Doubting Thomas

Thomas gets a bum rap, but here is the man who acted as so many of us would. His trusted friend and leader Jesus has been put to death, in the most public and horrific of fashions, and he and his friends are hiding out in fear of what might happen to them. And suddenly he is being told that Jesus is alive and has appeared to his friends – it’s overwhelming and incredible, and it turns out to be too much to ask – he needs to see to believe.

I’m not sure there could be a more appropriate gospel story for me to reflect on as I join my friend in sharing some thoughts on my faith journey. Full disclosure – I find this endeavor equal parts terrifying and exciting. It all feels a little too revealing – both to others and myself. I worry that those who knew a more devout, faith-filled me will feel disappointed; that those who currently know a practicing Catholic but perhaps not overtly religious or spiritual me will find this type of examination too much. And most of all, I worry about what I may find out for and about myself. But this is precisely what makes it so necessary, to take the time to see where on the road I am.

The denouement of the gospel is that Jesus does appear to his doubting disciple, and for Thomas, seeing is believing – “My Lord and my God!” How stunningly was faith not only restored, but exclaimed with wholeheartedness. In a homily on this gospel, Pope Saint Gregory the Great explained that: “In a marvelous way, God’s mercy arranged that the disbelieving disciple, in touching the wounds of his Master’s body, should heal our wounds of disbelief … What is seen gives knowledge, not faith. When Thomas saw and touched, why was he told: You have believed because you have seen me? Because what he saw and what he believed were different things. God cannot be seen by mortal man. Thomas saw a human being, whom he acknowledged to be God, and said: My Lord and my God. Seeing, he believed; looking at one who was true man, he cried out that this was God, the God he could not see.”

While I often wish I could live peacefully in non-belief, there remains a kernel of doubt, the doubt that is the seed of faith still there inside, perhaps waiting to be revived and renewed. What Jesus did for Thomas was not scoff at him or cast him aside, but rather meet him exactly where he was, and offer exactly what he needed to believe. Having given his life already, God made man gave more. I pray to the God who gives so bountifully to help me along the way, and that like Thomas, my doubts can open me up to deeper, exuberant belief.

Lenten Hangover

After my most committed Lent in recent memory, I've had a bit of a hangover. Stephen Colbert did a great bit this week describing his Catholic bender—and subsequent hangover—so I won't even attempt to compete with his take on it. Suffice it to say that after a Lent-long blogging habit, I confess that it was nice to take a bit of a break this week as I thought about where to go from here.

This blog received a lot of surprising and welcome support from friends and even some strangers. It became clear that many of us are "on the road" at some stage of our own spiritual journey. Though we're not all in the same place, many of us are searching and seeking, and it helps to know that others are out there.

On my own personal journey,  I learned that daily blogging did keep me on track and helped me to feel more spiritually engaged and stronger in a lot of ways. But I also learned that it's a big commitment. So I invited a friend to share the load. We are looking at less frequent postings—weekly, perhaps more, depending on how things go—but I hope that it might provide some of the same food for thought that the daily Lenten blog seemed to offer. 

So now we are looking at life and spirituality "Beyond 40 Days." I hope you'll stay with us on the journey.

–MOHD

Not For the Faint of Heart

Our faith is not for the faint of heart. We believe in miracles, in improbable events, and in divine heroes. Going through tonight's vigil readings, there is so much that is so fantastic, incredible, and even terrifying. Father Abraham prepared to sacrifice his son. Moses leading his people out of Egypt, parting the Red Sea and marching in triumph to Israel. A God who storms in anger but mercifully forgives, promising an unyielding bounty and everlasting life.

And then an empty tomb, a divine messenger, and a risen Lord.

It's not my tendency to question any of it. In my 37 years, I've moved past the point of doubting my faith in these words. I believe. But as I sit at my laptop to write about them, in the privacy of my kitchen, it's hard not to look at them in their totality and wonder why I believe it all so wholeheartedly. I can't defend it or explain it except to say that my life has been touched by people and experiences that have helped me to believe in miracles, who have shown me by their goodness what it means to walk with Christ.

Our faith is courageous and countercultural. We believe in in sacrifice, in offering ourselves in service to others, in forgiveness and in justice. If we lived every day like this, as the psalm says, we would renew the face of the Earth.

On Easter, we begin again. Create a clean heart in me, O God.

Good Fridays of Our Lives

Not to be flip, but Good Friday's services are like the church's version of a marathon. The readings and rituals are rich—and long. Rather than delve too deeply in the gospel's comprehensive narration of Jesus' agony, trial and crucifixion, I'll simply highlight a few lines from today's second reading, from Hebrews:

We do not have a high priest
who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses,
but one who has similarly been tested in every way ...

For me, this is the great comfort of our faith. Jesus gives a model to follow, a companion in our brokenness, and a friend who has walked the same road. His example can bring us solace and—when we consider the ultimate outcome—hope, even in our darkest moments, when we feel there is none.

