Today, in Mercy, we learn a lesson in humble leadership, thanks to “Mrs. Zebedee”. Our Gospel recounts the story of the mother of James and John interceding for her sons with Jesus. Like many overprotective mothers, she intervenes in their adult lives. She wants to make sure they get the best deal for their investment with Jesus.
Unfortunately, “Mrs. Zebedee” has missed the whole point of Christian discipleship. Her boys have decided to follow a man who says things like this:
The last shall be first and the first, last.
Unless you lay down your life, you cannot follow me.
Whoever takes the lowly position of a child is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven.
The seats at Christ’s right and left, which she requests for her sons, will bring them only the rewards of humility and sacrificial service.
Jesus is gentle with “Mrs. Zebedee”. He understands how hard it is for any of us to comprehend the hidden glory of a deeply Christian life. We are surrounded by a world that screams the opposite to us:
Me first!
Stand your ground!
Good guys finish last!
So Jesus turns to James and John. One can imagine the bemused look on his face. He knows the hearts of these two men. He knows they have already given themselves to him. So he asks them for a confession of faith, “Can you drink the cup that I will drink?”
Their humble, faith-filled answer no doubt stuns their mother. She is left in wonder at the holy men her fishermen sons have become. Perhaps it is the beginning of her own deep conversion to Christ.
As we pray with this passage on the feast of St. James the Apostle, where do find ourselves in this scene? How immediate, sincere, and complete is our response to Jesus’ question: “Can you drink the cup….?”
Music: Can You Drink the Cup? ( Be patient. The song has a slightly delayed start😀)
Can You Drink The Cup?
Lyrics by Pamela Martin, Music by Craig Courtney
Copyright 2001, Beckenhorst Press, Inc.
Can you dring the cup,
embrace it in your hands?
Can you look inside
and face what it demands?
In the wine you see
reflections of your soul.
No one else can drink
this cup that you must hold.
Can you drink the cup?
Then you must lift it high
though this cup of joy
holds pain and sacrifice.
When you lift your cup,
raise it unafraid.
Lift it up, this cup
of life, and celebrate.
Can you drink the cup
until there is no more?
When the wine is gone,
Christ Himself will pour.
Though you drink it all
the cup is never dry,
God keeps filling it
with everlasting life.
Today, in Mercy, we pray with a passage from the prophet Micah, the last of three over the past few days of readings. Micah, who composed about 700 years before Christ, is considered a “minor prophet”. We hear from him only these three times in our liturgical readings. Yet, some of the loveliest and most moving lines come from the pen of this country poet.
Micah gave us this gem:
He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly[a] with your God. ~ Micah 6:8
He also foretold the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem.
But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, though you are small among the clans of Judah, out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel, whose origins are from of old, from ancient times.~ Micah 5:2
Micah was a poor farmer with a rich gift of poetry and grace. In powerful images, he confronted the corporate sinfulness of his times – economic and social injustices institutionalized in the Jerusalem political power structure. He was like a folk singer whose simple words cut to the truth, mourned the sad state of current affairs, and offered lyrical hope to his listeners. Micah teaches us that God’s justice will always prevail. Still, he assures us that this divine justice will be delivered with Mercy.
One can profit from reading Micah prayerfully while considering our current political reality. Like all good poetry, his words still have meaning for us. Our “Jerusalem” may be Washington or Moscow or Beijing. Our “Babylon” maybe economic, environmental, or moral destruction.
Micah calls us to recognize injustice, especially toward the poor, orphans, and refugees. He enjoins us to mourn the sad reality that surrounds us. And then he encourages us to hope – and act – because God is with us in our vulnerability and will bring us Mercy.
Music: The Times They Are A-Changin’- written by Nobel Laureate Bob Dylan, sung here by Bruce Springsteen when Dylan received the Kennedy Honors.( Lyrics below.)
Come gather ’round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You’ll be drenched to the bone.
If your time to you
Is worth savin’
Then you better start swimmin’
Or you’ll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin’.
Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won’t come again
And don’t speak too soon
For the wheel’s still in spin
And there’s no tellin’ who
That it’s namin’.
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin’.
Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don’t stand in the doorway
Don’t block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There’s a battle outside
And it is ragin’.
It’ll soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin’.
Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don’t criticize
What you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin’.
Please get out of the new one
If you can’t lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin’.
The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin’.
