Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light (Mt 11:28-29).
Jesus today encourages us to take up the yoke and burden of discipleship, telling us that this yoke is easy and the burden light. Not all will agree. The yoke and burden of Christianity seems hard to many, and to others it seems pointless. How can it be called easy in the face of the difficulties? And what is the value of it? Jesus talks about discipleship here as though it were a liberation. From what?
So many people have a hard time with following Christ. Old habits die hard; vices aren’t easily overcome. Discipleship isn’t easy all at once. One has to work at it and be patient. Conversion shows itself to be a process of coming to be. St. Paul tells us to “walk in newness of life.” That means we are to conduct ourselves, seek to become new persons by fighting against our bad habits in order to build new ones, and thereby become new, better persons.
Shakespeare’s character Hamlet describes the process well. In his conversation with Gertrude, Hamlet tells her to do the right thing just once, and then the second time will be easier. The more she does the right thing, he insists, the easier it will become. He tells his mother, “For use almost can change the stamp of nature.” “Practice makes perfect,” the saying goes, and so it is with virtue. I’m told that within Alcoholics Anonymous they employ the saying, “Fake it till you make it.” All these sayings express the same idea: virtue begins with difficulty, but once the habit begins to take shape, one comes to experience first hand the newness of life described by Saint Paul.
Much the same is true for prayer. Building a habit of prayer is difficult. At first it seems forced, as though praying to the air’ one feels like one is going through the motions. The silence is oppressive, distractions seem relentless. But as one perseveres the perspective changes. We begin to perceive how noisy daily life is, how incessantly the meaningless images of advertising come to us; against the background of the quiet attention of prayer we can better perceive the mindlessness of the chitchat of random encounters, the repetition of daily life. We can see the world and its cycles of work and reward for what they are: important, perhaps, but not all important. And suddenly the silence and peace of prayer can be appreciated. Suddenly the silence and attention of prayer comes to be seen as a refuge. The time one can really be oneself, rather than a cog in the machine of daily life. But one will only experience it this way if he really tries and perseveres.
There’s another important dimension to the lightness of the burden, specifically, the lightness of resentment and the frustration that goes with that. I remember that when Pope Benedict was elected pope one of the first things he mentioned was that Christians were to be characterized by a spirit of forgiveness and a freedom from resentment. In my time as a priest I have seen how weighed down persons are under the burden of resentment and anger, angers pertaining to bad family experiences, bad work circumstances, anger even at God for illness and tragedy. All these are weigh terribly on the soul, and very often make of life a terribly heavy burden. Resentment arises when we see ourselves as victims of the persons who have done us wrong or even God who fails to eliminate hardship and misery.
An essential step in progress towards what St. Paul called “perfect manhood, that maturity which is proportioned to the completed growth of Christ” (Eph 4:13) is our recognition of Christ as the Victim of humanity. This is true of his death on the cross, of course, but it is not restricted to this. Christ is still the victim. In the Eucharistic prayers, for example, Christ is addressed as the victim as he is offered in sacrifice to God the Father. He is not simply one victim among many, but the Victim, i.e., the Victim par excellence, the only one who has a claim to the status of “victim.” When Jesus says that no one knows the Son except those to whom the Father has revealed him, he means, at least in part, that those who know him truly, as he is, know him to be the Victim of humanity. To recognize him as such can only result in our insisting less fervently on our own claims to victim-hood and the indignation that goes with that.
To know Christ in this way is to be released from the hard yoke and heavy burden of resentment and frustration and to take up the light yoke of Christ.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
2nd Sunday in Ordinary Time
Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world! This is he of whom I said, 'After me comes a man who ranks before me, for he was before me.' (Jn 1:29)
A contemporary journalist David von Drehle who wrote a book called, “Among the Lowest of the Dead.” It consists of his observations of death row inmates in Florida. He said that what united these criminals, without exception, was their narcissism. No matter how violent they were, no matter how heinous their crimes, each imagined himself to be a victim. Whether by family or classmates or society at large, they imagined they had been driven to their crimes. Very often they were subjected to terrible abuse, but of course none of the abuse they received rose to the level of the crimes they themselves had committed.
One of the inmates interviewed by von Drehle was the serial killer Ted Bundy, who was eventually executed in Florida. He reported something really astonishing about Bundy. Bundy told the reporter that he was surprised that anyone missed his victims. He thought that with all the people in the world, he was amazed that anyone noticed they were gone. He was so caught up in his own ego and vanity that he couldn’t imagine that these were people with lives, with loved ones who cared about them and would miss them and start looking for them once they were gone.
