Author: Daniel Scofield, MTS

Many of those that Jesus encountered in his lifetime on earth were confused about his identity. Why does he refer to himself as the “Son of Man?” In his illuminating article, “Born into the Ordinary,” Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that when Jesus was on earth, virtually no one believed he was the Messiah precisely because he was so ordinary, unlike what they’d imagined God to be. People were looking for a Messiah. When Jesus, the Christ, finally did appear, they were disappointed. They’d expected a superstar, a king, a miracle worker, someone who would, by miracle and hammer, vindicate good, destroy evil, and turn the world rightfully upside down. Jesus didn’t live up to those expectations. The expected Messiah would not have been born in a barn, preaching meekness and gentleness, unwilling to use power in a forceful way. There was a tiny hammer and a few miracles. Mainly, there was ordinariness. Curiously, Scripture refuses to describe what Jesus looked like. It never tells us whether he was short or tall, with a beard or without, had light or dark hair, or blue or brown eyes. Neither does it ever assign to him anything extraordinary in terms of psychological countenance: for example, it never tells us that when Jesus entered a room, his eyes were so penetrating and his gaze so awesome that people knew they were in the presence of something extraordinary. No, Scripture doesn’t describe him because, in terms of physical appearance, Jesus wasn’t worth describing; he looked like everyone else. Even after the resurrection, he is mistaken for a gardener, a cook, or a traveler. People had trouble recognizing Jesus as God incarnate because he was so ordinary, so immersed in the things they took for granted. He was just a carpenter’s son and looked like everyone else. We read in 1 John 4:7-16: “God is love and whoever abides in love abides in God and God abides in him/her.” Love is a thing that happens in ordinary life, in kitchens, at tables, in workplaces, in families, and in the flesh. God abides in us when we abide there. The Christ-child is also to be found in church, in the sacraments, and in private meditations (for these, too, are ordinary). All of these are ordinary, and the incarnation crawls into them and helps us, there, to abide in God, who abides in the ordinary.

As with most stories in scripture, we can often see what appears to be evident in its teaching yet know there is also something more profound for us to find. In today’s reading from the Gospel of Luke, Jesus is dealing with human fear. If we surveyed 100 people, what would be their primary fear? Studies point to the fear of death. In speaking to this reality, Jesus tells us that we shouldn’t worry about that but of a far greater “fear.” Our reflection verse says that the fear of God, in its healthy sense, is what we should fear. This is basically love’s fear of not living with the proper reverence and respect before the one we love, namely, fear of violating love’s moral boundaries. But that is not fear of hellfire, as we commonly understand this. Bishop Robert Barron writes that fear is the antithesis of faith and a sign that something is wrong with our love. We aren’t afraid of what we love and what truly loves us. In First John, we read, “Let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love…There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. Fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love. We love because he first loved us.” When I am in love with God and fearing him above all things, I am rooted in a power that transcends space and time, a power that governs the universe in its entirety, a power that is greater than life and death. Bishop Barron goes on to note that when we are in love with God and when we are “fearing” him above all things, we are then rooted in a power that transcends space and time, a power that governs the universe in its entirety, a power that is greater than life and death. “Do not be afraid,” because we have nothing to fear from anything or anybody here below.

Adam and Eve’s sinful disobedience broke humanity’s relationship with God, and sin-ridden humanity was reconciled to God through the atoning death of Jesus and his resurrection. Jesus removed our condemnation and offered us forgiveness through the shedding of his blood. Yet God calls us to repent of the personal sins and offenses that we commit, and that separate us from him. Through confession, we bring things that separate us from God into the light and place them in Christ’s purifying love. The fullest meaning of repentance involves a dual choice: to turn away from sin and to turn toward God. When we repent, moved by sorrow and remorse, we show not only a change of heart, mind, and behavior but a fidelity to God and the desire and intention to set aside sin and live by his commandments and standards. God’s forgiveness is inseparably linked with our repentance, “If we confess our sins, he who is faithful and just will forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9). This forgiveness brings to fullness in us the work of transformation and healing begun by our repentance. One of the classical definitions of prayer suggests that “prayer is lifting mind and heart to God.” Simple, clear, and accurate. Our problem is that we too seldom do this when we pray. Rather than lifting up to God what is on our minds and hearts, we treat God as someone from whom we need to hide the truth of our thoughts and feelings. Instead of pouring out our minds and hearts, we tell God what we think God wants to hear – not the murderous thoughts, desire for vengeance, or our disappointment with him. As Kathleen Norris writes, “You come to the Bible’s great `book of praises’ through all the moods and conditions of life, and while you feel like hell, you sing anyway. To your surprise, you will find that the Psalms do not deny your true feelings but allow you to reflect them right in front of God and everyone.”