I say this with a sense of embarrassment, knowing that the trials I've gone through don't compare to what Jesus endured—the beatings, the mockery, the feeling of utter abandonment and, of course, his death. But I'm not convinced that Jesus would want me to feel that way. God became man, I believe, precisely so that we could find this comfort and solace.

We await Easter now, and the glory of the resurrection, along with the chocolate and jelly beans and egg hunts that are part of our celebrations. But on the lesser "good Fridays" of our lives, we remember this day and know that the God we turn to in prayer knows what it is to suffer—and to emerge victorious.

The New Normal

Holy Thursday is a night rich with symbolism and meaning. I couldn't attend Mass tonight, but I have vivid memories of this service from years past, especially the moments at the end, when the altar is stripped and the church slowly goes dark. Strangely, though this is the night when Jesus is handed over, and all of this week's readings have felt so dark and sinister, today's gospel is strikingly beautiful:

He loved his own in the world and he loved them to the end. ...
So, during supper, fully aware that the Father had put everything into his power
and that he had come from God and was returning to God,
he rose from supper and took off his outer garments.
He took a towel and tied it around his waist.
Then he poured water into a basin
and began to wash the disciples’ feet....

Jesus has reached the turning point in his ministry: he knows what he must do, and he is filled awareness of his divine power. But even as he moves on, he hasn't yet moved beyond his friends. He loved his own in the world and he loved them to the end. 

Tonight, before Jesus shows his love by giving his life, he shows his love by humbling himself in service. There's not really more I can say about that, except to repeat Jesus' sentiment, that it is the model we are to follow.

If I, therefore, the master and teacher, have washed your feet,
you ought to wash one another’s feet.
I have given you a model to follow,
so that as I have done for you, you should also do.”

Lent is almost over. Good Friday will bring the agony of Jesus' crucifixion, and Easter will bring the glory of his resurrection. People will reclaim whatever it is they've given up (looking forward to a brownie here!) and to an extent, things will get back to normal.

This Lent feels a little different to me. I'm hoping to make "normal" feel a little different too.

The Spy Who Loved Jesus

The Wednesday of Holy Week is also known as Spy Wednesday, a name that, as a kid, both fascinated and frightened me. It suggests such sneakiness, such treachery. And it makes sense. Beyond the enormity of what is about to happen to Jesus, the idea that one of his chosen friends would be the one to sell him out is horrifying—probably the ultimate betrayal. And it's the kind of betrayal that only the most generous, trusting soul could fall victim to.

Today's readings lead with an invincible hero. Isaiah describes being completely fortified by God, with words will rouse the weary, ears that hear his call, a strong back and a willingness to take hits from his enemies. These are words that Jesus must have prayed over to gain the strength he needed to enter into his own battle.

See, the Lord GOD is my help;
who will prove me wrong?

When all this began, could he have suspected that among those who would "prove him wrong" would be one of his own? Jesus was that generous soul who placed his love and trust in his friends. What do we take from that? My cynical self would say: Look how Jesus trusted, and look what it got him.

Most of us have learned that loving someone is a coin with two sides. It can break your heart. But it also brings the greatest rewards. Jesus' death was the result of a terrible betrayal by his friend. But ultimately his death was what glorified him and fulfilled his mission.

Where would I be without the love of my family, friends, and even former friends? Who would I be had I not, at various times in my life, let down my guard and let others love—and sometimes hurt—me?

Today (and every day) I thank God for the friends (and family) who have changed my life for the better.  I pray for those who have hurt me. And I pray for those whom I've hurt.

A Friend In Need

Jesus knows the end is near. At the Passover meal with the apostles, he predicts Judas's betrayal:

“Amen, amen, I say to you, one of you will betray me.”

How must that have felt, to look around a table at a group of people whom you love, who have traveled with you, dined with you, and shared life-changing, miraculous experiences with you, and know that one of them will offer you up for your death? How painful. At a time when Jesus needed all of the strength and support his friends could offer, to realize that his trust had been mislaid so dangerously must have added to his burden.

I'm sure the apostles were baffled by Jesus' statement as well. I wonder if each of them was thinking: Who among this group of trusted friends would abandon our leader at a time like this?

Most of us know something about betrayal. At difficult times in our lives, we realize who our friends are, and sometimes our hearts are broken by those who fail to live up to our expectations.

It's not just Judas who fails Jesus. Even those who remain with him are not steadfast. Peter swears he would lay down his life for Jesus, and once again, Jesus offers a prediction: The cock will not crow before you deny me three times.

Is he actually seeing the future, or does he just know that nobody else has the strength to bear this particular burden? He is resigned to go it alone: Where I am going, you cannot follow me now.

I pray that I have the courage and compassion to stick with the people in my life who need me the most, and I pray in a special way for those who feel alone and abandoned in their hour of need.

Only Human

Today's gospel from John features three of the great characters of the New Testament. The first is "Mary," who anoints Jesus' feet with holy oil and dries them with her hair. (Other accounts have her washing them with her tears.) There is some debate about which Mary performs this beautiful, sensual gesture; regardless of who this woman was, I'm struck by the intimacy and sadness of it. I can imagine the urgency with which she felt the need to show her love, perhaps knowing that Jesus needed the support and even sensing some of the doom he must have been projecting.

