March 15, 2015: The Fourth Sunday of Lent
2 Chronicles 36:14-16, 19-23 : Early and often did the LORD, the God of their fathers, send his messengers to them, for he had compassion on his people and his dwelling place. But they mocked the messengers of God, despised his warnings, and scoffed at his prophets…
Psalm 137: Let my tongue be silenced, if I ever forget you!
Ephesians 2:4-10: For by grace you have been saved. … For we are his handiwork, created in Christ Jesus for the good works that God has prepared in advance, that we should live in them.
John 3:14-21: For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through him.
Note: There are optional readings from Year A for use with the RCIA: 1 Samuel 16:1b, 6-7, 10-13a (the prophet Samuel chooses David as King); Psalm 23; Ephesians 5:8-14; and John 9:1-41 (the man born blind.)
he fourth Sunday of Lent: Traditionally this Sunday is referred to as Laetare Sunday… from the first words of the Latin Entrance Antiphon: Laetare, Ierusalem, et conventum facite, omnes que diligitis eam; gaudete cum laetitia, qui in tristitia fuistis. … (Rejoice, Jerusalem! Be glad for her, you who love her; rejoice with her, you who mourned for her…) We have reached a point in the Lenten season that marks joy. We are much closer to the renewal of our Baptism and the celebration of Easter.
Diane’s Reflection for March 15, 2015
Meeting God through Mary in Ireland
I know I’ve told this story before, but I’d like to tell it again, partly because this time of year always makes me think of Ireland. This is how I met Mary, on a rainy day in early spring, deep in dear dark green-and-gray old Dublin.
My friend Teri and I had two months to spend in Ireland and Scotland. We spent our first few nights in Dublin on Aungier Street, in a red-brick Victorian hostel, staggering into it dizzy with jet lag on the day of our arrival. You should always begin in the place where you are, of course, and so first thing the next morning, we visited the church across the way: The Carmelite Church in Whitefriar Street. Outside, it was just a huge block of stone, as plain as the plainest of factories, but from the second story, a hard-to-see statue leaned out toward us – somebody who appeared to be holy, stashed in a tall glass case like a jar of homemade preserves. Otherwise, at least from the outside, the place bore little resemblance to a large church. Later, we were told that during the “penal times” – when the Church was legally suppressed – Irish Catholics more or less disguised their churches from British eyes, tucking them away behind nondescript exteriors, just like this church was tucked away. But inside, it was mysteriously lovely: stained glass filtering its watery light from windows far above. And every day, at any hour of the day, no matter how chilly and damp it was, people were hunkered down inside the church, praying.
You have to remember that at this point in time, in 1993, I still considered myself proudly ex-Catholic – a recovering Catholic, as I liked to put it. I only visited churches, I said, because they were part of Irish history and might hold some visual interest for an artist like me. So there was no reason in the world for me to touch the holy water in the font, or to make the sign of the cross as I walked silently into the building. But I did it anyway. I couldn’t help myself.
The church was a large, deep, dreamy place, the kind where voices and footsteps echo and candles are always glimmering. And it had a very beautiful statue: Our Lady of Dublin, known as the Black Madonna. It was made of oak stained a very dark brown, possibly carved by Durer or one of his students at the start of the 1500s. The statue had a history almost as dramatic as that of Ireland. It narrowly escaped destruction when the Reformation hit, and the original colorfully painted surface was darkened to protect it when color was banned from churches. Still later, when images were also banned and often destroyed outright, the statue was partially burned and buried face-down in the mud – its back hacked out to serve as an outdoor hog trough for many, many years. But the statue’s face reflected none of this trauma. The Madonna doesn’t hold grudges: Serene and strong and silent, she looked out at us, with her child in her arms. She stood apart in her own alcove, and candles flickered below her, gently casting their dappled light on her dark and beautiful face.