These are extreme cases of malice and self-absorption, but we shouldn’t think of ourselves as so different, at least not as different as we would like to think. We could easily point an accusing finger and write them off as deranged monsters, and few would disagree. But I think we should think of them like a character in a Flannery O’Connor story. Flannery O’Connor’s stories were full of characters like the sort of people one would expect to meet on death row, and so she was asked why she created such violent characters and wrote such difficult stories. She replied that most of us suffer from spiritual maladies in their low-grade chronic form. She said that she created characters that suffered from the same spiritual maladies in their extreme, fully advanced form so their natures were easier to recognize.
We all suffer from narcissism. Every time we indulge in the self-pity of counting up the wrongs committed against us, every time we indulge self-fantasies, sexual or otherwise, every time allow our appetites and passions to lead the way rather than controlling them and ordering them towards what is good, we open ourselves up to the same darkness we see in these terrible criminals, even if our actions never rise to the same anti-social level.
We live in a culture that encourages this narcissism. Advertisements bombard us with flattering images: use this product and you will be adored; drive this car and life’s pleasures will open themselves up to you. Television show heroes always have the last word, always win arguments with clever insults; how often is a humble refusal to answer one wrong with another celebrated during primetime television. How often is a brave stand in favor of chastity depicted?
We may not buy this culture as some do, but we would be fools to think we aren’t affected by it. We participate in a culture of death that is a narcissistic serial killer. Since the Supreme Court decision Roe vs. Wade something like 40 million children have been killed, most often simply because they promised to be a little costly or inconvenient. They are killed because those involved couldn’t imagine them as persons connected to other persons, as lovable and capable of loving.
We see the very opposite of this narcissism in John the Baptist. A few weeks ago we heard him addressing those approaching him. He answered their questions rather abruptly saying, “I am not the Christ.” That’s not much of a confession of faith, but it is the necessary first step in any confession. The end of narcissism is when we can say and believe that we are not the center of everyone else’s lives, when we can say and believe are not the king of the universe and so do not expect to be treated as such, when we do not expect other to serve us slavishly.
We see in today’s gospel that John the Baptist makes good on his beginning. The negative confession – “I am not the Christ” – is followed up by the positive one, “Behold the Lamb of God.” John is capable of putting away his own narcissism and embrace Christ as “the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” “He must increase, and I must decrease”: these words of John the Baptist should be inscribed on every human heart.
Jesus is the king and center of every human heart, but we see too that he is not an egoist either. We heard during Christmas that Jesus is born “for us” and “for the world.” We hear him saying consistently that he comes not to do his own will but the will of the Father. He hands himself over to the Father’s will which is that world be saved. This life culminates on Good Friday where Christ gives himself to the world on the Cross, and where no narcissism is to be found. If Jesus had bested his opponents with clever sarcasm or struck down Pontius Pilate and King Herod with his divine power the culture of death might have impressed. But this would have left undone the main purpose of Jesus mission, the conversion of the culture of death.
And we see that even risen in glory and seated at the right hand of the Father, Jesus does not serve himself. He comes to us even now in the form of the Eucharist, as food for our nourishment and as an impetus to become like him and to stand in the world as he stood, as “ones who serve.” By doing this, by being transformed by Christ we accomplish his work on earth we spread a culture of life, a culture oriented towards what is really life giving: the humble love of the kingdom of God.
A contemporary journalist David von Drehle who wrote a book called, “Among the Lowest of the Dead.” It consists of his observations of death row inmates in Florida. He said that what united these criminals, without exception, was their narcissism. No matter how violent they were, no matter how heinous their crimes, each imagined himself to be a victim. Whether by family or classmates or society at large, they imagined they had been driven to their crimes. Very often they were subjected to terrible abuse, but of course none of the abuse they received rose to the level of the crimes they themselves had committed.
One of the inmates interviewed by von Drehle was the serial killer Ted Bundy, who was eventually executed in Florida. He reported something really astonishing about Bundy. Bundy told the reporter that he was surprised that anyone missed his victims. He thought that with all the people in the world, he was amazed that anyone noticed they were gone. He was so caught up in his own ego and vanity that he couldn’t imagine that these were people with lives, with loved ones who cared about them and would miss them and start looking for them once they were gone.