The gesture, of course, is met with disapproval by Judas, another key figure. I'd say he probably wasn't alone in his disapproval, and I'd bet it had as much to do with the forwardness of the gesture as it did with the stated reason—that the money wasted on the oil could have been put to a more worthy purpose. Who is this woman to claim such intimacy with Jesus, before all of his friends?

But John focuses on the money. He says that Judas doesn't care about the poor but rather about his own pockets—he's a thief. I do wonder about that characterization. Elsewhere it is said that Judas was a revolutionary who was deeply disappointed that Jesus had not moved overthrow Roman rule in Israel; this was what the Messiah was supposed to accomplish. Could his anger (and subsequent betrayal) be as simple as greed? It makes me think about the possible dynamics of the group of apostles and disciples, the jealousies that must have arisen among them, the politics that must have been at work. These dynamics are so common in group settings and political movements; imagine how high the stakes must have been as these followers vied for the affections of a charismatic, compelling leader like Jesus!

Finally, the presence of Lazarus at the meal is noteworthy. He's attracting a following of his own, and  apparently the chief priests want him dead too, as he represented Jesus' most public triumph and the most convincing evidence of his power.

These characters remind me that the story of Jesus is about human beings, with all their weaknesses, pettiness and, well, humanity.  God became man and walked among us, perhaps to show us not only our own failings but also what could be possible if we followed his lead. Mary's example illustrates the kind of humility and service Jesus asked of us; Judas's example highlights the dangers of arrogance, greed and possibly self-righteousness. Lazarus shows us the wonders that God can do, but also the evil that tempts man when our interests are threatened.

As Lent nears its end, I'm hopeful that I can choose to live out the best traits of humanity, leaving my pettiness and weakness behind.

What's New is Old

On Palm Sunday, as Lent is nearing its conclusion, I'm beginning to think about what the last several weeks have meant to me. I've spent time reading and reflecting on scripture in a way I haven't done in years, and it's been a worthwhile endeavor. It's amazing how stories and passages I've heard many times throughout my life continue to offer new perspectives and lessons.

Reading each day's readings closely—and trying to find something meaningful to say about them—helped me to have a fuller understanding of the connections between the depiction of Jesus' life in the New Testament and the Old Testament scriptures that would have informed everything he did. Intellectually I've always known that Jesus was a religious Jew who was a student (and teacher) of scripture. But I now have a renewed awareness of just how much Jesus' own faith practice and knowledge of scripture guided his life and work and, I have to believe, must have sustained him during the amazing events of his ministry.

Jesus preached peace, mercy, forgiveness, humility; he said that the first would be last and the last would be first; he said that we were all sinners but that redemption was ours for the asking. This Lent I've been reminded that he wasn't really saying anything new! He actually calls back to the prophets, using their own words to encourage his fellow Jews to do their part to renew God's covenant with them. The Old Testament can get a bad rap in some circles, for being all about God's judgment and wrath, but the peace-loving Jesus that many Christians identify with was very much preaching messages that originated with Isaiah, Jeremiah, and their ilk.

The Palm Sunday readings highlight this connection. Before entering Jerusalem, Jesus directs two disciples to find an ass for him to ride, so that he might fulfill the scripture's depiction of the Messiah:

Say to daughter Zion,
“Behold, your king comes to you,
meek and riding on an ass,
and on a colt, the foal of a beast of burden.”

In the past my reading of this passage tended toward the cynical; I could see someone making the argument that Jesus was manipulating circumstances so that he might be seen as the Messiah. But especially today, as we read about the charges of blasphemy being leveled at him, I see it differently, recognizing how intentionally faithful he was to the words of the prophets. It was this fidelity to scripture that gave his accusers the cause they needed to condemn him to death. On a human level, it's ironic and tragic and heartbreaking to think about. In the grand scheme, it allowed Jesus to fulfill God's plan for our redemption.

The Final Countdown

The concluding lines of today's gospel, from John:

So Jesus no longer walked about in public among the Jews ....
Many went up from the country to Jerusalem
before Passover to purify themselves.
They looked for Jesus and said to one another
as they were in the temple area, “What do you think?
That he will not come to the feast?”

At this point it's clear that Jesus was in real danger. John creates suspense here; it feels almost like the penultimate scene from a movie, right before the protagonist emerges from the site of a previous defeat to stage a triumphant comeback. (I suppose the fact that I just watched The Fighter may have something to do with my reading of this passage.)

We know that Jesus is about to emerge from hiding and make his triumphant ride into Jerusalem; he will be hailed as a hero, as the Messiah and Savior that the Jews have been waiting for. Yet within a week he will be tried, convicted and killed—sort of the reverse outcome of the classic hero story.

This moment, when the crowds are whispering and wondering about Jesus, sets the stage. What's behind the whispers? Are the people anxious to see Jesus? Are they disappointed? Are they frightened? Some probably feel vindicated, that he would hide rather than fight. For the same reason, others probably feel despondent. What Messiah would hide?

