough for him’.

And here is the wonderful trap set by this parable, because we then find ourselves behaving as he did. Who is he except a character in a story with a fictional debt, and who are we except real sinners who have been released by God from a real debt, the consequence of our sins. We might imagine the wicked servant turning his head on the rack, looking towards us with bloodshot eyes, and saying ‘so you think you are different from me? Which of you, even though you have been released by God from the debt of your sins, has not sometimes refused to forgive others, has not borne grudges and nursed hurts, has not manoeuvred to get away with things yourself while calling others strictly to account?’

The other piece of popular wisdom challenged by the readings is that human beings make progress by forgiving and forgetting. Once again it seems reasonable, the advice often offered to people who cannot leave behind some sad experience or painful betrayal: ‘try to forgive and forget, you’ve got to move on and not allow this thing to continue to poison your life’. But the readings today tell us that forgiveness is possible not by forgetting the past but by remembering it, by remembering more about the past, and by remembering our present situation, and by remembering our future destiny. If popular wisdom says ‘forgive and forget’, biblical wisdom, coming to a climax in Christ, says ‘remember and so learn forgiveness’.

The wicked servant’s colleagues are astonished that he could so quickly forget the mercy he had been shown. If you or I find it difficult to forgive somebody, then we can begin here, by remembering the times we have been forgiven. The first reading, from the Book of Sirach, begins its teaching about forgiveness from this point. It is not reasonable to expect forgiveness and mercy if you are not prepared to show them. It is absurd to continue to ask mercy of God if you are not prepared to show mercy to others. We need to remember at least that much.

But there are other things we ought to remember as we try to forgive. Remember the end of your life, Sirach says, remember destruction and death. How will it seem looking back, we can imagine him saying, if you have not been able to find a way to forgive. Perhaps he is also reminding us of the judgement, that each of us must give an account of himself to God and where will we be then, anxious to be forgiven but not understanding what forgiveness means because we have not practised it ourselves.

Remember the commandments, Sirach continues, and remember the covenant of the Most High. ‘Do this in memory of me’, Jesus says at the last supper. Remember the covenant of the Most High, the new and everlasting covenant, sealed not by a (fictional) heartless servant stretched on the rack, but by the (real) Son of God nailed to the cross. If you want to learn forgiveness remember how the human heart of the Eternal Word was pierced. Remember how that blood dissolved the walls of hostility between people and established peace. It is not a case of forgiving and forgetting. It is a case of remembering, remembering many things, and so learning what forgiveness means.

Those who believe in Jesus are to be ambassadors of forgiveness in the world, and messengers of reconciliation. But forgiveness is not easy to do and the capacity to forgive is not one that is wilfully achieved. No matter how powerful we consider our willpower to be we cannot force ourselves into forgiveness. In the end it is a gift from God as Alexander Pope intimated in his famous comment that ‘to err is human, to forgive divine’. Perhaps it is not strictly speaking something we ‘do’ but something we find ourselves capable of experiencing, a fruit of the Holy Spirit in us, a sign of the life of Christ in us, a participation in the divine nature, a way of relating to others in which we find ourselves (by God’s grace) becoming compassionate as the Heavenly Father is compassionate.

Week 23 Saturday (Year 2)

Readings: 1 Corinthians 10.14-22; Psalm 115; Luke 6.43-49

It is a wise criterion, clearly, coming from Christ himself, that it is by their fruits that the character and quality of a tree is known. When discerning about spiritual and religious claims and activities it is one o fht emost practical and useful of the criteria we can use. The only difficulty is that it operates post factum. In other words we have to wait and see how people act in order to judge the significance of their words and the charcter and quality of their hearts.

A lot of damage might have been done in the meantime, while we are waiting to see and discern. It has been so in cases of abuse - until a person's actions become known, abusers can continue to bear bad fruit, poisoning the lives of people, sometimes many other people. Once their actions are known, then they can be addressed and prevented from doing further harm.

Sometimes, though, the reputation of people for holiness or doctrinal orthodoxy, other criteria we might use, confuses situations and prevents people from believing that what they are hearing about their behaviour could possibly be true. Some situations, especially of what is termed 'spiritual abuse', arise where leaders or teachers are considered, either by themselves or by their followers, to be guru like and above the ordinary norms of morality. This can be about sexuality, or authority, or property - the three areas of life with which the vows of religion are concerned.

Jesus changes the imagery from trees bearing fruit to. buildings constructed on rock. This seems reliable from the beginning: if we know that the foundations of a person's spiritual and moral life are true and good, we can be confident that their words will be consistent and their actions trustworthy.

But the risks of living remain and uncertainties will continue to arise. Paul in the first reading is dealing with such an ambiguity in the early Church. If idols are nothing does it matter whether I have anything to do with their 'worship' or not? A contemporary form of the question is this: if I practise yoga exercises am I worshipping a false god? Most people would say 'don't be absurd, of course not'. But some Christians, and perhaps others, get anxious and believe such worship is implicit in the practice of yoga whether you think it is or not.

How are we to respond? If a yoga teacher is behaving immorally with her or his students it is one thing and the situation is clear. If the practice is for physical and mental health what is the problem, even if in some parts of the world yog continues to be used in religious rites?

The challenge from the readings today is to ensure coherence between heart and lips and hands, thoughts and words and actions. The place to begin is clearly with thoughts, that we seek to have the mind of Christ, that we know the treasure on which our heart is fixed, that we build our house on that desire. If we speak and act consistently with that foundation in our hearts and minds then we are, by God's grace, good trees bearing good fruit.

Week 23 Friday (Year 2)

Readings: 1 Corinthians 9.16-19, 22-27; Psalm 83; Luke 6.39-42

So two steps are needed if we are to see clearly. One is to accept that there is a beam in my eye which prevents me from seeing clearly. This may not be obvious and it may be difficult for me to accept. The second is to do whatever is needed to remove any such beam so as to see clearly.

