Memorial of Saints Cornelius, Pope, and Cyprian, Bishop, Martyrs
September 16, 2024

Today’s Readings:

https://bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/091624.cfm

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And Jesus went with them,
but when he was only a short distance from the house,
the centurion sent friends to tell him,
“Lord, do not trouble yourself,
for I am not worthy to have you enter under my roof.
Therefore, I did not consider myself worthy to come to you;
but say the word and let my servant be healed.
Luke 7:6-7

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Jesus is amazed at the faith of this centurion who has such confidence in Christ’s power and mercy that he needs nothing but a word to confirm his trust.

Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy:
We listen with open hearts to God’s Word in our own experiences. We ask for ever-deepening trust that God is willingly working miracles of mercy through our faithful lives.

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Poetry: The Say-but-the-Word Centurion Attempts a Summary – Les Murray

How might the faith-filled centurion have felt at the death of Jesus?

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That numinous healer who preached Saturnalia and paradox
has died a slave’s death. We were maneuvered into it by priests
and by the man himself. To complete his poem.

He was certainly dead. The pilum guaranteed it. His message,
unwritten except on his body, like anyone’s, was wrapped
like a scroll and dispatched to our liberated selves, the gods.

If he has now risen, as our infiltrators gibber,
he has outdone Orpheus, who went alive to the Shades.
Solitude may be stronger than embraces. Inventor of the mustard tree,

he mourned one death, perhaps all, before he reversed it.
He forgave the sick to health, disregarded the sex of the Furies
when expelling them from minds. And he never speculated.

If he is risen, all are children of a most high real God
or something even stranger called by that name
who knew to come and be punished for the world.

To have knowledge of right, after that, is to be in the wrong.
Death came through the sight of law. His people’s oldest wisdom.
If death is now the birth-gate into things unsayable

in language of death’s era, there will be wars about religion
as there never were about the death-ignoring Olympians.
Love, too, his new universal, so far ahead of you it has died

for you before you meet it, may seem colder than the favors of gods
who are our poems, good and bad. But there never was a bad baby.
Half of his worship will be grinding his face in the dirt

then lilting it up to beg, in private. The low will rule, and curse by him.
Divine bastard, soul-usurer, eros-frightener, he is out to monopolize hatred.
Whole philosophies will be devised for their brief snubbings of him.

But regained excels kept, he taught. Thus he has done the impossible
to show us it is there. To ask it of us. It seems we are to be the poem
and live the impossible. As each time we have, with mixed cries.

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Music: Amazing Grace – John Newton (sung by Rosemary Siemens)