“I have lost contact with so many people who meant a lot to me at different stages of my life, people I loved dearly and really cared for and who had given me so much and made me what I am.” Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that this is true for him, and he suspects it’s the same for most of us. People enter our lives, friendships develop, and then some of those friends disappear from our lives. One of the richest experiences of grace that we can have this side of eternity is the experience of friendship. In Christian spirituality, true friendship is only possible among people who are practicing virtue. Fr. Rolheiser writes that genuine friendship is nothing less than a participation in the flow of life and love inside of God. Scripture tells us that God is love, but the word it uses for love, in this case, is the Greek word agape, a term which might be rendered as “family,” “community,” or “the sharing of life.”  Hence, the famous text (“God is Love”) might be transliterated to read: God is family, God is community, God is shared existence, and whoever shares his or her existence inside of community and friendship is participating in the very flow of life and love that is inside the Trinity. As we all know, deep, life-giving friendship is as difficult as it is rare. Why? We’re different from each other, unique, and rightly cautious as to whom we give entry into our soul. And so, it isn’t easy to find a soulmate, to have that kind of affinity and trust. Nor is it easy to sustain a friendship once we have found one. Friendship, like love, is always partly a mystery, something beyond us. It’s a struggle in all cultures. Part of this is simply our humanity. Scripture tells us that, as believers, we form together a body that, as much as any living body, is a true living organism, with all parts affecting all other parts. Inside that body, we’re present to each other, not fully consciously, of course, but deeply, truly. And to the extent that we’re living our lives faithfully and sharing honest friendship and fellowship with those who are immediately around us, we’re not only healthy enzymes helping bring health to the body, but we’re also present to each other affectively, in a way that touches us at the deepest level of our souls There is a place where we are not neglecting each other. And so, to all my friends: we’re still together!

We are growing ever more distrustful of words. Our world is full of lies, false promises, glittering advertising that doesn’t deliver, and words never backed up by anything. We trust less and less in what we hear. We’ve been lied to and betrayed far too often, and now we’re cautious about what we believe. But the Gospel is God’s truth revealed. As Fr. Rolheiser proclaims, I also believe in God because the Gospel works if we live it. What Jesus incarnated and taught ultimately resonates with what’s most precious, most noble, and most meaningful inside of life and inside each of us. Moreover, this checks out in life. Whenever I have the faith and courage to live out the Gospel and roll the dice on its truth, it always proves to be true: the loaves multiply and feed the thousands, and David defeats Goliath. But it doesn’t work unless I risk it. The Gospel works if we work it. The objection could be raised here, of course, that many sincere, faith-filled people risk their lives and truth on the Gospel and, from all appearances in this world, it doesn’t work for them. They end up poor, as victims, on the losing side of things. But again, that’s a judgment we make from the world’s standards, from the Gospel of prosperity, where whoever has the most worldly success wins. The Gospel of Jesus undercuts this. Anyone who lives it out faithfully, within the power they possess to do that, will be blessed with something beyond material success, namely, the deeper joy of a life well-lived, which Jesus assures us is deeper, less temporal, and more lasting than any other joy. I believe in God because the Gospel works!

Today’s Gospel reading from Luke is all about the demands of people who constantly seek a sign from God so that they can “believe.” It reminds me of all the excitement you see on TV and the Internet when someone displays an object that they say shows the face of Jesus or any other religious figure. The world goes wild over these things. So it begs the question: Why are we people constantly demanding a sign? How often do we ask for external confirmation or proof that God is near? The crowd in the Gospel had the Lord right in their very midst yet completely missed that reality. We know from Jonah’s story that God sent him to warn the Ninevites that their sinful ways would lead to destruction under God’s judgment. They “heard” and repented. Jesus knows the crowd has heard of his wondrous deeds but still chooses not to believe. We must be alert and attentive as Jesus closes his remarks with a warning, “There is something greater than Jonah here.”

Fr. George Smiga offers a beautiful reflection on the Parable of the Wedding Feast that we read today in the Gospel of Matthew, which portrays a God of invitation. Underlying this parable is a fundamental theological belief that the invitation of God is supreme. It is really the only thing that matters. Our worthiness, successes, and failures do not count as much as God’s call. Therefore, worthiness does not result from all the good things that we have done but simply from our willingness to say “yes” to the invitation. Unworthiness is not determined by the mistakes and sins that we have committed but simply by our stubbornness in refusing to come to the wedding banquet. The parable is very clear on this. There are many misperceptions we can have about the Christian faith. At times, we may think that faith is about us being good. But it is really about God being good. Sometimes, we may think faith is about choosing to love God. But faith is really about God choosing to love us. All the good things we do and the wonderful qualities we have do not make us worthy of that love. All the mistakes we have made, all the sins that we have committed, do not disqualify us from the invitation that God is offering. God invites us, and our worthiness depends upon whether we say “yes” or “no” to that invitation. To say this in another way, God does not love us because we are good; we are good because God loves us. We are good because we have said “yes” to God’s invitation, and despite any of our successes or shortcomings, we have chosen to come to the feast. Never think that God loves you because you are good; you come to church and give to charity because you are a good parent, spouse, or friend. All of these things are commendable. But God’s love for you is prior to, and greater than, any of your achievements. Our God is a God of invitation. God invites us all into a relationship, into the divine life. Forget all of your successes and failures, all of your virtues and vices. Simply say “yes” to God’s love. The wedding banquet has been prepared. Come to the feast.