Who would I be in that crowd? I might have a clue how to answer that question if I consider my own actions at times when I witness (or take part in) challenges to Jesus' message. If I'm honest, I have to say I'm not always proud of how I respond in those moments. How often can I say that I'm truly courageous, or that I show steadfast belief?

I pray for belief in unlikely heroes, for patience when the answer I'm looking for doesn't seem forthcoming, and for courage to take risks in practicing my faith.

Actions Speak Louder

Today's reading from Jeremiah is foreboding, especially as Holy Week approaches. Jeremiah's fear—it almost seems like paranoia—is palpable. 

I hear the whisperings of many:
“Terror on every side!
Denounce! let us denounce him!”

I can imagine Jesus, as his accusers grew more and more threatening, identifying with this passage and finding solace and strength in Jeremiah's thirst for vengeance against his own tormentors.

But that isn't the kind of justice that Jesus preached about. His ministry was about love, forgiveness, and mercy. He asked us to serve one another, and to lift up the poor and defenseless. He wanted to show God's goodness through action—his own and ours. In fact, as his accusers threaten him with arrest and even violence for what they call his blasphemy, he tries to clarify his bold words by pointing instead to what he has done:

If I do not perform my Father’s works, do not believe me;
but if I perform them, even if you do not believe me,
believe the works, so that you may realize and understand
that the Father is in me and I am in the Father.”

He seems to be saying that it's less important for them acknowledge his divinity than that they see the good works he has done, the ways that he has sought to bring the will of God to fruition right in their very time and create the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth.

It's a message that resonates for all of us. Doing God's work, living out the true meaning of the scriptures, means putting God's word into action: among them, this, from Micah (which would be known to Jesus' audience):

What does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.

Jesus himself summarized God's message this way, when asked about the greatest of the commandment:

"'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind'; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'"

The words have no power—essentially, God's not in them—if we aren't putting them into practice and demonstrating their power for all to see.

I pray for the ability to bring God's word into the world by actions that show justice, mercy, humility and, above all, love.

Who Do You Think You Are?

In today's gospel from John, Jesus reveals more of his divine identity. He promises that those who follow his word will "never see death." Now his listeners are sure he's crazy—possessed, they say. Either that or, I'd imagine they're thinking, he's just supremely arrogant—maybe a little of both. Who do you make yourself out to be? they ask, when he promises life beyond death, knowing that their father Abraham and the prophets succumbed to death. He tells them

Before Abraham came to be, I AM.

His listeners are baffled, and they turn on him: they pick up stones to throw, but he leaves them, hiding away from the temple area.

I've mentioned before in this blog that I'm not very comfortable with this Jesus who is so cryptic yet so in touch with his divinity. I've long held the belief that Jesus was a man slowly coming to terms with the calling that unfolds before him, a calling he embraces but still finds very much a mystery. It's harder for me to fathom and accept the Jesus who seems to know his identity not just as the son of God, but as God himself. I'm fairly convinced that if I were in his midst during this particular speech, I might have turned on him too. (Probably wouldn't have picked up stones, but wouldn't have been surprised that others did.)

Interesting to me, then, that Jesus didn't stand his ground. He went away, actually hiding. I wonder if he wasn't as convinced as his words here would indicate. I wonder if his understanding of his divinity was growing clearer as he performed amazing "signs" and as his followers increased in number—that kind of power and influence would embolden anyone! But then maybe his own faith in himself and his mission were shaken by the reactions he started to get; maybe his words were shocking even to him. It's safe to say he was growing conscious of the danger he was in in a very real way. Either way, he needed to get away for the moment, perhaps to figure out his next move or to gather the strength he needed to continue on his mission.

Following God's call takes courage.  We don't always know just what the call means, and when it involves challenging the status quo or even just our own conceptions of ourselves, it can be tempting to back away and stick with what's comfortable, with what people expect from us.

I take solace in the idea that Jesus didn't "get it right" the first time. He didn't necessarily set forth with a clear understanding of what he was sent to do, and he didn't "just do it." If Jesus could falter a bit, but still persevere, it's got to be okay for the rest of us to struggle a bit in our own journeys.

Prayer for the Day

My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.

Nor do I really know myself,
And the fact that I think I am following
your will does not mean that I am
actually doing so.

But I believe that the desire to please
you does in fact please you.
And I hope that I have that desire in all
that I am doing.

And I know that if I do this, you
will lead me by the right road
though I may know nothing about it.

Therefore will I trust you always
though I may seem to be lost
and in the shadow of death, I will
not fear, for you are ever with me
and you will never leave me
to face my perils alone.

—Thomas Merton

A Prophet Rejected?

Writing this blog has motivated me to read and think about scripture this Lent in a way I haven't done in a long time. Each day, I find the day's readings on the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops's website. As I read and reflect each day, I frequently find myself mentally referring back to my theology coursework at Fordham University—none more frequently or powerfully than a course called "The Real Jesus," taught by Sister Elizabeth Johnson, a Sister of St. Joseph who was empowered to earn her doctorate following Vatican II.

