Advent Week 3 Monday

Readings: Numbers 24:2-7, 15-17; Psalm 25; Matthew 21:23-27

One of the most striking things in the Sistine Chapel is the presence of the Sibyls among the Prophets of the Old Testament. At a certain level in the chapel, alternating with the long-bearded figures of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and the others, we find the Sibyls of Libya, Delphi, and the rest. These are the pagan prophetesses or visionaries associated with different shrines of the ancient world. It is an expression in architecture and in art of a particular understanding of God's revelation which is in a unique way given to the Hebrews and through them to the world, but which is not without its witnesses also in all cultures and civilisations. The words of the Sibyls are regarded as 'messianic' also, like the poems of Virgil, texts in which are found hints, intimations, and premonitions of the Incarnation of the Word. Such sparks of revelation are to be found wherever human beings enter deeply into the pursuit of wisdom.

Balaam, a prophet of Moab, whose oracles we hear in the first reading today, stands between the pagan prophetesses of the Sistine Chapel and the greatest of the prophets, John the Baptist. He is a 'pagan' who seems nevertheless to be able to speak in the Lord's name. The Baptist is clearly intimately involved in the preaching and work of Jesus. The pagan prophetesses and prophets, even if from a great distance, are also somehow involved in the work of Christ. Balaam served his master Balak, the king of Moab. Threatened by the invading Hebrews, Balak asked Balaam to tell him what he saw regarding this people. Although he is a Moabite, it seems that Balaam believed in the Lord, the God of Israel. At least he has access to God's mind about the destiny of His people.

So we get these beautiful poems with some familiar Advent imagery - 'the king of Jacob shall rise higher, and his royalty shall be exalted' - and what we can only hear now as a prophecy of the One who is to come - 'I see him, though not now; I behold him, though not near: / A star shall advance from Jacob, and a staff shall rise from Israel'. Like all the prophets Balaam says more than he realises. In God's perspective, the prophet does not really know what he is talking about. From our point of view this ancient pagan seer becomes a poet of the Incarnation.

What does it mean for our teaching and our preaching? Clearly there are established and authoritative channels along which the preaching of the gospel takes place, where we expect to find it. But it means that there are many other places where we can pick up hints, premonitions, glimpses of the truth about God and about God's dealings with the world. All of these people - prophets, pagans, priestesses - are children of God and so none of them is excluded from the possibility of being a channel of God's truth for others. It may be buried deep in what they have to say. It may be beyond their own understanding completely. But God can use any of us as instruments for communicating His presence and His wisdom.

John the Baptist is the greatest of the prophets. It does not mean that the least of them, even an enemy of Israel like Balaam, might not also be used by God for the sake of His work in the world.

Advent Week 3 Sunday (Year A)

Readings: Isaiah 35:1-6,10; Psalm 145(146); James 5:7-10; Matthew 11:2-11

From his prison John the Baptist sends messengers to enquire about Jesus. Doubt has set in. Earlier in Matthew's gospel we are told that John knows exactly who Jesus is, the one coming after him, whom he is not worthy to baptise.

Has he now got cold feet? Jesus' reply can seem cruel, especially if John is going through a time of doubt. Jesus tells him that he is performing all the mighty works foretold of the Messiah. Except one. The blind see, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the poor have good news preached to them, and even the dead are raised. So what is left out? 'The Lord sets captives free', as we read in today's psalm. The Messiah will also bring prisoners out of the dungeon (Isaiah 42:7; 49:9; 61:1). Presumably it is the Messianic work in which John has the most immediate personal interest as he languishes in Herod's prison, and it is strange that it is now omitted.

There is a strong tendency, dating from the very earliest days of Christianity, to see John the Baptist and Jesus as opponents rather than as partners in a common task. It is a tendency difficult to resist and it can mislead us significantly. Seeing them as collaborators in a common project helps us to understand what is happening here: they are learning together what the way would involve, what it would mean for each of them. Only a short time later Jesus himself will be in a similar situation (cold feet? a time of doubt?) when he falls to the ground in the garden, his hands weary and his knees trembling. At that point in his story the Baptist is already dead and Jesus has nobody to call on, nobody to ask about the meaning of what is happening, except the Father. And he prays, 'let this cup pass me by'.

