Easter Ministry

The Light of the World came to us in the Christmas Season.   That was Good News. But that infant Light grew up. As a migrant on the run, as a home-town boy, as the son of a skilled laborer, Jesus was pretty incognito. Then the people of his time tried pretty hard to put out the Light altogether. But the Love that fuels the light knew what to do with sin and death. It becomes fuel for forgiveness and mercy.

Easter is a Sonburst that will never go out. Love has conquered sin and death. It’s done. Fragments, like the cut-up pieces of a snake, wiggle their way through history putting on a show of power. But don’t be fooled. It’s a lying seduction. Don’t be deceived when it shows up on the news. Shake your head when you hear about it in government or in business. No, the battle has been won. Now, what do we, who have that baptismal cross of oil gleaming on our foreheads, do about it? We settle in for the long haul doing Easter Ministry. We ‘put feet on the talk.’

Easter ministry is reconciliation. We reconcile. Watch the readings that come our way during the month of April this year. They are bathed in Easter light. That light allows for no division. That light unifies. It brings broken things together. It heals. The apostles were shattered and scattered. Easter brings them together. There is no shaming, no blaming. There is only forgiving and forgetting. There is truth-telling. Even winter itself yields to the green bursting from buds.

What do we need to reconcile? Do we need to speak with someone we’ve avoided? Can we disagree with someone and still respect them? Can we give them a sense that there is room for them in our heart even though we disagree with them? What is broken that we can mend? It’s time for Easter ministry. It’s time for healing, for mending, for binding up what is broken.

 We’re in pieces, Lord.

Broken hearts and broken relationships.

Broken cities and broken borders,

Counties that can’t be home anymore.

Women against men,

White against Black.

Asian bullying.

Shine on us

In all your risen beauty

Where every wound is healed.

Bind up our brokenness, Risen Lord,

Help us to shine.

The Victim

 Pope Francis gives us a pretty dismal picture in Chapter One of Fratelli tutti. In Chapter Two he offers us a familiar parable, that of the Good Samaritan. “A Stranger on the Road” is about a Jewish traveler on the road to Jericho, who gets mugged and left for dead. Jewish ritual leaders see him, look the other way and pass by. Along comes a despised Samaritan, a ‘mixed blood’ Jew who has intermarried with pagan heretics, and he stops and tends to the victim, all the while knowing full well that the victim probably hates him.

Aware that Francis has written this text for all the people of the world, we can only imagine its effect on peoples of other faiths who have never heard this parable before. Yet all of us know the Golden Rule: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” But there’s the rub. Each of us has to decide whether to pass by or help what we see going on around us each day, says Francis. (#79) He wonders why “it took so long for the Church unequivocally to condemn slavery and various each day forms of violence.” He wonders why some Christians continue to “support varieties of narrow and violent nationalism, xenophobia and contempt, and even the mistreatment of those who are different.” (#86)

But for those of us who probe the Word, there is even more going on here. The ‘victim’ is humanity itself, wounded by the sin of the world and the violence of centuries. The Samaritan is another kind of ‘mixture:’ the One who has joined humanity to divinity in a union never to be broken. The beast of burden that carries the victim to the Inn is our humble humanity, the instrument of the world’s healing. The Inn is that beloved community, meant to be open to heal all the victims of the world. We’ve all been paid for with a precious coin. The beloved Samaritan has taken care of that. As Lent unfolds, this story leaves us with a knowing little smile. We know how the story ends. We know what happens to the victim.

Preview of Coming Attractions

We’ve just come down from the mountain. The Second Sunday of Lent presents us with the Transfiguration of Jesus on Mount Tabor. But what goes up must come down, and this event is no exception. From Mount Tabor they go to Jerusalem. Jesus sets his face toward Jerusalem where he will suffer and die. Why would the Church present us with the Transfiguration just as we begin the season of the passion?

 

I think it’s because we could never survive the rest of Lent if we didn’t know how the story will end. We’re given a preview of the ending. Jesus shines. He shows himself as the Light of the World. But all hell is going to break loose to snuff out that Light. These three poor apostles have no idea what they are in for. What they experienced on the mountain will be eclipsed: The Son will be darkened by death.

 

There is a method in the Church’s madness. Like the Beloved in the Song of Songs, she will go searching for her Lover. The sight of his face is fixed in her memory, and despite the darkness she will go looking for him. She will not be disappointed. She will find him, cling to him, and not want to let go.