So imagine my surprise when I learned this evening that a committee within the USCCB has attacked Sister Johnson's scholarship, accusing her of violating Church doctrine, stating that her 2007 book, Quest for the Living God,

"contaminates the traditional Catholic understanding of God, which arises both from revelation and reason and which has been articulated by the Fathers and the Scholastics, especially Thomas Aquinas, and taught and professed by the Church, with Enlightenment deism."

Without consulting Sister Johnson, without notifying her, without giving her a chance to respond or explain, the committee discounted her work and, in so doing, threatened "50 years of contemporary theology," said Johnson's department chair, Dr. Terrance Tilley of Fordham's theology department.

I'm not a theologian or a scholar, so I can't adequately examine this issue in writing, as much as I'm tempted to try. But I will offer a few words on Sister Johnson's scholarship, and what it has meant for my faith and spirituality. 

As I recall (it's been 16 years, so bear with me!), Sister Johnson's "Real Jesus" course systematically examined each of the four gospels, identifying what could be considered most historically accurate versus what might more likely have been human convention (if still divinely inspired). The course helped me to understand the historical factors that drove each of the four evangelists in their writing, and how each one's particular voice and message reflected a unique view of Jesus and/or the audience that he wanted to reach.

It was a theology class, not a "religion" one. But having a better sense of who Jesus was as a man enhanced my own faith more than I can say. Sister Johnson's scholarship brought me to an intellectual and spiritual place where I could finally say that I had a personal relationship with God. And while this relationship has intensified and diminished in waves over time, it remains part of the fabric of my life. My understanding of God and my identity as a Catholic Christian changed and deepened thanks to Sister Johnson's work.

I also learned something about how the Catholic Church came to define its doctrines and dogma, particularly concerning the nature of Jesus. In truth, I've forgotten most of the details. But what I took away and still hold onto is a belief that what the Church holds to be true about Jesus Christ was defined by human beings at particular points during history. I don't doubt that these individuals and groups were inspired by God, by their own scholarship, and by their faith.

But I believe that inspiration didn't end during the Enlightenment, or with Aquinas, or the councils, or Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. It certainly doesn't end with the homogenous Church hierarchy and the committees they anoint to examine these issues. Brilliant scholars like Sister Johnson are shedding new light on the life, work, and words of Jesus Christ as written in the New Testament, and on the ways that Christians throughout the world follow his teachings. Isn't it possible that there is more Truth to be told? Isn't it possible that Sister Johnson and theologians like her are presenting an understanding of God that, as the bishops would say, arises from reason and revelation?

I repeat: I don't claim to be a scholar, and I acknowledge that my examination of this issue is incomplete. But as a spiritual seeker, I see this as another disheartening moment when the church seems more eager to circumscribe its message than to invite people to share in it.

We live in a culture where powerful people seem to find intellectual debate less and less palatable. Reading the gospels as I have been in these last few weeks, I'm struck by how much teaching Jesus did in the context of answering questions and engaging in debates with the Pharisees and scribes. They sought to silence him. What was the result?

Sin No More

Today's gospel includes a line that's among the most quoted in all of literature:

If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.

But reading it today, I'm struck by the whole scene: it reads like a screenplay, with stage directions. The Pharisees drag this woman before Jesus, accused of the act of adultery, for which the penalty is death by stoning. They're testing Jesus—how will he respond?—and she's just a pawn.  The detailed description of Jesus' behavior is curious: he bends down to write in the sand. It's an oddly casual gesture, as this woman is being issued a death sentence.

Jesus' posture simply seems to be a way to avert his eyes as they, one by one, excuse themselves. What makes them walk away, essentially admitting their own sin? It'd surprise me if these pious men were willing to own their own sins in public that way. I wonder if their shame (or fear, perhaps) had something to do with hearing truth and wisdom in this upstart teacher's words. Are they annoyed that he's too smart to be tricked? Or maybe it really is as simple as being shamed by their own guilt.

So often, the "sins" that irk us the most in others are those that we ourselves are most guilty of. We can only see that when we stop pointing fingers and begin to get honest with ourselves. And then it really is a shameful feeling to realize what we've been up to. We have to acknowledge our own faults along with the sin of "accusing" someone else.

Jesus tells the woman to go and sin no more. How can we avoid this kind of sin? Maybe our penance involves being kinder not just to the people whose faults we've called out, but to ourselves as well.

Guilt Trip

From today's gospel, from John:

“Lord, if you had been here,
my brother would not have died.”

Both Martha and Mary greet Jesus with this admonition. Their brother is gone, and Jesus wasn't there to save him. Already, they have seen him work miracles. Why would he not work one on their behalf, to save their brother (and Jesus' friend) Lazarus?

