Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, we celebrate all those canonized and uncanonized sisters and brothers who lived their lives in Christ with gusto and fidelity.
The feast of All Saints, on its current date, is traced to the foundation by Pope Gregory III by (731–741) of an oratory in St. Peter’s for the relics “of the holy apostles and of all saints, martyrs and confessors, of all the just made perfect who are at rest throughout the world”. (Wikipedia)
I’ve personally known many of these saints, whether I fully recognized their sanctity or not. They have lived in my family, school, neighborhood, parish, ministries, and workplace. Some were clothed as nuns and some as beggars. Some taught me by words and some by silence. I knew some by name, others by grace. Now they have all joined the eternal family watching over us.
There they have formed communion with my more recognized and favorite holy friends like Mary, Joseph, Teresa of Avila, Catherine of Siena, Kateri Tekawitha, Anna the Prophet, John XXIII, Fulton Sheen, and of course Catherine McAuley.
What a wonderful day to know that these beloveds of God are our sisters and brothers, who pray with and for us that we may one day rejoice with them in eternal light.
Who are the saints that speak especially to your heart on this special day? Take time to have a nice conversation with them on this glorious feastday!
You’ve seen the classic irony that warns us about success:
Often, the image is accompanied by the phrase, “You had one job.” – like this guy did!
It’s funny, isn’t it – until you realize that it’s describing you at – what? – maybe at fifty points in your past life!
Remember that IKEA bureau whose pull handles ended up inside the drawer? And I bet you’ll never forget that meticulously planned picnic served sans plasticware.
The readings for this Thirtieth Sunday echo these situations. The wise ancient who penned Exodus implies: “You have one job – to love your neighbor. So, “Plan Ahead”!
Exodus offers practical advice that can be applied exactly as it is given. We should not oppress the alien, or wrong widows and orphans. We should not extort a person who is poor, or permanently deprive anyone of a needed cloak as collateral.
But the passage suggests much more than accountability for any single selfishness. It demands that we reverse all failure to love – especially toward the least lovable and most needy. That avowed reversal is the basis of our relationship with God Who is Love itself.
As we approach the US mid-term elections, these biblical passages shout a critical message. We exercise our faith in the political environment of our times. The choices we make around government, policy, and leadership declare our commitment to our neighbor, the ultimate command of our faith.
“The moment we choose to love, we begin to move against domination, against oppression. The moment we choose to love, we begin to move towards freedom, to act in ways that liberate ourselves and others.” (bell hooks)
Three images might strike us from the Exodus reading:
The Alien: How do we respond to that which feels alien to us? Fear? Stonewalling? Stereotyping? Or do we welcome difference, learn from it, encourage it? Do our choices reverence or dehumanize the other?
The Widow or Orphan: How do we respond to people who are isolated, or ‘orphaned’? When we find others suffering loss, shunning, exclusion, or need, how do we act toward them? Do we do our part to promote a universal common good?
The Cloak: When we have the advantage in a situation, how do we use it? For our own or for the common good? Do we demand the “cloak” in security for ourselves, or do we offer its warmth to others in need? Do we support political policy that seeks such equity?
In God’s voice, Exodus reminds us that we are in this world to live as neighbors, who journey to God’s heart only together. The author preaches in the tone of his times with the frightening threat of divine execution if we fail.
But there is a more vicious kind of death that comes from failure to be a neighbor. It is an isolation that leaves us in the company of our own selfishness. And that is hell on earth – a hell that can consume both individuals and nations.
In our Gospel today, Jesus warns us that we have one job – to be neighbors. And our neighborhood is the world. There, we will encounter many people rendered physically, emotionally, economically, or spiritually helpless by a hostile power. Success depends on our willingness to love them like God – with all our heart, soul, and mind.
“You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and the first commandment. The second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. The whole law and the prophets depend on these two commandments.”
Music: Who Is My Neighbor – from Heavenly Love Songs
In the mid-1940s, while the world was at war, a young Jesuit named Daniel Lord wrote a series of little books about the saints. If you are a Catholic of a certain age, you may remember those colorful illustrations peeking from parish book racks or classroom shelves.
I loved these mini-books. In my pre-teen years, I read them over and over, imagining how I might align my life to some of their stories so that I too might become a saint!
I had favorites that I wanted to imitate, and others whose challenges I definitely preferred to avoid. The stories of the martyrs like Sebastian (of the arrows) and Catherine of Alexandria (of the torture wheel) fascinated me, but did not invite my imitation.
Canonization of St. Elizabeth of Hungary – Sándor Liezen-Mayer
Instead, I thought I might like to be like Elizabeth of Hungary, a queen who carried food to the poor in her luxurious apron. Or maybe like Francis Xavier, who went to the far reaches of the Orient to share the Gospel. Unfortunately, I think I was more attracted by their attire and travelogues than by their call to holiness.
Still, those stories shaped my budding spirituality and left me with a challenge that has endured for eight decades. The challenge? You are called to be a saint. What will your story be? How will that call unfold in your life?
All of my early “storybook” saints led heroic lives. Their stories were full of drama, pathos, and astounding courage – just what a young person craves. I fed on their inspiration to make my early commitment to a faith-directed life.
It was only later that I embraced the quiet saint, Thérèse of Lisieux. She hadn’t attracted me when I was young. Maybe I felt we had nothing in common because I was tall, and she was “Little”. Who knows why a teenage mind chooses one hero and not another?
But in my early twenties – when teenage wishes slowly become grounded hopes and vivid imagination assumes the shape of everyday realities – I was a young nun. And I needed models to teach me the transformation from untested self-confidence to grateful responsibility.