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin’
Today, in Mercy, Jesus stretches out his arms to all the suffering, troubled, lonely, upset people of the world. He opens his arms to us when we are feeling exhausted, confused or lost.
“Come to Me”, Jesus says. I am waiting for you. I see your burdens and distress. It doesn’t even matter if you are the cause of your own problems. I love you and I will comfort you.
Today, let’s just give ourselves, without reservation, into his loving invitation.
Today, in Mercy, we read one of the saddest Gospel passages, the woes to Chorazain, Bethsaida and Capernaum.These little villages were precious to Jesus, like little children to a loving teacher. Jesus had preached and performed amazing miracles in these towns. Still they had not demonstrated that basic change of heart which proclaims, “I believe”. They had not become places of mercy, justice and mutual love.
Notice that Jesus does not deliver these woes to individuals. He doesn’t say, “Harry, you messed up!” or “Gert, you better get it together”. What Jesus is talking about here is corporate guilt, that kind of hard-hearted sinfulness that affects whole institutions, clubs, societies, cities, nations.
This kind of sin manifests itself in a dehumanization of people, and a blindness to mercy and love. In Jesus’ day, such sin had infected the Pharisees, Sadducees, Romans, and probably a host of smaller religious, political and social networks.
In our day, we might recognize it in our churches, governments, or social associations. Its dead giveaway is the act of marking any person as “other”: not white like us, not men like us, not American like us, not Gentiles like us, not straight like us, smart, rich, educated and privileged like us — not fully human like us.
Corporate sin confuses justice with law, power with control, importance with success, wealth with possession, strength with domination. It is the kind of sin wherein a weaker group must suffer in order for the stronger group to thrive. We see its effects in war, economic suppression, racism and nationalism, misogyny and homophobia, and in the devastation of the Earth.
To the degree that we espouse and benefit from such corporate sin – or to the degree that we remain silent in its presence – woe to us as well.
Music: De Profundis – Gregorian Chant
From the depths of woe I cry to You, Lord, hear my voice! Let Your ears be attentive to my voice in supplication:
If You, O Lord, mark iniquities, Lord, who can stand? But with You is forgiveness, that You may be revered.
I trust in the Lord; my soul trusts in His word. My soul waits for the Lord more than sentinels wait for the dawn.
More than sentinels wait for the dawn, let Israel wait for the Lord. For with the Lord is kindness, and with Him is plenteous redemption; And He will redeem Israel from all their iniquities.
Today, in Mercy, we pray with the word “Truth”. The word appears 137 times in the Bible. God clearly has something to tell us about it!
A truth theme runs through today’s readings like a magnetic thread, drawing us to deeper self-understanding. Friday the 13th is a good day for that, don’t you think – a day fraught with superstitions and falsehoods?
When I was a teenager, my parents decided to wallpaper our living room. Dad, a master craftsman at just about any DIY project, had been physically incapacitated by several heart attacks. So, while he was the architect, I was the contractor for this home project.
Dad was an exact yet patient teacher. I learned how to cut, paste and match seams. I absorbed the craftsperson’s essential mantra: measure twice, cut once. Even the mysteries and miracles of Dad’s old, treasured toolbox were opened to me.
One morning, Dad said we had to “true up” a wall and that we were going to “drop a plumb line”. It was Greek to me. But he explained that no building is perfectly level. If we didn’t begin our papering from a leveled line, we would end up feeling like our living room was a tilted funhouse.
Don’t you sometimes feel like our world is that funhouse? But it isn’t really very much fun, is it? We live in a time when information and communication are at our fingertips. Yet, we are confused by half-truths and distorted facts. We are assailed with propaganda and cyber-manipulation. We are fed a diet of constant cabled lies AND we consume them to satisfy our biases. Even in our personal lives, we may be undercut by false friends and masquerading enemies. Like Pontius Pilate, we are left with the question, “Truth! What is “Truth”?
Today’s readings drop a plumb line into that skewed world.
Hosea tells us, “Straight are the paths of the Lord; in them the just walk.”
Our Psalm implores God to create in us a true heart.
Our Gospel tells us that, even in the midst of deceit, that true heart will be guided by the Holy Spirit.
On this Friday the 13th, we can start by truing up our own spirits. Let’s pray for the grace today to be true friends – not fair weather; true patriots – not nationalists; true believers – not Pharisees.