How must Jesus have felt to hear these words? Well, how would you feel? The guilt! Lazarus was his friend. Jesus had stayed with him for two days—but then he went on his way. So many of us who have lost loved ones have had the experience of just missing that crucial moment by hours or even minutes. What could we have done to change the outcome? Perhaps by this time Jesus knew that he did have some kind of divine strength that could have saved Lazarus. Or perhaps he simply felt that as a friend, he should have been there. How devastating to hear from his friends Martha and Mary the same kind of admonition that the Pharisees and other adversaries were leveling at Jesus: If you're so great, how did you let this happen?

We have all said words to this effect. The Lord has so much power: why would he allow us to lose the ones that we love? Beyond even the pain of death, each of us endures suffering and hardships that do feel beyond the scope of what we can bear. We believe the Lord can save us from it; why doesn't he?

I have no answer for that, beyond the simple recognition that pain and loss are part of life just as joy and growth are. Having spent some time this weekend in the company of different friends who are grieving and suffering in different ways, over hardships that truly seem to much to bear, I am profoundly aware that there is no easy explanation for this element of the human condition.

But I come back to the joys that we experience together, the comfort that we provide one another, the growth that, perhaps paradoxically, comes out of death and suffering, and know that these losses aren't without meaning. Contrary to the popular expression, I believe that God does give us more than we can bear—at least more than we can bear alone.

We're not meant to bear it alone. We reach out toward one another, we provide comfort and healing and strength, and that's how God raises us up—by allowing us to raise one another up.

Hoodwinked

The tension that leads up to the Passion is starting to build. John's gospel today has the crowds declaring that Jesus is "the Christ" or "the Prophet." The Pharisees' knowledge of the scriptures gives them reason to doubt: the Christ is supposed to be from Bethlehem, not Galilee. They are suspicious of Jesus and want him arrested, but for now they rest somewhat more easily under the blanket of their biblical education. They only know Jesus to be a carpenter's son from Nazareth.

We, of course, know the story of Mary and Joseph's journey to Bethlehem for the census and Jesus' birth in a manger. Who would have suspected that government bureaucracy would allow Jesus to fulfill the Old Testament prophecy of a savior born in Bethlehem?

In some ways, the secret of Jesus' humble origins saved him, at least for a time, to conduct his ministry. This actually calls me back to the story of the blind man, when Jesus says he's coming so that the blind may see and that those who see might become blind. In a sense, he's keeping the Pharisees from seeing him fully, while those in the crowd—not those who are educated or powerful, but simple citizens and sinners—are having their eyes opened.

Tonight I pray that what I think I might know doesn't keep me from learning more and seeing more clearly. And I pray to see the best in people even when I'm tempted to dismiss them.

Take Time, Make Time

From the bustedhalo.com Fast Pray Give Calendar:

FAST from complaining about how busy you are today.
PRAY in thanksgiving for friends who make time for you.
GIVE — make time today for a friend.

I might be getting better at this Lent thing. Today, without consulting the calendar, I happened to follow its lead. This morning I momentarily put aside a project I was working on and placed two brief phone calls, one to a good friend and one to a family member who I haven't spoken to in a while. Both conversations were so worth the time for me—and the feeling seemed to be mutual. 

Today's psalm is directly connected to one of these good conversations I had today:

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.

 Even when it doesn't feel like it.

Now, in the spirit of making time for myself and others, I'm going to close my computer, say a few prayers for people who need them, and make time for extra sleep.

I Confess

Yesterday I was kind of a monster. The day began well enough—beautifully, in fact—but midway through the morning I encountered an obstacle that plagued me all day long.

I tried all the tricks I could think of to let go of my frustration. Deep breaths. Went for a walk. Treated myself to a sushi lunch and ate alone, with a good book. I even said a few prayers. But nothing seemed to help. I could not get out of the funk. And it was more than a funk. I was ANGRY—with good reason, probably. I knew I was walking around with a cloud over my head, and I'm certain I was difficult with people who didn't deserve it. I couldn't help it. I felt like my anger had a mind of its own.

So I did what I resisted doing all day. I vented. That didn't really help either. I was still angry, and then I was frustrated with myself for falling into that old trap.

The obstacle persisted throughout the day and even into the evening. I couldn't believe I was spending so time (and worse, so much energy!) dealing with what was essentially someone else's problem. Ultimately, the only thing that helped was going to bed and reminding myself that I could make a fresh start today.

When I woke up, I wasn't thinking about the previous day. I got ready for work, got my son ready for daycare, and got on the bus. When I got to work, my desk was littered with reminders of the previous day's obstacle (and all the work I neglected as a result). I set my mind to make today a better day, and I said a little prayer that I could do it.

Would you believe that my prayer was interrupted by an email that brought that same obstacle to the fore? A long moment passed while I considered how I'd respond. Finally, when that moment ended, I just smiled and set about to find a simple solution. It took longer than I wanted, and there were a few additional complications that could have set me off. I'm not sure why or how, but I just didn't let my anger back in today. And later, when I had an opportunity to renew my venting, I elected not to and just moved on to other things. It was a decent, if busy, day.

So what lesson can I take from this? I failed in my first attempt to do the right thing, but I did a lot better the second time around. It's hard to say, when I'm not sure what helped me turn things around.