It slowly dawned on me that holiness might be measured less by courageous deeds than by selfless love. As daily scriptural prayer revealed humility’s essential role in holiness, I remembered that little chapbook page about Thérèse.
Later, as I read her autobiography, I realized that although her life was simple, her spirituality was richly complex. She experienced spiritual delight and darkness, each in profound measure. Humble and self-effacing, she was nonetheless fierce in her love, faith, and trust in God.
Meditating on her, I didn’t see a physically delicate, sweet woman who died too young.
I saw a woman on fire with life and with God, whose soul burned so brightly because surrender to grace kept its flame vibrant.
I saw a brilliant, though simply educated, mind placed in the service of an even more dazzling soul.
I saw an acute assessor of humanity reach beyond the obvious for God’s sometimes shrouded presence in every person.
I saw a martyr who, unlike Sebastian, never bled. I saw a missionary who, unlike Xavier, never sailed.
I saw a saint whose “Little Way” might work for most of us who lead ordinary, “little” lives.
Thérèse didn’t live long enough to show us what “The Little Way” would look like when it had aged like fine wine. Those of us who loved Daniel Lord’s books in the 1940s and 50s are tasked with that witness – in a world still at war; in a world still longing for humble mutuality and spiritual courage.
Today, on her feast day, I pray: Dear Little Flower, please help us on our “way”.
Music: God Is Not In the Sky. Look Inside You. – Interpretation of Rumi
Let’s think about Matthew today, on his feast day.
Other than his listing among the Twelve, Matthew is mentioned in the Gospel on only one occasion: his call and the celebration that follows.
Matthew’s call is unique among those of the other Apostles. Most of them found Jesus by word of mouth. Andrew told his brother Peter. Philip went and found Nathaniel under a fig tree. But Jesus himself found Matthew.
Was it by chance, as the story makes it appear? Did Jesus just happen to glance into the tax collector’s room, winking at Matthew? Did Matthew pop up, scattering his coins all over the place, to follow someone he had never seen before?
I think the Gospel hints at a much deeper story.
Here’s how the Baroque master Caravaggio imagined the situation.
If Matthew is the bearded man, as is commonly accepted, the scene, with its pointing fingers, assumes the tone of “Who, me?” But Jesus’s gesture is quite clear – “Yes, you!”. Jesus knew Matthew and wanted him in his company.
And isn’t that how many of us experience our various calls? Of course, God know us – every single one of us, intimately!
And we know that God wants something from us, but maybe we are either unaware, unsure, ungenerous, or unwilling in response. Some of us may stay in those “uns” our whole lives, hiding in the shadows, never fully answering God’s amazing call.
But not Matthew! After the “Yes, you!”, Matthew ran home and organized a banquet to demonstrate his assent. He invited a dangerously mixed crowd of disciples and Pharisees, flirting with potentially contentious conversations. But Jesus turned the muddle into a platform for his mission:
And as Jesus reclined at table in the house, behold, many tax collectors and sinners came and were reclining with Jesus and his disciples. And when the Pharisees saw this, they said to his disciples, “Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” But when he heard it, he said, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick do. Go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.’ For I came not to call the righteous, but sinners. (Matthew 9:10-13)
Jesus called Matthew as a doorway to those who most needed redemption: the spiritually sick and sinful. He called Matthew to speak Mercy into a world that demanded only sacrifice. He called Matthew because he recognized that Matthew wanted to be called. Otherwise, why was he looking out the door when Jesus passed by?
In our own lives, there is a door in every situation we meet. Through it, Jesus is calling us to a deeper response that speaks Mercy into our world. Can you see him pointing at you?
I think we get too used to things, sometimes – in my case, the phrase “Holy Cross”.
Holy Cross Parish was my first mission assignment as a 21-year-old enthusiastic, clueless teacher. For me, the constantly repeated phrase became bleached of any religious meaning, indicating instead a geographic area, a football team, or a Saturday night dance for teens, blithely described in semi-illiterate phrases such as:
Joe: Where ya’ from? Pete: Holy Cross up on Springfield Ave.
Joe: Who do ya’ play for? Pete: Holy Cross. We won the championship!
Joe: Whata’ ya’ doing Saturday night? Pete: Holy Cross. They got a good dance sometimes.
I never once, at that time, considered the true meaning of the sacred name under which I lived. That amazes me now when I think about it, sixty years later. What a blessing I missed! What an invitation I overlooked! To contemplate the mystery of the Holy Cross while I lived within its mantle! But I think I was just too young and, as I mentioned above, clueless!
God has been patient with me though, accompanying me over the next sixty years to a deeper understanding of the precious gift of the Holy Cross as it reveals its mystery in my life. You, too, are surely aware of this slow revelation in your own experience.
We all know this: life brings crosses to every human being. No one lives without experiencing suffering in some or many forms. It is inherent in our human nature as we stretch for heavenly perfection from the bonds of earthly encumbrance.
God knows this too. And so we have been given the gift of Jesus Christ and the mystery of his Cross to steady us as this truth reveals its gift over the unrelenting course of our days.
Whatever pain our crosses bring us, be it physical, emotional, or spiritual, that pain exposes our heart to the grace of transformation.
The Holy Cross of Christ assures us that our personal cross is not simply an unavoidable suffering. It is our unique pathway into God’s heart and the absolute nature of Divine Love.
We will be tempted to think that loss, failure, incapacity, suffering, even death are terminals where life ends or fails. Rather, by the empty cross of the resurrected Christ, we are convinced that these experiences, when received in faith and open to grace, are the portals to Divine Life.
Our crosses test the strength of our faith, the endurance of our hope, and the depth of our love. The Holy Cross is God’s answer to that test.