Behold, you are pleased with sincerity of heart, and in my inmost being you teach me wisdom. Cleanse me of sin with hyssop, that I may be purified; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. (from today’s Psalm)
Today, in Mercy, Jesus cures a demoniac who is mute.
In Jesus’ time, the connection between ordinary disease and demonical possession was quickly drawn – perhaps too quickly. As we read some of the Gospel cures, our modern understanding recognizes epilepsy, glaucoma, cataracts and mental illness in the people Jesus touched and healed. But two thousand years ago, these conditions were assigned to demons.
This doesn’t mean demons don’t exist. Remember the Gerasene miracle where Jesus cast demons into pigs who then threw themselves into the sea? Dramatic evidence that demons are real!
Demons are real in our world too, embodiments of the evil that is always competing for control of Creation, that is always resisting the supremacy of Goodness and Love.
These demons masquerade in various costumes of power, prestige and pleasure. But they are all eventually exposed as addictive, self-consuming and destructive.
How dangerous and deceptive these demons are! The word itself comes from the same Greek root as the word “genius”. And they do have a genius for rendering us:
blind to narcissistic motivations
crazed with exaggerated self-importance
crippled by deceptive rhetoric
mute in the face of systemic evil
deaf to the cries of the suffering
dead to the power of transforming Mercy in our own souls
Even as you read this list, faces and moments of history and current events are flashing before your eyes. Circumstances in your own life, family and work suggest themselves. Bring these to your transforming prayer today. The touch of Jesus can deliver us from such demons. We pray for that touch in our own hearts and in our world.
Today, in Mercy, in our Gospel passage, some of the Baptist’s disciples come to question Jesus. They are confused that they have been encouraged to fast and repent while Jesus’ disciples are feasting and rejoicing. They put the question to Jesus very directly.
But, typical of Jesus, He doesn’t answer directly. He answers with metaphors. He could simply have said, “They don’t fast because I’m God, and they feel fulfilled in my presence.” But that kind of direct answer is a conversation-ender.
Jesus, like most great teachers, enjoyed metaphors. They’re conversation starters. They open up a whole world of consideration far beyond the initial question.
So Jesus, perhaps fingering the tattered sleeve of someone’s tunic, suggests tothese questioners, – You know, your faith is like an old piece of cloth. It resists new possibilities. Then, maybe pouring them a cup of wine, He indicates that they need to stretch and freshen their ideas about God. “Old wine skins can’t hold new wine.”
Most people resist the stretching that life brings us. Most times, we prefer things the way they are. We’d rather be comfortable, fasting with a well-defined god than to be stretched and re-woven by the spiritual opportunities of our lives.
But God is always making new wine, always offering a challenging, deeper invitation to holiness. These invitations come in many forms:
to shift our inner focus point from self to others
to open our minds and hearts to people who differ from us
to change the way we interact with the earth’s resources
to deepen our political consciousness with moral understanding
to confront toxic habits and policies in ourselves and others
to endure difficulty, loss and pain with an Easter confidence
Living with that kind of holy openness to God makes our life a feast, not a fast. What invitation is pouring out of your life today?
Today, in Mercy, our Gospel reading introduces Matthew, a Jewish tax collector. The setting is a dusty Galilean square, crowds bustling by after midday marketing. These are Matthew’s neighbors, and he knows them by name. He calls any tax delinquent passer-by to his customs post, bent on collecting the levies due to the Roman occupiers.
Matthew is not a popular guy. He may have gotten his government job through the influence of his father Alpheus, a man a little better off than his acquaintances. His fellow Jews may have resented Matthew’s education, economic status, and certainly his apparent complicity with a tyrannical government.
Matthew was probably treated like Sarah Huckabee Sanders at the Red Hen Restaurant.Maybe that’s why Jesus noticed him that day.
But buried deep in Matthew was an unlit wick of messianic hope that only Jesus could discern. With the small spark of two words, “Follow me”, Jesus lit that hidden wick. And all the ensuing ages have been blessed by Matthew’s telling of the divine story!
When Jesus dined with Matthew’s other tax collector friends, the “righteous” Pharisees, entwined in their own sinful complicities, criticized Jesus for his choice of friends. Jesus makes his position clear: I did not come to call the righteous but sinners. His words imply that “the righteous” are irredeemable.
Jesus reminds us that God desires Mercy not sacrifice. Our holy words, laws, and rituals are empty if our actions impede God’s merciful love for all Creation.