Much later that afternoon, I returned alone, drawn back almost against my will. For 20 pence I bought a small votive candle and lit it and set it with the others. And after a moment, without thinking, I knelt. Because an old friend of mine, a man I had loved very much, had died not long before – had killed himself in the depths of untreated depression and despair – and I could not get used to the fact that his voice and his smile and his long, guitar-playing hands had vanished from my world. I knelt and folded my hands and buried my face in them. Jon, I thought. Jon.
The grief I held, which I wanted to flee, rose to the surface and almost broke through my skin. I thought it would destroy me if it did. I did not want to think about Jon, or feel his loss that day; I resented the fact that his ghost was with me, messing up my vacation. But oh, at that moment, how I wanted to pray! How desperately I needed to pray. But I didn’t know what to say, or who to say it to. I tried to remember old words to pray for the peace of my old love’s soul. But he had no peace while he was alive. What peace could he get now, dead?
Still, I knelt in front of Mary anyway, and I spoke Jon’s name to myself.
And then it happened: After a long while, I lifted my head and really looked at Mary. I followed the calm and flowing lines of her sculpted wooden robe, up to the hands that held the child, and then up to her face. The child wiggled a little in her arms, and the mother looked down and slightly away from him – and in the sorrow and the love of her gaze, I saw that she knew her baby’s hard future. I looked at her for a very long time, and she looked back at me – and through the veil of the old oak wood, I knew that she really saw me. And she knew exactly how I felt – because she knows how everybody feels, she knows all there is to know about love and grief and endurance. I think something shifted inside me then, some terrible aching heavy old thing, and I felt her hands reach out to me, silently offering to help me carry all the weight of my grief and regrets. And not just for the loss of Jon; oh, for so many, many things. I didn’t move; I couldn’t. But I knew somehow that my friend was at peace at last – in the arms of the Mother who comforts the broken-hearted. And I stayed there for a very long time – looking through the wooden statue, looking at Mary herself.
It was the beginning – or perhaps the resumption – of what has become a lifelong adventure. I didn’t know it then, of course. But I think Mary’s hands were the ones that eventually drew me here, to Sacred Heart. And I think Mary’s hands are always there, open to all of us, everywhere. That’s why she wears so many different faces: Black in Africa, white in Europe, brown on the hill of Guadalupe. She speaks French at Lourdes, Portuguese at Fatima, Slovakian at Medjagorje, Korean in Korea, Lakota on the Wind River, Gaelic in Galway, Igbo and other languages in Nigeria. Different appearances at different times in different cultures, all with the same pure light behind and within them. Our Mother comes to us in whatever form makes us feel comfortable, and she speaks to us in whatever language we can hear and understand. She is always and everywhere our Comforter, offering solace, bringing us peace, the Mother who always looks out for us all, and loves us through life, and beyond. In Jesus’ name. --- Diane Sylvain
The peace of God be to you;
The peace of Christ be to you;
The peace of Spirit be to you;
To you and to your children.
– A Celtic Blessing
Scripture Notes from the Sourcebook:
THE FIRST READING: Here we read of the tug-of-war between the paradoxes of Lent. On the one hand, we hear of the infidelities of God’s people and, on the other, their exile rescinded by a liberator. As sinners, we live in exile from the home God has built for us in Christ, but as pilgrims of hope, we are gradually brought home through the work of conversion.
RESPONSORIAL PSALM 137: This psalm is a perfect response to the Chronicles reading that precedes it at today’s liturgy. Banished to Babylon, the people remembered their homeland and “sat and wept.” The psalm laments the great loss that the exile imposed and confirms that the people have learned a painful lesson. With a promise to repent and return to the Lord, the haunting refrain establishes a firm amendment of purpose: “Let my tongue be silenced, if ever I forget you!”
SECOND READING: The language of exile and return is powerful, but not powerful enough to describe the true tragedy and joy of our deepest alienation and reconciliation. Cut off from the fullness of life in Christ, whether partially or completely, we are literally dead, even if we walk and breathe on life’s surface. Mercy poured out from the Cross as grace cleanses and restores us to the vibrant beauty of humanity made and living in the image of God.
