Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, Acts relates the story of Matthias and his inclusion as one of the Twelve. But besides Matthias, there was another man considered just as worthy of appointment, Justus. The lot did not fall on him and we never hear of him again.
So if there were two equally good men why didn’t they just widen the circle to thirteen Apostles?
This appointment of the twelfth apostle reflects the importance of the number twelve throughout Scripture. It is a number which signifies perfection, heritage, and strength.
Jacob Blessing His Twelve Sons – T. Daziel (c.1893)
The Book of Genesis states there were twelve sons of Jacob and those twelve sons formed the twelve tribes of Israel. The New Testament tells us that Jesus had twelve apostles. According to the Book of Revelation, the kingdom of God has twelve gates guarded by twelve angels.
So Matthias, the Twelfth, brought the circle of Apostles to wholeness.
In our Gospel, Jesus tells us that he chooses us all to be his friends. It is a friendship built on imitation of him, proven by keeping his commandments. His commandments are clear:
Love God
Love others as I have loved you
Every day, by prayer and reflective living, we deepen in our love for God and neighbor. We learn Love within the revelation of our own lives.
Jesus tells us that if we love like that our joy will be complete. May we be blessed by that holy joy.
Meditation: Instead of poetry and music today, a lovely meditation reflective of today’s Gospel, “No Longer Do I Call You Servants”
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, our three readings make one thing very clear – we are ALL invited to membership in the Body of Christ. We are ALL welcome in the Beloved Community.
In our first reading, Paul and Barnabas preach to Jews, converts to Judaism and to Gentiles – to the effect that:
All who were destined for eternal life came to believe, and the word of the Lord continued to spread through the whole region.
Acts 13:48
In our second reading:
John, had a vision of a great multitude, which no one could count, from every nation, race, people, and tongue. They stood before the throne and before the Lamb.
Revelation 2:9
And in our Gospel, Jesus says:
My sheep hear my voice; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish.
John 10:27
These readings describe the family of God to which every human being has been given entrance through the Death and Resurrection of Christ.
Think about that:
when you look into people’s eyes today
when you see their stories on the news
when you people-watch at the airport or the mall
when you drive by a cemetery where lives are remembered in stone
when you look at your children, your friends, your foes
when you take that last look in the mirror tonight before you fall asleep
This person has been invited, with me, to the family of God. How might that thought influence my choices and actions each day?
All of us – ALL OF US- are welcome; all of us, equally loved.
Poetry: O Shepherd of Souls – Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179)
O Shepherd of souls and o first voice through whom all creation was summoned, now to you, to you may it give pleasure and dignity to liberate us from our miseries and languishing.
Music: Come Worship the Lord – John Michael Talbot
Come, worship the Lord For we are his people The flock that he shepherds Alleluia Come, worship the Lord For we are his people The flock that he shepherds Alleluia
And come, let us sing to the Lord And shout with joy to the rock who saves us Let us come with thanksgiving And sing joyful songs to the Lord
Come, worship the Lord For we are his people The flock that he shepherds Alleluia Come, worship the Lord For we are his people The flock that he shepherds Alleluia
The Lord is God, the mighty God The great King o’er all other gods He holds in his hands the depths of the earth And the highest mountains as well He made the sea, it belongs to him The dry land too, was formed by his hand
Come, worship the Lord For we are his people The flock that he shepherds Alleluia Come, worship the Lord For we are his people The flock that he shepherds Alleluia
Come, let us bow down and worship Bending the knee for the Lord our maker For we are his people We are the flock that he shepherds
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, Peter is a headliner in both our readings.
I really love Peter. Can’t we relate to him on so many levels as he stumbles and shines through his growing relationship with Jesus?