We might want to sit at Matthew’s table ourselves today, and ask him to teach us more about that tender-hearted, transformative Mercy.
Today, in Mercy, our readings tell the story of the woman with the hemorrhage, and the little girl raised to life. I wrote the following homily about this passage for the Catholic Health association in 2015. I hope you find it worth reading.
For more inspiring prayer and scripture resources from CHA, please see:
Healing of the Daughter of Jairus and the Woman with a Hemorrhage
It is a soft, summer morning in Capernaum and Jesus is in the height of his ministry. Large crowds follow him wherever he goes, crowds hungry with hope; crowds fired by his counter-cultural words and miraculous deeds. This morning, Jesus prepares to speak to them, to translate into language they can comprehend the Eternal Life that lives in his heart. His back is to the gentle, sunlit sea. The hubbub softens to a murmur, finally stilled by the lapping waves.
But before Jesus can begin, a distressed man bursts through the gathered crowd. His robes fly about him as he runs to Jesus and falls at his feet. This man is important, so important that we all have known his name for two thousand years. This is Jairus who lives nearby and organizes the worship in the synagogue. Now breathless and swallowing sobs, Jairus pleads with Jesus: Please! My daughter! You can give her life!
Every loving father has been Jairus at least once in his life. We know these fathers. We are these fathers. They are the ones who burst into emergency rooms with a seizing infant in their arms. They are the ones who stare blankly at the pronouncement of a stillborn child. They are the old men in war-ravaged countries who kneel at the sides of their fallen sons and desecrated daughters. They are all the men throughout history rendered helpless by the forces of unbridled power, greed and death.
The merciful heart of Jesus understands this man and his desperate urgency. Without even a word, Jesus gets up and accompanies Jairus to the place of his pleading.
But there is another urgency pushing forward from the crowds: a woman, apparently of low importance for we have never known her name. She is a woman whom the ages have defined by her affliction. She is “The Woman with the Hemorrhage”. Without the status of Jairus, she approaches Jesus as such a woman must. She crawls behind him at his heels, reaching through the milling masses to even scrape the hem of his garment.
This is a troubled woman, a stigmatized woman. Her life has been spent, literally, in embarrassment, isolation, fatigue and, no doubt, abuse. For twelve years – coincidentally the life span of Jairus’ s daughter – her vitality has bled out of her. Her face is gaunt; her eyes sunken. Her soul’s light is all but extinguished. She is a woman who knows a particular kind of scorn.
We know these women. We are these women. They are the ones filled with remorse for an aborted baby. They are the ones who miscarry their longed-for child. They are the women whose beautiful young sons are profiled, stereotyped and hunted on the violent streets. They are the mothers of “The Disappeared”. They are the women who suffer disproportionately from war, poverty, hunger and violence. They are trafficked women, prostituted women, women victimized by the long saga of domination. They are the women whose children have been torn from them at the borders.
It is just such a broken woman who stretches her fingers through the Galilean dust in a last reckless reach for healing. She finds only the hem of his robe. Touching it, she is transformed, like a parched meadow in the spring rain. Her whole being reaches up to receive the holy restoration. She knows herself to be healed. And it is enough; it is everything. She retreats into the resignation of her otherwise lonely life.
But Jesus wants more for us than just the practical miracles we beg for. We ask for one healing; Jesus wants our eternal salvation. We ask for one blessing; Jesus wants our entire lives to be filled with grace. We ask for one prayer to be answered; Jesus wants our life to become a prayer.
Jesus feels the electrical touch of her hope. He feels the secret healing she has extracted from him. He turns to seek her. Can you see their eyes meet? Yes, the bleeding has been stemmed, but he sees the deeper wounds that scar her soul. His look of immense mercy invites her to tell him “the whole truth”. By her touch, she has commandeered a physical healing. But by his gracious turning toward her, her entire being is renewed. In this sacred glance, her history has been healed. Her future has been pulled from darkness into light. Her capacity to love has been rekindled. She now and forever will remember herself as a child of God.
Jairus waits, no doubt impatiently, at the edge of this miracle, anxious for such power to touch his daughter’s life. He fears they have lingered too long with the woman. His servants arrive, confirming his fears. He receives the dreaded report, “Your daughter has died.”
Jesus now pushes Jairus to the gauntlet of pure faith. In the face of this devastating news, Jesus tells him, “Do not be afraid; just have faith.” Is this not an almost impossible command? Like Jairus, we all know what it is to worry for our children:
Fathers of color teach their sons behaviors to protect them from profiling.