THE GOSPEL: In the desert, the unfaithful people died of serpent bites – a haunting reminder of Eden – but were saved by the sight of a serpent sign ordered by God. We died of the bite of our fallen humanity but are saved by that same humanity nailed to a cross to rasise us up again. Our deliverer is no Persian king or bronze image but the very Son of God, sent to bring us out of exile and death into the light of life. Let us recall that in the Bible, the only source of light was fire, the fire burning in Christ, the true light of the world.
--Sourcebook for Sundays, Seasons & Weekends (2015 edition.)
The Source of Our Joy
This fourth Sunday of Lent is known as 'Laetare Sunday'. In Latin laetare (rejoice) is the first word of the entrance antiphon: "Rejoice, Jerusalem…." Joy is the theme of today's Liturgy.
Can joy be turned on and off? Can you experience joy just because today is the 4th Sunday of Lent? "He who binds to himself a joy / Doth the winged life destroy," said William Blake. And besides, what an unlikely season for it, you might say! You must kiss it as it flies, said Blake; you cannot arrange it.
"At night there are tears, but joy comes with dawn," (Psalm 29:5). You can no more arrange for joy to descend on you than you can arrange for the sun to rise. Joy is a fruit of God's Spirit, not a feeling that can be turned on and off. "The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control" (Galatians 5:22). Notice that St Paul places it directly after love, so close is it to the heart of the Faith. It is a gift, not a purchase.
"God loved us with so much love…. It is through grace that you are saved," (2nd reading). "God loved the world so much that he gave his only Son…" (today's gospel reading). God loves us: this is the source of our joy, whether we actually experience it or not at the moment. Quite often we see the Christian faith diminished to a morality, an account of what we should do: how we should love God and our neighbour…. But St John wrote, "In this is love, not that we loved God but that God loved us" (1 John 4:10). "We love because God first loved us" (1John 4:19). This is the source of our joy.
Happiness is conditional: it depends on good fortune, pleasant surroundings, congenial friends, a good digestion…. But joy is unconditional. It depends on nothing. You can even experience joy in times of unhappiness. It is like a ray of sunshine that suddenly penetrates the clouds, a reminder that it is always there, whether you see it or not. Such is God's love. Even when we are at our worst, God still loves us. "God loved us when we were not, and when we were His foes," said Meister Eckhart. "Whether we go near or far, God never goes far away but always stands nearby; and even if He cannot remain within, He never goes further than outside the door." There is an Irish proverb, Is gaire cabhair Dé ná an doras, "God's help is nearer than the door."
–Donagh O’Shea, from Today’s Good News, the website of the Irish Dominicans ____________________________________________________________
Lent tempts us to dwell on sacrificing the pleasures of food and ownership. To concentrate on saying “no” to whatever we have given up without turning to say “yes” to whatever aspects of love God asks of us. … Self-satisfaction is like a meal that requires course after course to keep us from feeling hungry again. Love given away leaves the giver well filled. – From The Sourcebook (2015), March 14, 2015
“Are you saved?” is the wrong question
Too often, the famous John 3:16 is lifted up (in the end zones at football games, for example) as if it were the magical snake in the wilderness, as if reciting this magical formula would change anyone’s mind.
What the gospel has in mind, though, is that people live authentically human lives as a banner for new life to gather around, and the gospel points to the life of Jesus as being the touchstone of that authentic humanity. It takes more than reciting a theological proposition – even a scriptural one – to lift that banner. It takes embracing a life-giving way of life. It means turning and walking away from life-diminishing activity to life-affirming activity. It means living honestly enough that you have nothing to hide.