 

The Church turns to John’s Gospel during these weeks of Lent, as it does each year. Ever wonder why? John writes as ‘the disciple that Jesus loved.’ Perhaps the Church is trying to say, “That’s you…put those glasses on as you read these Gospel texts.” The cleansing of the temple, the one so loved, ourselves as that little grain of wheat…how is this me?

 

If we look a little deeper, this really is our story…not just for Lent, but for life. In the first fervor of our newly found relationship with Christ Jesus, we too want to stay on the mountain and build our shrine there. But then all the lights go out, and he is gone…no sweetness in prayer, no emotional highs. Just the drab day-to-day slugging it out. Our faith is sorely tested. Maybe it was all an illusion…maybe I’m just fooling myself…

But we remember that face full of light, and we hang on, whistling in the dark of our faith. Now and then we have our little Easters. But for now we too will have to set our faces toward Jerusalem, and the horrors of Holy Week. What keeps us steady is the preview of coming attractions.

 

Jesus, you shine!

I need to take a long loving look.

The roller coaster of my life takes a downward dive,

often when I least expect.

Will I survive?

Yes.

Your face is a mirror of what I shall be.

What Word will we Proclaim?

 As People of the Word we have been reflecting this past year on Pope Francis’ challenges to us on Hope. How can we proclaim a word of hope in these times? We have reflected on this great virtue, a power given us by that hidden Mystery of God we call “Father.” As the Father cannot be seen, so hope cannot yet see what it longs for. Yet we cannot be still. We preach the Word, in season and out, because if we don’t it burns within us, needing to get out to those around us. As Dominicans we learn in our formation that our first preaching is from the pulpit of our lives. Our lives speak. We bring a presence to the kitchen, the phone, and online. This is the first Word others hear. Then some among us write, speak, teach, or preach liturgically at liturgy.

Pope Francis shocked the world with his Laudato si, where he called us all to recognize that we are one with all of creation, and need to care for it. Now he has again challenged the world with Fratelli tutti, where he zeros in on the one creature that can change whatever is amiss: ourselves. The title, Fratelli tutti, means “Brothers and Sisters All.” Simply, he is telling the world that nothing will change unless we look at one another anew. We are indeed all related. Yet we abuse, rob, demean, and kill one another. This letter, not only to Catholic Christians, but to the world, simply states that we need to regard each other as brother and sister, no matter what our differences. This will change everything and make anything possible.

Is Francis a wild dreamer? Is his vision utopian? Some say so. But a greater number of us are recognizing that he is merely calling us to what the Kin-dom of God promises. So, this year we will take up his challenge. We will reflect on what he is calling us to in the midst of this time when much is in flux within our Dominican community. Perhaps his insights will help guide our next steps. In his Introduction, Francis admits he is inspired by the example of Francis of Assisi, who met with Sultan Makil-el-Kamil in Egypt during the Crusades. He himself met with the Grand Imam Ahmad Al-Tayyeb in Abu Dhabi in 2019. Together they signed a statement emphasizing that “God has created all human beings equal in rights, duties, and dignity, and has called them to live together as brothers and sisters.” COVID-19 has exposed our false securities. Our national governments have not been able to work together. So now, as members of “a single human family,” we need new systems to solve global problems that affect us all.

So, we will dream together. Together we just might also discover clues for the next direction of our Racine Dominican Community.

You are a Hidden God

A new Year has dawned, and in the midst of the pandemic’s hold we know healing is out there, hidden in the laboratories struggling to produce the help the world needs. So much is hidden in our day-to-day lives.

Could this be the reason the Word who pressed our humanity to itself chose thirty years of hiddenness? It’s certainly not the way we would plan a redemption. Thirty years, and the only detail we have is when the child got ‘lost’ and caused his parents unbelievable pain?

Perhaps there is more here than we might think as we hurry on through this little snatch of ordinary time to the great season of lent. But, to think of it, these hidden years of the life of Jesus have much to tell us. The liturgical readings of January might serve us well if we look for ‘hidden treasure.’

The ordinary is just so…ordinary. We take it for granted. We just do it. We do our laundry, we shop, we open mail, we brush our teeth, we make supper…and so on. But didn’t the Word do just these same things for thirty years? What a colossal waste of precious time! So we might think.