Immigrant parents fear their children will be ripped from them in a pre-dawn raid.
Famine-ravaged mothers watch their children disappear into hunger.
In hospitals and doctors’ offices, devastated parents summon the courage to accompany their critically ill child.
And Jesus says, “Don’t be afraid. Have faith.”! What can he possibly mean?
Perhaps it is this simple. In Jairus’s home, Jesus takes the dead girl’s hand. He says, “Talitha, koum – Little girl, arise.” His call to her heart tells her there is no darkness, devastation or death from which God cannot draw us into life. This is the truth Jesus brings to the little girl and to us. But it is a truth that, in our fear and need, we cannot always see.
For the moment, this girl lives. But at some time in history she, like all of us, will die. So the miracle is not the restoration of her life. The miracle is that her eyes, and her parents’ eyes, are opened to the power of God over death. Despite all appearances, God’s life endures eternally.
This is the revelation of this Gospel passage. If we live by faith, we live beyond cure into healing. If we live by faith, even death can bring life. If we live by faith, we are free to release all worry into the abundant mercy of God who grants us healing even beyond our asking or desire.
Man or woman, old or young, at some time in our lives each one of us has been Jairus. Each one of us has been one or the other of these two women. Within their stories of woundedness and deep faith, our stories shelter. Jairus and the afflicted women – unnamed like so many women throughout time – believed there was a way to new life. They reached for it. They begged for it. What is it in us that cries out for such healing? What is it in us that, without the touch of Jesus, teeters on the verge of death?
Simply by believing, these three Gospel figures became new beings. Simply by believing, their orientation changed from darkness to light. By their example, let us lift up those wounded and deadened places in our hearts and world before the loving gaze of Jesus.
To what suffering in our souls is God whispering the encouragement, “Talitha, koum”? What is the “whole truth” Jesus is inviting us to confide? Let us arise and respond to him in the full energy of our faith. Let us gaze with boundless confidence into the eyes of God’s mercy.
Today, in Mercy, we celebrate John the Baptist of whom Jesus said, “no man greater has been born of women”.
Today’s Gospel talks about the surprise conception of John, and all the drama surrounding his birth. Several other Gospel passages tell us about John’s preaching, his challenges to Herod, and his eventual martyrdom at the request of Salome. These are worth a read today, if you have a little time, just to be reacquainted with this extraordinary man.
John the Baptist was the living bridge between the Old Law and the New. He was the doorway from a religion of requirements to a religion of love. That bridge and doorway were built on a baptism of repentance in order to clear one’s heart to receive the Good News.
The magnificent Greek word for repentance is “metanoia” which indicates a turning of one’s mind and heart after realizing a new truth. Metanoia is to have awareness dawn on us, and to feel sorrow for our former blindness or hardness of heart.
May our prayer today help us to receive the grace of metanoia wherever our spirits are hardened or closed – or just plain deadened by routine. May we hear the Baptist calling to us, “Prepare your hearts – EVERYDAY- for the Lord. There is always room for you to be surprised by God.”
Music: Ut Queant Laxis( English translation below)
“Utqueant laxis” or “Hymnus in Ioannem” is a Latin hymn in honor of John the Baptist written in Horatian Sapphics and traditionally attributed to Paulus Diaconus, the eighth-century Lombard historian. It is famous for its part in the history of musical notation, in particular solmization (do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do). The hymn is sung to a Gregorian chant, and introduces the original do-re-mi music.
1. O for your spirit, holy John, to chasten
Lips sin-polluted, fettered tongues to loosen;
So by your children might your deeds of wonder
Meetly be chanted.
2. Lo! a swift herald, from the skies descending,
Bears to your father promise of your greatness;
How he shall name you, what your future story,
Duly revealing.
3. Scarcely believing message so transcendent,
Him for a season power of speech forsaketh,
Till, at your wondrous birth, again returneth,
Voice to the voiceless.
4. You, in your mother’s womb all darkly cradled,
Knew your great Monarch, biding in His chamber,
Whence the two parents, through their offspring’s merits,
Mysteries uttered.
5. Praise to the Father, to the Son begotten,
And to the Spirit, equal power possessing,
One God whose glory, through the lapse of ages,
Ever resounding. Amen.
Lavish Mercy 