I'm taking away three things. Perfection is unattainable. Redemption is essential. And sleep helps.

The First Step

From Fast Pray Give on bustedhalo.com:

Take the first step in faith. You don’t have to take the whole staircase, just take the first step. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

Love this! I have to say, taking the day-by-day—sometimes minute-by-minute—approach has done a lot to center me in the last few weeks.

I chose two disciplines this Lent: to make time for reflection each day and giving up chocolate. Taking things day by day has really helped me feel successful in these endeavors. Forty days without chocolate is a long time. One day without chocolate—doable. (To be sure, some days are easier than others!) Six weeks worth of blogging (on scripture, no less) is a project. One day? That I can handle.

As Lent has progressed, I feel centered in a way I haven't felt in a very long time. I'm finding it easier to focus on other areas of my life that need attention.

I started going to Mass again. I'll admit—I haven't gone every week. But I'm trying not to beat myself up about it. I'm trying not to judge others harshly, or dwell on negativity. I KNOW I haven't been successful in that regard. But I'm working on it. One thing at a time. One step at a time.

By the way, I resisted the urge to quote ’70s TV icon Ann Romano or New Kids on the Block in selecting a title for today's blog.

Strength from Heaven

From today's Fast Pray Give calendar on bustedhalo.com:

I believe in prayer. It’s the best way we have to draw strength from heaven.
— Josephine Baker

Not sure what I can add to that.

I'm not always sure how to pray. I've never been one to fall on my knees; I usually pray when I lie down in bed at night. And I usually fall asleep. I'd like to make more time for conscious, wakeful prayer; I'll need to work at that. But I am in the habit of offering quick prayers for people who need it throughout my day; I do believe that means something.

I believe prayer works; I believe I've seen it work in my own life and in the lives of my friends and family. When my father was first diagnosed with lung cancer, his friend, the late, great Bob Sheppard (longtime PA announcer of the New York Yankees—aka the "Voice of God"), added his name to the Yankees' prayer list. It was comforting (and kind of cool) to know that guys like Andy Pettitte and Scott Brosius (and Paul O'Neill, I liked to imagine) were praying for his recovery. At the same time, he started receiving little angels in the mail—an old friend had added him to some kind of angels network, and people all over the country were sending these tokens to him, to let him know they were praying for him. Another friend of my mom's told us that she would meditate about my father's lung tumor, visualizing that it would grow smaller and smaller.

My father's tumor did shrink substantially—almost to nothing. Almost. He enjoyed about a year and a half of healthy time during which he saw a new grandchild born and spent time with the two he already knew. He fished with my brother, traveled with my mother and visited old friends. He brought us together as a family in a new way. And then he got sick again.

The avalanche of prayers for my father didn't create the kind of miracle you read about. But I do think the last 18 months of his life were miraculous. And I know that the strength he needed—that we all needed—to get through it had to come from somewhere.

Tomorrow I will make time to consciously pray for three friends, in particular, who I know could use some strength from heaven.

Heaven is a Place on Earth

Loss is never far from the human experience. This week my heart is aching for multiple friends who are grappling with family illnesses and confronting the very real prospect of losing loved ones. I had my own moments this weekend of realizing anew the pain of losing my dad, who's been gone for nearly nine years. What I wouldn't give for just a little more time with him, for him to watch my son handle a ball and hear him "read" his books. Imagine a world without that loss! Imagine a power who could take that pain away!

From Isaiah:

Thus says the LORD:
Lo, I am about to create new heavens
and a new earth;
The things of the past shall not be remembered
or come to mind.
Instead, there shall always be rejoicing and happiness
in what I create ....
No longer shall the sound of weeping be heard there,
or the sound of crying;
No longer shall there be in it
an infant who lives but a few days,
or an old man who does not round out his full lifetime;
He dies a mere youth who reaches but a hundred years,
and he who fails of a hundred shall be thought accursed.
They shall live in the houses they build,
and eat the fruit of the vineyards they plant.

Today's reading from Isaiah is a beautiful promise of paradise, of a land full of joy and absent of sorrow. Is this the promise that that the Israelites were waiting for the Messiah to fulfill? A tall order, to say the least. So when Jesus comes and, in John's gospel, begins to perform signs like turning water to wine, healing sick children and giving sight to the blind, is it any wonder that he'd be greeted with such great expectations from some—and such hostile resistance from others? What man would be able to accomplish the great feats described by Isaiah?

But we're not promised this world on earth; it's beyond our mortal grasp. What's the comfort? It's hard to look so far ahead for the promise of paradise after death. 

This is where I think the human community comes into play. It's our job to create as much heaven as we can muster here on earth. We can't eliminate the losses or take away the pains, but we can try—with kindness and generosity, with forgiveness, with care and concern and comfort—to lift each other up from the burdens that oppress and afflict us.