These are extreme cases of malice and self-absorption, but we shouldn’t think of ourselves as so different, at least not as different as we would like to think. We could easily point an accusing finger and write them off as deranged monsters, and few would disagree. But I think we should think of them like a character in a Flannery O’Connor story. Flannery O’Connor’s stories were full of characters like the sort of people one would expect to meet on death row, and so she was asked why she created such violent characters and wrote such difficult stories. She replied that most of us suffer from spiritual maladies in their low-grade chronic form. She said that she created characters that suffered from the same spiritual maladies in their extreme, fully advanced form so their natures were easier to recognize.
We all suffer from narcissism. Every time we indulge in the self-pity of counting up the wrongs committed against us, every time we indulge self-fantasies, sexual or otherwise, every time allow our appetites and passions to lead the way rather than controlling them and ordering them towards what is good, we open ourselves up to the same darkness we see in these terrible criminals, even if our actions never rise to the same anti-social level.
We live in a culture that encourages this narcissism. Advertisements bombard us with flattering images: use this product and you will be adored; drive this car and life’s pleasures will open themselves up to you. Television show heroes always have the last word, always win arguments with clever insults; how often is a humble refusal to answer one wrong with another celebrated during primetime television. How often is a brave stand in favor of chastity depicted?
We may not buy this culture as some do, but we would be fools to think we aren’t affected by it. We participate in a culture of death that is a narcissistic serial killer. Since the Supreme Court decision Roe vs. Wade something like 40 million children have been killed, most often simply because they promised to be a little costly or inconvenient. They are killed because those involved couldn’t imagine them as persons connected to other persons, as lovable and capable of loving.
We see the very opposite of this narcissism in John the Baptist. A few weeks ago we heard him addressing those approaching him. He answered their questions rather abruptly saying, “I am not the Christ.” That’s not much of a confession of faith, but it is the necessary first step in any confession. The end of narcissism is when we can say and believe that we are not the center of everyone else’s lives, when we can say and believe are not the king of the universe and so do not expect to be treated as such, when we do not expect other to serve us slavishly.
We see in today’s gospel that John the Baptist makes good on his beginning. The negative confession – “I am not the Christ” – is followed up by the positive one, “Behold the Lamb of God.” John is capable of putting away his own narcissism and embrace Christ as “the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” “He must increase, and I must decrease”: these words of John the Baptist should be inscribed on every human heart.
Jesus is the king and center of every human heart, but we see too that he is not an egoist either. We heard during Christmas that Jesus is born “for us” and “for the world.” We hear him saying consistently that he comes not to do his own will but the will of the Father. He hands himself over to the Father’s will which is that world be saved. This life culminates on Good Friday where Christ gives himself to the world on the Cross, and where no narcissism is to be found. If Jesus had bested his opponents with clever sarcasm or struck down Pontius Pilate and King Herod with his divine power the culture of death might have impressed. But this would have left undone the main purpose of Jesus mission, the conversion of the culture of death.
And we see that even risen in glory and seated at the right hand of the Father, Jesus does not serve himself. He comes to us even now in the form of the Eucharist, as food for our nourishment and as an impetus to become like him and to stand in the world as he stood, as “ones who serve.” By doing this, by being transformed by Christ we accomplish his work on earth we spread a culture of life, a culture oriented towards what is really life giving: the humble love of the kingdom of God.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Christmas, Mass at Midnight
The shepherds are told something rather amazing tonight. They are told that in a town called Bethlehem, in a manger, no less, to rather ordinary seeming parents, the savior of the world is born. God’s generosity has been poured on all of humanity. The might God has come into history in the form of an infant, or to borrow from St. Paul’s mode of description, though he was in the form of God, Christ did not count equality with God something to be grasped, rather he emptied himself, and took the form of a slave, being found in the likeness of men.
The shepherds are alerted to this divine condescension tonight, and they go and see the Christ child. They behold the poverty that God took to himself, a poverty that is fully confirmed on Good Friday, when we see that this tender scene of God’s vulnerability in the manger at Bethlehem is no sentimental display. God truly takes the fullness of human weakness to himself in the incarnation.
And as this message of divine condescension comes to the shepherds a small phrase is repeated gently, as easily missed as the incarnation itself, but which is as profound as the incarnation. Without this phrase, the real meaning might be missed altogether: “for you.” The angels declare to the shepherd that all this is “for you.” “Today a savior is born for you who is Christ and Lord. And this will be a sign for you.” This is the good news that the angels bear “for all.”