We celebrate John the Baptist as the one who prepared the way. Reflecting on his imprisonment and death we see that he prepared the way not just in the sense of introducing Jesus and then disappearing from the scene. He travelled the way before Jesus and in that sense he prepared it. They announce the same message, 'repent, for the kingdom of heaven is close at hand' (Matthew 3:2; 4:17). They meet the same fate, an unjust judgement and a cruel execution. And the arrest of John - all the gospels testify to this - is the signal that the time has come for Jesus to take the lead. A new and final phase of his public ministry begins.

It is all too easy to set John the Baptist and Jesus in opposition to each other. Our minds, which love to 'dualise', do this very quickly. John is about fear and threat, a God to be feared, and Jesus is about mercy and comfort, a God to be loved. Is that not so? No, it is not so. They belong together, for each one's mission is part of one complex moment, the definitive visitation of God for the judgement of this world.

This is the message realised and taught by the Baptist and by Jesus. Salvation comes about not by being removed from human experience - we are not saved from being human - but it comes about rather through human experience - it is God who is, in a term liked by some theologians, 'humanissimus', most human, and He has sent the Son to make us also more human.

What is promised is not a gentle, magical change, some kind of replacement. What is promised is a strengthening of us for what is going on, a refinement in the fire of judgement and love, a new power established where our hearts of stone used to be so that human experience, while remaining human, is radically transformed. Just as courage does not remove fear but enables us to act in spite of fear, so faith, hope and love do not replace human experience but enable us to believe, and to hope, and to love, God from within this human experience, even through death.

We believe in Jesus and not in John. But John is forever the one pointing us in that direction, introducing us to Jesus and to his message. He does it not just with his finger but by his own preaching. He does it not just by his words and his strange way of living but through his passion and death which prefigure the saving passion and death of the One he served.

It may seem like a sombre reflection for Gaudete Sunday. But the joy we are promised is not superficial or shallow. It is a joy born where justice and love have engaged with, and have overcome, the deepest darkness and the strongest evil. It is therefore a joy that is profound and lasting, a joy that is full and complete.

Advent Week 2 Saturday

Readings: Sirach 48:1-4,9-11; Psalm 80; Matthew 17:9a, 10-13

From the description of him given in the first reading it seems that Elijah ought to be immediately recognizable. He comes with fire and departs in fire. His words are a blazing furnace, a torch bringing famine, drought and destruction. Awesome is the word for it, even in the contemporary American use of that term, and we are not surprised that he should depart as he came, in a whirlwind of fire, on his chariot of fiery horses. He comes, we are told, to allay God’s wrath before fury breaks, to put an end to anger, to re-establish the tribes of Jacob, and to turn the hearts of fathers towards their children. It sounds as if he is the wrath and the fury rather than the one who prevents the wrath and the fury from breaking out.

John the Baptist is Elijah, Jesus says, he has come already, and they did not recognize him but did to him whatever they pleased. Rather than fire, blazing furnaces and torches, drought and famine, John came as a strange preacher of repentance, calling for water rather than fire, a baptism in which the people could confess their sins and ask God to cleanse their lives. In some accounts John’s words are fiery, he takes no prisoners, and his steely integrity finally provokes the fury that leads to his martyrdom.

In his reply to the disciples Jesus seems to refer to the passage of Sirach which is today’s first reading. Elijah / John will restore the tribes of Jacob, will restore all things, and see that everything is once more as it should be. This is so that what is to happen next, can happen; so that the one coming next, can come. He is a precursor, then, Elijah / John setting things right somehow before something more radical can happen, allaying the wrath before the fury breaks.

If Elijah is the prophet of fire, drought and famine, he is also the prophet of the still small voice. In his moment of deepest intimacy with God, it is not in the wind or the earthquake or the fire that Elijah is in God’s presence. It is in the still small voice, in the sound of fine silence, that Elijah is in the presence of God. The recognition of the presence of God, the acknowledgement of his prophets and messengers, is not then in dramatic cosmological convulsions, in awesome and terrifying physical events. Perhaps it will be like that at the end of time. But for now recognition of the presence of God is more radical, a matter of converted hearts, changed minds, new ways of thinking, new ways of responding, things opening up, things beginning to move again, sins forgiven, love reborn. Shutting up the heavens may be dramatic and fearful but opening hearts is much more radical, much more creative, much more fruitful for the world’s salvation. Oh that you would tear open the heavens and come down: this is the prayer of a later prophet, a prayer fulfilled precisely in the moment in which Jesus will be baptized by John, the Messiah baptized by Elijah.