Mercy on the Man

Today's gospel, from John, is one of my favorites: Jesus heals the blind man. But it's not the miracle that resonates with me so much: it's the theme of overturning spiritual hypocrisy and corruption. This gospel demonstrates so powerfully this aspect of Jesus' mission: to strike down the barriers that separated people from God by essentially turning the world upside-down. To me, this is what  Christianity is all about, and it's central to my own faith.

The gospel begins with the question of why the man is blind—because of his sin, or that of his parents? Neither, says Jesus. Strike one against the notion that a person's sickness (or poverty, or weakness, or loneliness) makes him a sinner, or makes him anything other than human.

Jesus performs his miracle in the full light of day on the Sabbath—this is forbidden. And the Pharisees take note, saying: This man is not from God, because he does not keep the Sabbath and How can a sinful man do such signs? But Jesus says that the whole point of working the miracle is to demonstrate God's power. It must be visible to all. Strike two against rules defined by humans that would prevent good works from being performed. Strike three against the notion that "sinners" aren't "from God" as much as anybody else is.

The formerly blind man sees clearly in more ways than just the physical. His eyes have been opened to the Pharisees' limitations:

This is what is so amazing,
that you do not know where he is from, yet he opened my eyes.

The Pharisees don't like what they hear. You were born in sin! they say, and they throw him out. They don't like their wisdom being challenged by a beggar nor their power threatened by Jesus. But their rejection of him is the basis for connection between Jesus and his new follower.

It's this last bit I'm struggling with. Jesus says: 

I came into this world for judgment,
so that those who do not see might see,
and those who do see might become blind.

John's Jesus knows what he has to do: be judged and be sacrificed, to overturn the accepted rule, to change our hearts and minds, to open eyes so that we see what God has in store for us. But what does he mean by making blind those who do see? I think this is simply to remind us to question that which we think we know for sure. To tweak Springsteen ever so slightly: God has mercy on the man who doubts what he's sure of.

Spring is Here

Today's Old Testament reading, from Hosea:

Let us know, let us strive to know the LORD;
as certain as the dawn is his coming,
and his judgment shines forth like the light of day!
He will come to us like the rain,
like spring rain that waters the earth.

The reading speaks of a return to the Lord and a desire to know him better. Because he is coming, rest assured. Here, his judgment, often seen as frightening and damning, "shines." It is restorative, "like spring rain." So much of Old Testament scripture speaks of desert, both literally and figuratively, so the spring rain is a powerful metaphor.

In this reading, hearts are coming to life, looking to God for restoration. My own heart reflects this transformation. If Lent is supposed to represent time in the desert, ironically I'm finding this Lent to be a remarkably restorative and centering time. I am returning to God, each day.

What Comes First?

From Mark:

The scribe said to him, “Well said, teacher.
You are right in saying,
He is One and there is no other than he.
And to love him with all your heart,
with all your understanding,
with all your strength,
and to love your neighbor as yourself
is worth more than all burnt offerings and sacrifices.”
And when Jesus saw that he answered with understanding,
he said to him,
“You are not far from the Kingdom of God.”
And no one dared to ask him any more questions.

Two things about this passage: I always focus on the second "great" commandment: To love your neighbor as yourself. That's easy enough to wrap your brain around, if not always to put into action. But what does it actually mean to love God with your whole heart, mind and soul? I always had this vague sense that God, omnipotent creator of the universe, really wasn't looking for any special adulation from the likes of me. And how does one actually demonstrate that extreme devotion? It's no wonder people resorted to sacrifices and offerings—at least it was a tangible display.

That's something I'm going to work on, think on, and pray on. For now, I'm thinking that truly acting on the second commandment is a good way of pursuing the first. And I guess I'd add to that that perhaps loving God with all we have is a reflection of the way God loves us; he is telling us that this is the way he loves each one of us—with all that he has (which is a lot). I've always believed (perhaps heretically, I'm sure some might say) that part of what gives God his power is the devotion of all of us. A community of believers united in prayer and faith glorifies God and makes him that much more visible and tangible in our world. So our utter devotion reflects his.

The second thing that strikes me here is that after Jesus acknowledges the wisdom and understanding of the scribe who asked the question: Which is the first of all the commandments? no one "dared" ask any more questions. What struck these listeners dumb?

I'm sure biblical scholars would unpack this more gracefully than I could, but I'll try to puzzle it out. For one thing, I imagine it would be somewhat awesome, in the true sense of the word, to hear Jesus tell the scribe: You are not far from the Kingdom of God. Those are the words of a prophet. Is he identifying himself as some kind of ambassador to God's kingdom? Is he making a prediction that God's promises to the Jews are going to be fulfilled? Or perhaps it's a more dire prediction? Are they afraid what he might say next, if they question him further?

Or is it just that there's not much more to say? Jesus boiled down 600-plus statutes and laws from Hebrew scriptures into two simple thoughts. This is the kind of question, I'd imagine, that would have been the subject of endless debate, yet Jesus and the scribe agree almost instantly. It must have been surprising, to say the least, to hear this carpenter-teacher challenge the established laws. But maybe it was satisfying, too.

Despite the straightforward nature of this narrative, it was a tough one for me. Anyone have any better thoughts?