November 10, 2013: Thirty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time
2 Maccabees 7:1-2, 9-14: He bravely held out his hands, as he spoke these noble words: “It was from Heaven that I received these; for the sake of his laws I disdain them; from him I hope to receive them again.”
Psalm 17: Lord, when your glory appears, my joy will be full.
2 Thessalonians 2:16-3:15: The Lord is faithful; he will strengthen you and guard you from the evil one.
Luke 20:27-38: “He is not God of the dead, but of the living, for to him all are alive.”
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November is the month of the Holy Souls
Scripture Notes from the Sourcebook:
The Sadducees were a Jewish philosophical sect, who among other things, did not believe in the afterlife, heaven, or the Resurrection. In today’s Gospel passage, some Sadducees try to challenge Jesus on this point, inventing the far-fetched hypothetical example of the woman who marries seven brothers. Jesus cuts through the word-games and gets to the point: our God is the Source and Author of life, and God’s gift of life is full and eternal. Believing in the afterlife grants our lives a whole different meaning-making lens. Looking to heaven fills us with joyful trust and hope in life, as well as comfort and healing about those who have gone before us. Like Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, we can hope to join the ranks of the saints in heaven, who surround the throne of God as a cloud of witnesses to the gift of eternal life.
THE FIRST READING: This is the account of eight Jewish martyrs, a mother and her seven sons, who attest to their belief in the resurrection f the dad. Their martyrdom took place at the time of Greek rule over Palestine. These brave martyrs chose death rather than to disobey the law of the Lord. Encouraged by their mother, the brothers confessed their belief in being raised up by God after their death.
RESPONSORIAL PSALM 17: One who is upright and faithful in keeping God’s law cries out for deliverance in today’s Psalm. Notice the reference to “waking” in the last line of the third stanza. Juxtaposed with today’s First Reading, we can hear it as a reference to living in the presence of the Lord after the sleep of death.
SECOND READING: The first part of this reading is actually a prayer for the Thessalonians to be strengthened in what they say and do. In the second, Paul asks the Thessalonians to pray for him and his companions in the ministry of evangelization (note the specific mention of deliverance which echoes today’s Responsorial Psalm). The last part of the reading expresses confidence that the Lord will strengthen and protect the community.
THE GOSPEL: Today’s Gospel, like our First Reading, looks to the resurrection in the age to come. The Sadducees were a sect within Judaism who, unlike the Pharisees, did not believe in resurrection. The Sadducees held only to what was revealed in the Law of Moses, and resurrection was a later development in understanding. Our resurrected life will be complete other than we know now in this life. In the age to come, we will be gloriously transformed like the Risen Christ. ---2013 Sourcebook for Sundays, Seasons & Weekends
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Reflection for November 10, 2013: What Happens Next?
All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated. God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God’s hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again, for that library where every book shall lie open to one another. -- John Donne, from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, c. 1630
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We were talking about death and grief the other day, and I told a friend how much I miss my father. “I thought you were a Christian,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to rejoice when someone you love has ‘gone to glory’ or whatever? It’s harder for realists like me when someone dies, since I know it’s the end.” And he added, wittily but perhaps a bit sarcastically, “I don’t have your ‘invisible means of support.’ ” And the question came up, not for the first time: “If you have faith, how come you’re grieving?”
“Because death is probably just as hard for me,” I said honestly. “Faith isn’t the same as actually knowing. I have no idea what happens after we die. I just feel fairly sure that there’s more to the story.” And I talked (a bit incoherently) about how I’m upheld somehow by the sense of Mercy that seems to me to underlie and embrace everything that exists, despite the tragedies and everyday troubles of life. “That might not seem like much, but it’s enough for me to hold on to,” I said. And I quoted Paul: Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
The truth is, I have lived for (gulp!) half a century in this world, and I still do not believe that anyone I love will ever die – that each one of us is as temporary as the sunflowers that bloomed in my garden just short weeks ago. I know better, of course, but there it is. I always thought my dad would live forever, even though I always knew that it wasn’t true. I’m astonished by death, even when I know it’s coming, and so when I don’t expect it, I’m totally gobsmacked. I’m like Captain Renault in the movie Casablanca, scooping up his winnings from the casino table even as he exclaims, “I’m shocked, shocked, that gambling is going on here!” The truth is: I know that we all have to die; I just never think the journey will end so soon. I always think that we’re going to have more time.