The strangest thing Elijah will do is turn back the hearts of fathers towards their children. It is a puzzling expression. Are the hearts of fathers not naturally turned towards their children? Does it mean that the order of creation has become so distorted that only divine power can enable fathers to do something which ought to come naturally to them? It is an essential part of the mission of Elijah as the angel Gabriel explains it to Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, when he brings him the news of his son’s conception (Luke 1:17): he will turn the hearts of the fathers to the children. Perhaps it continues this theme of opening rather than shutting, opening to the future and to what is yet to be, to what the young are bringing, opening to new life, fresh and original, rather than relying on old ways, old patterns, old compromises.

We can if we wish entertain ourselves with images of cosmological convulsion, fire and thunder, earthquake and erupting mountains. But the work of the Spirit is otherwise, internal, deep down, radical, hidden for the most part, until it bears fruit in the awesome works of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.

Advent Week 2 Friday

Readings: Isaiah 48:17-19; Psalm 1; Matthew 11:16-19

Jesus does not condemn the people for their fickleness. In fact it is not clear whether such fickleness has any moral significance at all. It may be the result of sin, this tendency in human beings to focus on the limitations and weaknesses of situations and of people. But it might also be a consequence of the fact that, as St Augustine says, we are created for God, to enjoy the infinite good, and so any finite good will necessarily leave us unsatisfied. Whatever the reason for it, it is clear that human nature is still as it is described by Jesus in today's gospel. If a John the Baptist shows up we will find him too rigid, too ascetical, too humourless. If a Jesus shows up we will find him too indulgent, too soft, hanging around with prostitutes and other shady people.

So we are, seeing always limitations, weaknesses, arguments against doing things, the imperfections of other people. Pope Francis, in his closing address to the extraordinary synod held in October 2014, gives an intersesting analysis of the discussions that took place. His talk is becoming quite famous, not least for the analysis of various temptations which he gives. They link up with the reality spoken about by Jesus in today's gospel.

Pope Francis identifies six or eight temptations, ways in which we are pulled into partiality, in danger of allowing the limitations and weaknesses of other positions to pull us away into prejudice and exclusivity. So we might be too rigid or we might be too liberal, we might want to come down from the cross and soften the challenge of the gospel so as to be popular with people, or we might want to turn the bread of life into stones, matter that is inedible, that weighs people down, laying on people burdens which we do nothing to help them to carry.

It seems to be about the same kind of issue: partiality, exclusion, feeling obliged to point out other people's limitations, never being fully satisfied with anything.

The solution to which Jesus ponts at the end of the gospel is that we should seek wisdom. Wisdom is broad and deep, as spacious as the mind of God. It means trying to see things as they are seen by God and held in God's mind. Wisdom includes, forgives, seeks to understand, tries to combine rather than to separate. Pope Francis also turns in that direction, talking about the Holy Spirit working through the discussion and dialogue and arguments of the synod. Asking the Holy Spirit to be present in our gatherings and synods and councils means asking God to help us to be open to the views and opinions of others which are as valid as my own, open to the experiences of others which are as valid as my own.

Thomas Aquinas says that this is how the Holy Spirit works in the time of the Church, through what he calls 'colleges', meetings or councils of human beings, discussing and reflecting together in the light of God's Word and in the power of God's Spirit. It is in that fraternity or communion that wisdom is sought and wisdom is to be found. Pope Francis has coined the ugly word 'synodality' but his meaning is cleare. Working together, thinking and talking together, including everybody in spite of their prejudices and limitations - this is how to seek the way ahead, to discern what the Spirit is saying to the Church. Staying close to the source of life, like the tree in today's psalm, and working together in councils and colleges: this is how we seek wisdom, this is how we share together the life which Jesus has already shared with us.

Advent Week 2 Thursday

Readings: Isaiah 41:13-20; Psalm 145; Matthew 11:11-15

Poor John the Baptist. He is 'wheeled out' at this time every year. After a few outings in the liturgy it seems that everything that needs to be said about him has been said. And he is permanently playing second fiddle. We know already that it will be the same next year. And the year after that.