There is, too often, an equation, in the church and the world in general, between depth and heaviness, joy and superficiality. Christian spiritualities have tended to focus on the incompleteness of life. We live “mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.” There was a great strength and some real wisdom in that. But from saying that life will always be incomplete and full of inevitable pain, it is an easy, though false, step to affirm that depth and maturity lie in being heavy, grim, and stoic. Unfortunately, that has often happened, and Christian asceticism has too often lost its link to joy. Fr. Rolheiser notes that newer spiritualities, generally, have fared no better. Superficial affirmations that we are a resurrection people and should always be bouncy, upbeat, enthusiastic, and never down help reinforce the false equation that joy means superficiality because the components are impossible to live. As Christians, we must be reminded that real asceticism lies in joy. It is far easier, and it takes infinitely less discipline to be heavy than light. Heaviness, resentment, anger, grudges, moroseness, and lack of joy come naturally; light-heartedness, forgiveness, long-suffering, humor, and joy must be worked at. They require discipline and asceticism. God is love, scripture tells us, but God is also joy. Joy and pain are not incompatible. Neither are happiness and sadness. Instead, they are frequently felt together. We can be in great pain and still be happy, just as we can be pain-free, experiencing pleasure and unhappiness. Joy and happiness are predicated on something that abides through pain, namely, meaning. Knowing this still does not make it easy for us to accept that God is joy and that joy is a sure sign of the life of God in the soul. However, knowing it is an important start, we can build upon it. Our distance from God is our distance from joy. In light of these realities, it’s interesting to ask, “Is crabby contentiousness here to stay?” It is so long as we confuse joy with superficiality and depth with heaviness of spirit. “Rejoice in the LORD.”

Jesus seems to be saying in the reflection verse today (paraphrased a bit by me), “Hey everyone, are you with me or not?” It begs the question: What does it mean to “be with” or “for Jesus”? Is there a checklist or litmus test to show you are in Jesus’ camp? Fr. Rolheiser writes that there isn’t any one specific defining criteria that makes one uniquely Christian. He suggests there are four things that Jesus asks of anyone who would be his disciple. First, we must “keep the commandments,” both the larger commandment of the heart, “to love God and neighbor,” and the Ten Commandments. “If anyone loves me, he will keep my word.” An essential component of Christian discipleship is having a private relationship with Jesus and being faithful in the area of private morality. Second, in Christian discipleship, Jesus mandates social justice as non-negotiable. It’s not optional. Third, discipleship demands involvement within a concrete community of faith. Christian discipleship is not something we do alone. We are asked to journey to God with each other as part of an ecclesial community, as part of a church. Finally, what Jesus asks of us as an essential component of discipleship is a mellow, warm, grateful heart. Discipleship isn’t just about what we do; it’s also about the spirit within which we do it. So, is there anything in Jesus’ teaching and his challenge to us that might serve as a litmus test? There is. A mature disciple finds the answer in the gospels. A true disciple can love an enemy, bless those who curse them, and forgive everyone, even a murderer.

Persistence and prayer are inexorably linked to a disciple’s life. Fr. Jan Walgrave was a teacher, scholar, monk, priest, theologian, linguist, writer, poet, friend of many, enjoyer of life, and, as Fr. Rolheiser attests, a gentleman always. He once commented that our present culture constitutes a virtual conspiracy against the interior life. He wasn’t suggesting that somewhere, there is a deliberate force that is consciously scheming to keep us from interiority and prayer, but rather that an accidental flowing of forces and circumstances in history makes it difficult for us to live the examined life. The first problem we have with prayer is that we’re too busy and too- preoccupied to make time for it. There’s never, it seems, a good time for prayer. But we’re not just too busy to pray, but we are also too restless. There’s a congenital disquiet inside us. It’s hard to pray when we are restless, and mostly, we are. Henri Nouwen puts this well: “I want to pray,” he says, “but I also don’t want to miss out on anything – television, movies, socializing with friends, drinking in the world.” Finally, beyond the headaches and restlessness is the ambiguity of prayer itself. Simply put, prayer isn’t easy because we don’t understand it, don’t know how to do it, and don’t understand how the experience should feel. Relating to God demands something else, and it’s easy to find ourselves bored, doubting, distracted, and anxious to get on to something else when we try to pray. Because prayer can seem unreal, we often stop doing it, but it will only seem real if we persevere in it long enough and do it deeply enough. We often give up too soon. Prayer isn’t easy. Fr. Walgrave was right – there’s a certain conspiracy against the interior life today. But prayer beckons us beyond, asking us to lift even this up to God.