What will convince me that there is a beam distorting my vision? Other people pointing it out to me will not work by itself. I can easily find motives for their criticisms (unless the comment is coming from a friend who we know really loves us). Perhaps people are moved by envy, or by some political manoeuvre on their part. In any case are they not subject to the same requirement, to take out of their own eye any beam that may be distorting how they see me?

So what will convince me? It seems I have to walk into a wall or fall down a hole before I will accept that there is some problem with my seeing. Figuratively speaking of course, on a spiritual level. Physically there are many other ways in which we become aware of problems with our eyesight.

But in how we see others, how we see life, how we see things generally, in the world and in the Church - for that kind of sight we need to be awakened somehow if a beam is distorting our vision. And who can do that for us in a way that we will accept? We need a fully trained disciple to show us the way and perhaps often this is how it happens. We are against a wall, or stuck in a hole, and we reach out for help. The wall and the hole are arranged by God's providence and so too is the fully trained disciple if such a one comes our way. We might wonder, with good reason, whether there is any such person apart from the Master himself, Jesus, our only Teacher.

Let's say we have reached the point, by whatever means, of accepting that we have a beam-in-the-eye problem. We must then face into the second stage of gaining clear vision, which is to remove the offending beam from our eye. Where the first stage is a matter of knowledge and understanding, this second stage is a matter of desire and will. Not just intelligence or insight but virtue and initiative. If I need docility above all to accept the first stage of healing, I need humility above all to accept the second stage.

It is why the gospel stories about blindness are so many and so pertinent. Not so bad to know you are blind, Jesus says in the Gospel of John, but much worse to think you can see when you cannot (John 9.39-41). The eye is the lamp of the body, he says elsewhere, but if that lamp is in darkness then you are comprehensively blind (Luke 11.34).

Let us think about these two steps towards seeing clearly. Let us ask God to help us to realise and accept the ways in which we are blind. And then to give us the grace and virtues we need to remove the beams that distort our vision so that we might see clearly what is there.

Week 23 Thursday (Year 2)

Readings: 1 Corinthians 8:1-7, 11-13; Psalm 139; Luke 6:27-38

According to Saint Paul,  knowledge 'expands' and carries the danger with it of becoming egoistic and excluding. Knowledge swells our heads. It is confident, assertive and domineering. Love on the other hand 'builds up', not just expanding but including, not forgetting the other and his needs. Love opens our hearts and makes us sensitive to the impact of our knowledge on others.

The measure of these expansions and upbuildings, today's gospel reading tells us, is to be a measure we learn from God. We are to be compassionate as God is compassionate, merciful as God is merciful. We are called, therefore, to live in a very spacious place, to live within the (infinite) dimensions of the divine compassion.

Knowledge is knowledgeable and might well remain simply knowledgeable: expert, skilled, confident. Love however includes knowledge, embraces and transforms it. For love also knows, and understands, and is wise. Love's knowledge will feel more risky than mere knowedge does (skill, expertise, competence) because love's knowledge is more a matter of being known than of knowing. Love is in the first place, and fundamentally, about being known rather than knowing: 'if anyone loves God he is known by God'.

By knowledge we take the world inside ourselves and learn how to master and control it. By love we venture out into the world to taste it, to learn not so much how we might master it as how we might joyfully live in it. The pursuit of knowledge is one kind of adventure: we become masters of our universe. The pursuit of love is a very different kind of adventure: we step into God's universe and seek to live there by God's standards. Knowledge might well make progress without love but love cannot but include knowledge also.

Julian of Norwich says that 'by love may he be gotten and holden, but by thought never'. By love we come to know not only God and ourselves but also God's world, and the principles that rule it, and the others whom God loves.

Week 23 Wednesday (Year 2)

Readings: 1 Corinthians 7:25-31; Psalm 45; Luke 6:20-26

A common way of moral teaching in the ancient world is in terms of ‘two ways’, one leading on to success and happiness, the other to disaster and disappointment. It is used also in the Bible, which speaks of a way that carries a blessing and leads to life, and a way that carries a curse and leads to death. One is the narrow way of which Jesus speaks, leading to life, and the other is the broad way, leading to death. To place your trust in flesh and in what the world can offer is a way that leads to death, the prophet Jeremiah says. It means living, sooner or later, in a parched land. To place your trust in the Lord is to be like a tree planted near life-giving water, able to send its shoots to the water to find nourishment. Such a tree blossoms, and bears fruit.

                                                    

The form of the beatitudes given in the gospel of Luke follows this pattern of ‘the two ways’. Those who are poor and hungry, weeping and rejected, are blessed, Jesus says. Those who are rich and well fed, laughing and well thought of, are in difficulty. The true prophets experienced the former whereas the false prophets experienced the latter. People experiencing the former are obliged to place their trust in God and so they are like trees planted near life-giving water. People experiencing the latter find their meaning and significance in the world and will find themselves, sooner or later, living in a parched land. Somebody more beautiful will come along, or someone richer, or someone more influential, or someone younger … but the wise person finds the meaning and significance of their lives at some deeper place, where the divine water is to be found.

The paradox expressed in the beatitudes and woes of Luke 6 is most dramatically enacted in the paschal mystery of Christ. He is the seed sown in the ground. But the ground in which it is sown is watered from a divine source so that he springs to life again, life more abundant and more glorious. So when he speaks about the poor and hungry, about those who weep and are persecuted, he speaks about himself. And he knows the meaning and significance human life contains when it remains in touch with the divine water, blossoming (albeit in hidden ways) and bearing fruit (fruit that will last).