But today's gospel reading warns us that it is not a competition between the Baptist and Jesus as to which of them is greatest, a competition in which we know (because we are 'Christians' rather than 'Baptists') who will come off best. One cannot imagine that either John or Jesus ever thought in that way in relation to each other. It was the sons of Zebedee who engaged in that kind of tedious competitiveness, and were very quickly slapped down for doing it.

Instead we are being taught that there is a radical discontinuity between the way God is present in John the Baptist and the way God is present in Jesus. There is none greater than the Baptist if what you are thinking about is the raising up of prophets to teach and guide the people.  But if you are thinking about what St Paul later calls 'a new creation', which comes with the Incarnation and Redemption achieved by Jesus, then you see clearly that things have shifted radically. We are in a new kind of place and a new kind of time. God has not only visited his people, he has dwelt amongst them, he has pitched his tent among them, the Eternal Word became flesh. He is in our hearts and on our lips, he is in our neighbour and his Spirit dwells in the very air we breathe, his saving work continues in the preaching and sacramental life of the Church.

The Old Testament prophet whose texts we read this week was a prophet of God the Creator and Redeemer. These ideas were refined through the experience of exile, the people losing all the familiar ways in which up to then they were assured of God's presence (the land, the city, the temple). They needed a new kind of comfort and consolation which comes with a new and more sophisticated understanding of God. He is no longer simply a tribal God, no longer simply 'the best god around'. He is the only God, and not just the 'top god'. He is the Creator of all things in heaven and on earth, and not just the Lord of Israel. He is the Redeemer who will call people from east and west, north and south, to the banquet of an eternal and universal kingdom, and not just the champion of one small part of creation (though he cherishes all small parts, the boundaries, the ends, of all times and places).

Second Isaiah, as this prophet is sometimes called, struggles to find the best poetry in which to describe the radical discontinuity, the new reality, the future that is breaking in. In today's reading it is in terms of a dramatic transformation of the desert which becomes a place of water. It becomes not just damp or wet, but filled with streams and fountains, gushing water, unstoppable rivers, a botanical garden supporting the whole array of beautiful trees: cedar, acacia, myrtle, olive, cypress, plane tree and pine.

In such poetry the prophets sensed what came to be realised between John the Baptist and Jesus. God will act in a new way. God will be present in a new way. Creation will be renewed and remade in ways beyond imagination. They knew that they could not describe adequately how it would be, or what it would mean, but they give us some of the most wonderful poetry in the world in their efforts to describe it beforehand. John the Baptist is not the least among these prophets. In fact he is as great as any of them. But the least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he is because the last and least of us living in the light of the Incarnate Word dwells already within this new creation.

It is not that human beings have suddenly become more moral or holier than they were before the time of Jesus. It is that God has acted in a new way in Jesus. God has revealed himself in a new way in Jesus. God is present in the world's history in a new way in Jesus Christ. More dramatic than a desert suddenly transformed into a forest of rich vegetation - so is the drama of Christ's coming. We continue to scratch the surface for the most part, but we must continue to preach this because there are people somewhere in the world who are being prepared by the Holy Spirit to live it more fully than we do. Perhaps God can use our words as he used those of the Baptist to prepare the way for the One whose sandals we are not worthy to untie.

Advent Week 2 Wednesday

Readings: Isaiah 40:25-31; Psalm 103; Matthew 11:28-30

It is a short gospel reading with a strange invitation: if you are tired and burdened, come and take this yoke on your shoulders, a yoke that is easy and a burden that is light. So what is this new weight which actually makes lighter, this yoke or harness which actually brings freedom?

If you do a Google Images search for 'yoke' you will find that the first set of pictures are of a double yoke, the kind that binds two oxen together as they plough or pull a cart. Only on scrolling down do you begin to see the single yoke for one animal, or perhaps for a person carrying two buckets, that kind of thing.

So there are double yokes and there are single yokes. In the Bible the single yoke is an image of the Law. The Law was spoken of as a yoke laid on the people which was, yes, restricting but which was also the guarantee of the covenant which the Lord had made with them. This yoke gives guidance and direction, keeps the people on the straight path, helps them to live well.

This yoke becomes easy and light when it is carried out of love. If it is understood as a burden imposed from without, and its reasonableness is not understood, then it will be experienced as a heavy weight, a demanding master. But where its purpose is seen, and the life it protects is valued, and the relationship it seals is the centre of our lives, then to carry this yoke is not a burden. 'He ain't heavy, he's my brother' found its way into a popular liturgical song many years ago. Carrying one another's burdens not only fulfills the law of Christ, as Paul says, it is also easy when it is inspired and enabled by our love for one another. Carrying burdens becomes easy and light; we even find rest in doing so because it is an experience of love, and it is in love that human beings delight and find joy.