Some of my best prayers with Peter have been:
when he tries to walk on water to meet Jesus in the sea
And Peter answered him, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” He said, “Come.” So Peter got out of the boat and walked on the water and came to Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid, and beginning to sink he cried out, “Lord, save me.” Mk.14:28
when he gets slammed for trying to stop Jesus from talking about his death
Peter took Him aside and began to rebuke Him. “Far be it from You, Lord!” he said. “This shall never happen to You!” But Jesus turned and said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me!” Mt. 13:41
when his name is changed to Rock and he’s foretold his future
And I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it. Mt. 16:18
when he cowers in denial outside Jesus’s trial
Immediately the rooster crowed the second time. Then Peter remembered the word Jesus had spoken to him: “Before the rooster crows twice you will disown me three times.” And he broke down and wept. Mk. 14:72
when he recognizes the Resurrected Jesus on the shore and swims to him
Then the disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, “It is the Lord!” As soon as Simon Peter heard him say, “It is the Lord,” he wrapped his outer garment around him (for he had taken it off) and jumped into the water. Jn.21:7
In today’s first reading, we see Peter in his full authority as the Vicar of Christ.
In our Gospel, we see Peter’s unequivocal confession of faith, voiced for the Church, voiced for all of us:
Jesus then said to the Twelve, “Do you also want to leave?” Simon Peter answered him, “Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and are convinced that you are the Holy One of God.”
Let’s take whatever piece of Peter is in us today and lay it at the feet of Jesus in our own confession of faith and hope.
Poetry: Simon Peter – John Poch
There are three things which are too wonderful for me, Yes, four which I do not understand. The way of an eagle in the air, The way of a serpent on a rock, The way of a ship in the heart of the sea, And the way of a man with a maid –Prov. 30:18, 19
I Contagious as a yawn, denial poured over me like a soft fall fog, a girl on a carnation strewn parade float, waving at everyone and no one, boring and bored There actually was a robed commotion parading. I turned and turned away and turned. A swirl
of wind pulled back my hood, a fire of coal brightened my face, and those around me whispered: You’re one of them, aren’t you? You smell like fish. And wine, someone else joked. That’s brutal. That’s cold, I said, and then they knew me by my speech. They let me stay and we told jokes like fisher- men and houseboys. We gossiped till the cock crowed, his head a small volcano raised to mock stone.
II Who could believe a woman’s word, perfumed in death? I did. I ran and was outrun before I reached the empty tomb. I stepped inside an empty shining shell of a room, sans pearl. I walked back home alone and wept again. At dinner. His face shone like the sun.
I went out into the night. I was a sailor and my father’s nets were calling. It was high tide, I brought the others. Nothing, the emptiness of business, the hypnotic waves of failure. But a voice from shore, a familiar fire, and the nets were full. I wouldn’t be outswum, denied this time. The coal-fire before me, the netted fish behind. I’m carried where I will not wish.
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, our Gospel is serious business. In it, Jesus reveals the lynchpin of our sacramental faith.
Amen, amen, I say to you, unless you eat the Flesh of the Son of Man and drink his Blood, you do not have life within you. Whoever eats my Flesh and drinks my Blood has eternal life, and I will raise him on the last day.
John 6: 53-54
It is a stark and shocking statement. The listening Jews “quarreled among themselves, saying, ‘How can this man give us his Flesh to eat?’.”
Down through the ages, struggling believers have grappled with the same question. Or, perhaps less preferable, complacent believers have never even considered it.
I think Jesus wanted us to consider it, absorb it, be changed by it, live within it, because “unless you eat the Flesh of the Son of Man and drink his Blood, you do not have life within you.”
As Catholics, we believe that Christ is truly and fully present in Eucharist and that, by Communion, becomes fully present in us, the Church.
When the Church celebrates the Eucharist, the memorial of her Lord’s death and resurrection, this central event of salvation becomes really present and “the work of our redemption is carried out”. This sacrifice is so decisive for the salvation of the human race that Jesus Christ offered it and returned to the Father only after he had left us a means of sharing in it as if we had been present there. Each member of the faithful can thus take part in it and inexhaustibly gain its fruits. This is the faith from which generations of Christians down the ages have lived. (ECCLESIA DE EUCHARISTIA, Encyclical of John Paul II)
For me, it is a truth only appreciated when approached with more than the mind. It must be apprehended with the heart and soul. God so loves us in the person of Jesus Christ that God chooses to be eternally present with us, and in us, through the gift of Eucharist.