Could this humble hiddenness be telling us something about what we take for granted? Could it be calling us to pay more attention to what we consider to be so…ordinary? What would happen to our little hidden lives if we did our ordinary little things with a knowing little smile on our faces, filling them with love and gratitude? What would happen to our mental health? To our attitudes…to our sense of the presence that is always with us, doing those humdrum ordinary things with us and feeling right at home? Give it some thought. Yes, truly, you are a hidden God, and we are your beloved hidden people.

With me always, you said.

But I forget.

I have all this stuff to do, you know…

The rent to pay and getting the car serviced…

Doing the laundry and cleaning…and…and…

“Martha, Martha,” you say, “…you are troubled about so many things.”

“only one thing is necessary.”

“I am with you doing all the ordinary things…

…smile!”

Advent Heartache

 

We have entered the season of Advent. Its color is purple, but not the penitential purple of lent. It is the magenta or sapphire blue purple of longing. Advent is about the heartache of hope’s longing to find the One my heart loves. 

The human family knows deep-down what it wants. It longs for peace. It longs for collaboration. It longs for healing. It longs for the communion that authentic relationship brings. ‘Advent’ means to come or coming to. So the obvious question is “When?” When will these things come, and who will bring them?  

Various religious traditions have various answers. The answer given down through the ages in the Christian community called Church has been that only God can bring these things, and God will do this in the broad expanse of time: in the past, in the present, and in the future. But to answer this longing, God will have to enter time. God will have to endure its limitations, be bound by its step-by-step process, suffer its ongoing development. And God did just that. God entered time and wrapped God’s own word in flesh. God asked a young girl to give the Word a body, and when she said yes, God pressed human DNA to God’s Self, never to be parted. 

So, the phases of time sometimes become a blur during Advent. God came in the past; God is coming in the present; and God will come in the future. We ponder all of them. The texts of Advent will take us back to when the Word became flesh in Mary’s womb. The texts will point us to the future when the great risen King will come to judge the world. But most challenging of all, will be those texts that awaken us to the realization that he comes daily, every twenty-four hours, when we least expect him, when we might just miss him. So the people of God are filled with longing to see him in the day-to-day, and are filled with the heartache that comes from knowing we often miss him, and miss ministering to him. He wears a thousand disguises. He favors wearing the faces of the lowly ones, those who interrupt our lives, those who bother us with their defenseless need.  

We shake each other from our unawareness. The texts try to arouse us to pay attention. And all the while the One we seek has long ago pressed us to his cheek. But our Advent is necessary, because we have been busy about many things, so distracted, in fact, that we haven’t noticed his nearness, if we’re honest. So Advent’s longing heartache is all about a new noticing…he’s here. 

He came, you say, “Way back in history…” 

or 

No, he will be coming in majesty “…better be ready!” 

but 

now, today, in mystery? 

How do I ‘solve’ these surprises? 

Ah! 

With the heart’s eyes…they will catch him in all his disguises.

All shall be well….?

 

What makes it possible, when all is chaos around us, when war is present, when the virus persists, when corruption abounds…to cling firmly in faith? We are told we are to trust. What makes it possible for us to do this?

The sacred texts this month will speak of perseverance to the very end. We will be remembering our loved ones who have gone on into a type of life beyond our present experience. In the face of the losses that death inflicts upon us, what will prevent us from scattering like a flock of frightened sheep?

One thing only…the assurance given us by the enduring presence of the Word. We are told to grab hold of him, to hide our frightened faces in his tunic, near to his heart. We are told to take refuge in the reality of a mystery many of us spend a good part of our lives trying to absorb.

He will be with us, he says, until the end of the age. “You in me, and I in you,” he says. What would happen in my life if this day, this week, this month, I took that with utter seriousness? Yes, you feel it too…first, we would calm down. It’s called the peace of assurance. It’s his Easter gift. We can’t create it. It’s what his presence brings. All the outer noise dims. His presence is pure power. Wherever he is, there is a stillness, a sacred quiet. This is my call during this final month of the liturgical year. Walking amidst the chaos and remembering those who have entered eternal life, I am to school myself in the fact of his presence. In this faith-fact I am to walk.

My fear would send me into a panic attack…No, you say?

Instead, “Come to me…I am always at home…with you,” you say.

“Live on in me…come home.”