But perhaps we are to think also of the double yoke, the one that binds animals in pairs as they work together on a common task. If, in inviting us to take his yoke on us, Jesus means a double yoke of this kind, then when we look to the side to see who is in the harness with us, it is Jesus himself since it is his yoke. We are alongside him and partnering him in this work of being obedient to the Law. He is alongside us and partnering us and so, once again, it becomes easy, light, desirable, and joyful.

Take my yoke on you and learn from me, he says. What is it we are to learn? We learn that the heart of all reality is God who is love. We learn that God has set his heart on a people and that he seeks them out. We learn in this yoke of Jesus that God has first loved us, taken on himself the yoke of our sins, so that anything we do in partnership with Him always has the character of a response, an acceptance, an act of gratitude for far greater gifts won through a far more demanding sacrifice than any we might be asked to make.

This double yoke in which we are harnessed with Christ so as to share in His work then clearly anticipates that moment in the passion when Simon of Cyrene stood alongside Jesus and helped him to carry his cross. He is with us always. If we take his yoke on us and learn from him then we are with him always, shaping our lives according to his way, and giving our hearts according to a love that is, in the first place, his.

Today's first reading urges us to carry this reflection to another level. Taking up the yoke of Christ's love not only makes heavy burdens bearable, it fills us with energy for new things. We begin to live from the divine energy which is infiinite and inexhaustible. In another memorable image from Isaiah, young men may grow tired and weary but those who hope in the Lord renew their strength. Even while carrying the yoke of love (prepare for a mixed metaphor!) they put out wings like eagles, they run and do not grow weary, they walk and, still carrying the yoke of love, they never tire. It is the strength of the Holy Spirit that energises the hearts of all who love God and transforms them into chariots of fire, vessels of the Divine Love.

Advent Week 2 Tuesday

Readings: Isaiah 40:1-11; Psalm 96; Matthew 18:12-14

We are so familiar with this example of the shepherd who leaves ninety-nine sheep in order to go in search of one stray that we fail to see how irrational it probably is. Of course if the ninety-nine are safe or are being cared for by someone else then it makes sense that the shepherd will try to find a stray. But if that is not the case, and there is the risk of losing even more of them, he will surely cut his losses and take care of the ones remaining. If the stray does then turn up of course it is an extra joy, and will feel like a bonus. But the thought of leaving ninety-nine at risk to go in search of one seems a bit crazy.

And that is the point. Luke brings it out more clearly in his version where he combines it with the story of a woman who lost a coin and searched high and low until finally she found it only to spend at least as much on a party to celebrate its recovery. And the third unbelievable story in that triad in Luke 15 is, of course, the story of the Prodigal Son, received back by his father with love and celebrations.

In modern times people often contrast faith and reason as if they were opposed to each other, which of course they are not. The real contrast generated by the gospels, however, is not so much between faith and reason as it is between love and reason. Saint Catherine of Siena talks about the madness of the Divine Love, how crazily in love with His creatures God is.

The beautiful love song that is today's first reading from the prophet Isaiah sings of this crazy love of God. Now the highway through the wilderness is not for the people returning from Babylon to Jerusalem, it is for the Lord returning to Jerusalem to dwell once more with His people. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, Isaiah says, or, in another translation, speak to the heart of Jerusalem. It is a time for tenderness and a fresh start, for gentle shepherding and warm care, a time to experience once again the everlasting love of God.

The contrast between the lovers is extraordinary, on the one hand a people that is poor flesh, as enduring as the grass, here today and gone tomorrow. On the other hand is the infinite and eternal God, creator of all things, whose word stands forever and whose love is constantly searching to turn the heart of His people back to Him.

'Let creation rejoice' is another cry of the Advent season. Nature always sings for lovers: the hills are radiant and the trees dance, the rain is playful and the sea thunders praise, the meadows rejoice and even the animals know something special is going on. This is the world being transformed by the presence of God's glory, a glory He wants us to see and to share. We do it by turning again towards Him and learning His ways anew, by opening our hearts to the comfort and tenderness of our Good Shepherd.