All of this is for us. The incarnation, God’s gift of self, God’s endurance of a weakness that was ours rather than his, bearing this burden is all “for us.” Jesus does not exist for himself. He exists first for the Father. It is characteristic in John’s Gospel for Jesus to say that, “I came not to do his own will, but the will of my heavenly Father.” Jesus whole identity is wrapped up in the mission given to him by his Father. He is the “sent one,” as when he says “I came not to do my own will but the will of the one who sent me.” His whole existence is “for us” and “for the Father.”
Christ is sent to us for us. He came to be the light in our darkness. He came to save us. What is this, though? Is it really a message of divine generosity and grace? Or is it wishful thinking? Is it an egoism that imagines an all powerful God would really care enough to make one of his creatures the center of his concern?
Nothing could be further from the truth. Christ’s “for us” has nothing to do with human egoism. First of all the human imagination is not capable of imagining this sort of divine generosity. It represents a mystery of love beyond human conceiving, and can be known to us only be revelation. Second, the light that Christ gives is that we too must live “for all.”
Just as Christ takes his identity and dignity not from himself but from all that the Father gave him, the challenge for us is to do the same. We are made in God’s image, and now in Christ the full nature of that image is made clear to us. We are to live for others.
St. Paul explains that this sort of existence will consist of peace, patience, kindness, mercy. As we grow in charity we will be free of resentment, not counting up the wrongs committed against us, eager to forgive and bear the faults of others. Then the tender mercy of the scene before us will be ours. Then we too will be bearers into the world of the light of Christ.
The shepherds are alerted to this divine condescension tonight, and they go and see the Christ child. They behold the poverty that God took to himself, a poverty that is fully confirmed on Good Friday, when we see that this tender scene of God’s vulnerability in the manger at Bethlehem is no sentimental display. God truly takes the fullness of human weakness to himself in the incarnation.
And as this message of divine condescension comes to the shepherds a small phrase is repeated gently, as easily missed as the incarnation itself, but which is as profound as the incarnation. Without this phrase, the real meaning might be missed altogether: “for you.” The angels declare to the shepherd that all this is “for you.” “Today a savior is born for you who is Christ and Lord. And this will be a sign for you.” This is the good news that the angels bear “for all.”
All of this is for us. The incarnation, God’s gift of self, God’s endurance of a weakness that was ours rather than his, bearing this burden is all “for us.” Jesus does not exist for himself. He exists first for the Father. It is characteristic in John’s Gospel for Jesus to say that, “I came not to do his own will, but the will of my heavenly Father.” Jesus whole identity is wrapped up in the mission given to him by his Father. He is the “sent one,” as when he says “I came not to do my own will but the will of the one who sent me.” His whole existence is “for us” and “for the Father.”
Christ is sent to us for us. He came to be the light in our darkness. He came to save us. What is this, though? Is it really a message of divine generosity and grace? Or is it wishful thinking? Is it an egoism that imagines an all powerful God would really care enough to make one of his creatures the center of his concern?
Nothing could be further from the truth. Christ’s “for us” has nothing to do with human egoism. First of all the human imagination is not capable of imagining this sort of divine generosity. It represents a mystery of love beyond human conceiving, and can be known to us only be revelation. Second, the light that Christ gives is that we too must live “for all.”
Just as Christ takes his identity and dignity not from himself but from all that the Father gave him, the challenge for us is to do the same. We are made in God’s image, and now in Christ the full nature of that image is made clear to us. We are to live for others.
St. Paul explains that this sort of existence will consist of peace, patience, kindness, mercy. As we grow in charity we will be free of resentment, not counting up the wrongs committed against us, eager to forgive and bear the faults of others. Then the tender mercy of the scene before us will be ours. Then we too will be bearers into the world of the light of Christ.
4th Sunday of Advent
Today we hear of Joseph’s first encounter with the mystery of Christmas, his reaction to the news of Mary’s unexpected pregnancy. Joseph is required to trust that the angelic messenger who appears to him in a dream is correct. The message that Mary was honest and pure corresponded to his own experience of her, no doubt, but it must have been a heavy burden to be forced to trust in the face of such an incomprehensible mystery as the Virgin Birth.
Joseph must trust, but he must also act. He is told what to do, or here, what not to do: he must not send Mary away in divorce. This emphasis on action is one of the main differences between the infancy narratives of Matthew and Luke’s Gospels.