It irks me when people tell me I shouldn’t grieve. I believe there is more to the story than what we see – that death is not the final end of it all. But I am also a human being, anchored in bone and living in space, moving and breathing in time as well as eternity, and this is where and how I live, right now on this particular green rocky planet. This is what I know and who I am. And so I miss the people who leave my life, I miss them absolutely, even as I believe – as I hope – that they are not gone forever. I would miss you if you moved to New Jersey or somewhere like that; I would get all sniffly and cry when we said our goodbyes. You would too, I hope, if I moved away. (OK, maybe you wouldn’t. But still.) If that’s how we feel, why wouldn’t we cry when someone we love heads off to the Undiscovered Country – when we say farewell to the only life we’ve known?
Sometimes people say we shouldn’t be sad because the spirit of the Dear Departed is still with us, or Up There watching. Which is a nice thought, but doesn’t amount to doodly-squat when what you really need is the sound of a voice, the touch of a hand, a big loving hug. I believe that the spirit endures, but what I miss is what I knew, and what I knew was a particular human person, a physical being. I miss my dad’s laughter and my mother’s singing, and Libby’s cooking, and Father Bill’s smile, and Jon’s face when he played the guitar, and– well, you get where I’m going with this. I weep at every death – sometimes almost inconsolably. And yet I believe in a God who will one day wipe all those tears away. I weep, and I dream, and I love, and I pray, and I keep on moving through the sometimes difficult days in faith and hope.
Some nonbelievers think Christians believe because we’re afraid of dying. I don’t think that’s true, at least not for me. No matter how religious you are, death is always a mystery. Faith is not the same as absolute knowledge; you don’t need to “have faith” in things like algebra. We all have a common knowledge and experience of gravity, so believing in it is not a matter of faith. But God is always and ever a Mystery beyond all human understanding. I believe in an afterlife because I am convinced that there’s more to the story – but I believe this as a matter of faith, not because I’ve received postcards from eternity. (Although it would be nice to receive such postcards: Having a great time in Heaven. Wish you were here. Love, Mom and Dad. P.S. Dad says, "Don't forget to change the filter in your furnace before it snows this year, dimwit."
Jesus wept outside the tomb of Lazarus. Some say it’s only because he was shocked at the lack of faith of the other mourners. But I believe Jesus wept because he was sad, because he missed his friend, because he thought death was a sorrow and a shame, and because he knew how sad and lonely it feels to be human when a dear one dies. Of course, Jesus knew better than anyone that there was Something After Death – and in fact he was able to bring Lazarus back from the dead, at least for awhile. But even for Lazarus it was only a brief reprieve. Sometimes I wonder what Lazarus thought of it all – if dying twice was worth the trouble, from his point of view.
Here on earth, we are all still waiting with the other mourners outside the cave. And sooner or later, we will end up inside it, with Lazarus. But I believe in the marrow of my soul that it won’t be the end: I believe that Jesus will one day tell us all to “Come forth!” for good. And I believe that when that happens, our tears will be wiped away, forever.
Meanwhile, a curtain still hangs between us and eternity, and sometimes that curtain ripples and the light comes through. Whenever that curtain ripples, I am dazzled by the glory of the light behind it. But I can’t see anything clearly, because my human eyes simply are not strong enough. So I live by hope and I walk in faith, and I trust that when I stumble, I will be upheld. Because I believe – no, in this case I know, one thing – the one thing necessary: What can separate us from the love of Christ? Will anguish, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or the sword? No: In all these things we conquer overwhelmingly through Christ Jesus who loves us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. In Jesus’ name. – Diane Sylvain