The spotlight is on. Forget about “Are you saved?” The more important (and useful) questions are: Are you really who you say you are? Are you really who you appear to be? Are you the same person when (you think) no one is looking? And when you are who you really are, are you authentically human, or are you trying to be something else? --Caspar Green, scarletletterbible.com
I am praying again, Awesome One.
You hear me again, as words
from the depths of me
rush toward you in the wind.
I’ve been scattered in pieces,
torn by conflict,
mocked by laughter,
washed down in drink.
In alleyways I sweep myself up
out of garbage and broken glass…
I am a house gutted by fire…
I am a city by the sea
sinking into a toxic tide…
It’s here in all the pieces of my shame that now I find myself again.
I yearn to belong to something,
to be contained
in an all-embracing mind that sees me
as a single thing.
I yearn to be held
in the great hands of your heart –
oh let them take me now.
Into them I place these fragments,
my life,
and you, God –
spend them however you want.
– Rainer Maria Rilke
John 3:16: The Rest of the Story – Living in the Light
God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him. --John 3:17
This verse follows what many might assume is one of the most quoted passages in the entire Bible. But according to an infographic in Christianity Today John 3:16 didn’t even make it as one of the top ten most “shared” verses list for that year. …
So what about verse 17? Why is it so seldom linked to John 3:16? After all, it clearly belongs with 3:16 in the context John’s thoughts. In fact, it is crucial to the meaning of this week’s gospel lesson. We do this passage a disservice when we excise John 3:16 out of this difficult and paradoxical setting of Jesus’ nighttime conversation with the Pharisee Nicodemus. A learned and devout man, Nicodemus was having a tough time grasping this concept of being “born again” and of just how much God loves all of creation—enough to come into the world as the Son and be lifted up, exalted in such a scandalous and countercultural way.
Jesus goes on to say that we humans run from the light; the image that keeps coming to mind is cockroaches scurrying when the lights are turned on. Being exposed, being vulnerable, even in the loving and grace-filled light of Christ, runs counter to our human nature. We want to keep our evil desires, our sinful expressions, and our selfish ways hidden in the shadows. In fact, we’re pretty adept at adapting to the darkness and fooling ourselves into all sorts of pretty little lies and heady rationalizations.
We convince ourselves that Jesus came because God loves us and other people like us. Everything is fine and dandy as long as our notions of who is worthy of God’s love aren’t challenged too much. But here’s the thing: John 3:17 does challenge us because we learn that God doesn’t want anyone to be destroyed, that all of creation is worthy of salvation.
Jesus invites us to remember Moses lifting the up the bronze serpent for the Israelites to gaze upon in order to be healed from the deadly bites of the snakes sent to punish them. He stretches the image to himself, and we know the rest of the story and what that means in terms of crucifixion and resurrection. Condemnation becomes salvation in a paradoxical turn of image (and event!) that requires a response to live in the light, to let the grace wash over us, and to be people who choose exposure rather than hide in the shadows of our sinful natures. The real rub, of course, comes when we realize that there’s room in the light for all of God’s beloved creation.
We’d better make room for sinners of every ilk and stripe, for all have sinned and fallen short of the divine mark. We don’t get to pick and choose our company in the light of God’s love. Yep, you might be standing shoulder to shoulder with a convicted killer, a prostitute, or someone whose politics and world view may set your teeth on edge. No, the way of God doesn’t make sense when compared to the way the world orders the good, the bad, and the ugly, so don’t even bother trying. To do so will only leave you slinking off in the darkness, scratching your head with Nicodemus and others who try to make sense of God’s abundant love and grace.
Go ahead. Step into the light, make room for other sinner/saints, and get to work. God does love the world—you, me, and all the rest of creation—and is on the move restoring everything to its right order. That means we, too, have some work to do, dearly beloved. Let’s get to it. – Sharron R. Blezard, http://www.stewardshipoflife.org/2015/03/living-in-the-light/
PRACTICE RESURRECTION
… Every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it. …
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
… Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts. …
Practice resurrection.
-- Wendell Berry, from Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
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