Luke’s Gospel focuses on Mary, the angel greets her, tells her God’s plan and Mary assents to it. There’s a passive character to her dealings with the events as they unfold. Perhaps a better word is receptive. She receives the message, receives the will of God, receives the Word of God himself, and welcomes them.
Matthew’s Gospel focuses on Joseph and emphasizes the activity required of him. He is told first to keep Mary, not to divorce her. Then he’s told of Herod’s plan to kill all male infants, and is told to flee with the family to Egypt. Then he is told to come back up from Egypt. Joseph’s role is active, he must undertake action in order to fulfill his role in the unfolding drama.
We have presented in Mary and Joseph two aspects of discipleship, the active and the passive role. Being a Christian means relying on God’s grace, in trusting his provident care, in believing that God is the primary agent in human life and that he is moving all of human history and us with it to a happy conclusion, and all we must do is open ourselves up to his guidance and initiative.
And yet there are things we must do. Our faith demands action. We have to take the initiative in many situations to meet the needs of others or to correct them. Acting on behalf of charity is where much of the risk of discipleship takes place, and this is essential to the practice of love. We see these two complementary aspects represented by Joseph and Mary, male and female.
Just as each one of us, in our physical being, is the fruit of a coming together of male and female, so too in our spiritual existence there must be a fruitful coming together of male and female. All of our action must take place within the context of a loving trust that God himself is guiding us and those around us through our actions and perhaps in spite of them.
We must acknowledge times when action would be inappropriate. There are some wrongs committed against us or others that we must simply yield to. There are other difficult situations where the appropriate course isn’t at all obvious. When a family member has gone astray and made a mistake. Do we take action? Will our actions make things worse, driving the person away? These are real difficulties that require discernment and prudent judgment.
Knowing what to do in these situations and in life in general is never a matter of simply splitting the difference between action and inaction, receptivity or initiative. The life of discipleship is a life oriented towards Christ and he is the key to discerning what action is required of us and what patient waiting. Proper discernment in particular instances will always take place against the background of the life of discipleship, of lives recollected in Christ. Through devotion to Christ we arrive at lives of patient waiting and preparedness to act.
Joseph must trust, but he must also act. He is told what to do, or here, what not to do: he must not send Mary away in divorce. This emphasis on action is one of the main differences between the infancy narratives of Matthew and Luke’s Gospels.
Luke’s Gospel focuses on Mary, the angel greets her, tells her God’s plan and Mary assents to it. There’s a passive character to her dealings with the events as they unfold. Perhaps a better word is receptive. She receives the message, receives the will of God, receives the Word of God himself, and welcomes them.
Matthew’s Gospel focuses on Joseph and emphasizes the activity required of him. He is told first to keep Mary, not to divorce her. Then he’s told of Herod’s plan to kill all male infants, and is told to flee with the family to Egypt. Then he is told to come back up from Egypt. Joseph’s role is active, he must undertake action in order to fulfill his role in the unfolding drama.
We have presented in Mary and Joseph two aspects of discipleship, the active and the passive role. Being a Christian means relying on God’s grace, in trusting his provident care, in believing that God is the primary agent in human life and that he is moving all of human history and us with it to a happy conclusion, and all we must do is open ourselves up to his guidance and initiative.
And yet there are things we must do. Our faith demands action. We have to take the initiative in many situations to meet the needs of others or to correct them. Acting on behalf of charity is where much of the risk of discipleship takes place, and this is essential to the practice of love. We see these two complementary aspects represented by Joseph and Mary, male and female.
Just as each one of us, in our physical being, is the fruit of a coming together of male and female, so too in our spiritual existence there must be a fruitful coming together of male and female. All of our action must take place within the context of a loving trust that God himself is guiding us and those around us through our actions and perhaps in spite of them.
We must acknowledge times when action would be inappropriate. There are some wrongs committed against us or others that we must simply yield to. There are other difficult situations where the appropriate course isn’t at all obvious. When a family member has gone astray and made a mistake. Do we take action? Will our actions make things worse, driving the person away? These are real difficulties that require discernment and prudent judgment.
Knowing what to do in these situations and in life in general is never a matter of simply splitting the difference between action and inaction, receptivity or initiative. The life of discipleship is a life oriented towards Christ and he is the key to discerning what action is required of us and what patient waiting. Proper discernment in particular instances will always take place against the background of the life of discipleship, of lives recollected in Christ. Through devotion to Christ we arrive at lives of patient waiting and preparedness to act.
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