Praying with this truth over the years has led me to read authors like Edward Schillebeeckx (Christ the sacrament of the Encounter with God), Diarmuid O’Murchu (Quantum Theology), and Pierre Teilhard De Chardin (Hymn of the Universe).
Me in my First Communion Dress – and my handsome little brother
Still, despite all the Eucharistic theology, every time I receive the Eucharist, I let this simple hymn play in my heart – one I learned for my First Holy Communion. It still unites my heart to my desired faith which is, at once, both cosmic and intimate.
Poetry: “On the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar” by St Robert Southwell
Saint Robert Southwell (1561 – 1595) was an English Roman Catholic priest of the Jesuit Order. He was also a poet, hymnodist, and clandestine missionary in Elizabethan England. After being arrested and imprisoned in 1592, and intermittently tortured and questioned by Richard Topcliffe, Southwell was eventually tried and convicted of high treason for his links to the Holy See. On 21 February 1595, Father Southwell was hanged at Tyburn. In 1970, he was canonized by Pope Paul VI as one of the Forty Martyrs of England and Wales. (Wikipedia)
His poetry, written in Early Modern English, demonstrates deep devotion to the Eucharist. Although most of us can interpret the English of the 16th century, the translation below is modernized for convenience. It’s a long poem, but it is well worth your time.
“On the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar” by St. Robert Southwell From The Poems of Robert Southwell, S.J. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1967), edited by Fr James H. McDonald and Nancy Pollard Brown
In paschal feast the end of ancient rite An entrance was to never ending grace, Tips to the truth, dim glasses to the light, Performing deed presaging signs did chase, Christ's final meal was fountain of our good: For mortal meat he gave immortal food.
That which he gave he was, O peerless gift,
Both God and man he was, and both he gave,
He in his hands himself did truly live:
Far off they see whom in themselves they have.
Twelve did he feed, twelve did their feeder eat,
He made, he dressed, he gave, he was their meat.
They saw, they heard, they felt him sitting near, Unseen, unfelt, unheard, they him receiv'd, No diverse thing though diverse it appear, Though senses fail, yet faith is not deceiv'd. And if the wonder of the work be new, Believe the work because his word is true.
Here truth belief, belief inviteth love, So sweet a truth love never yet enjoy'd, What thought can think, what will doth best approve Is here obtain'd where no desire is void. The grace, the joy, the treasure here is such No wit can with nor will embrace so much.
Self-love here cannot crave more than it finds, Ambition to no higher worth aspire, The eagerest famine of most hungry minds May fill, yea far exceed their own desire: In sum here is all in a sum express'd, Of much the most, of every good the best.
To ravish eyes here heavenly beauties are, To win the ear sweet music's sweetest sound, To lure the taste the angels' heavenly fare, To soothe the scent divine perfumes abound, To please the touch he in our hearts doth bed, Whose touch doth cure the deaf, the dumb, the dead.
Here to delight the wit true wisdom is, To woo the will of every good the choice, For memory a mirror shewing bliss, Here all that can both sense and soul rejoice: And if to all all this it do not bring, The fault is in the men, not in the thing.
Though blind men see no light, the Sun doth shine, Sweet cates are sweet, though fevered tastes deny it, Pearls precious are, though trodden on by swine, Each truth is true, though all men do not try it: The best still to the bad doth work the worst, Things bred to bliss do make them more accurst.
The angels' eyes whom veils cannot deceive Might best disclose that best they do discern, Men must with sound and silent faith receive More than they can by sense or reason learn: God's power our proofs, his works our wit exceed, The doer's might is reason of His deed.
A body is endow'd with ghostly rights, A nature's work from nature's law is free, In heavenly Sun lie hidden eternal lights, Lights clear and near yet them no eye can see, Dead forms a never-dying life do shroud, A boundless sea lies in a little cloud.
The God of Hosts in slender host doth dwell, Yea God and man, with all to either due: That God that rules the heavens and rifled hell, That man whose death did us to life renew, That God and man that is the angels’ bliss, In form of bread and wine our nurture is.
Whole may his body be in smallest bread, Whole in the whole, yea whole in every crumb, With which be one or ten thousand fed All to each one, to all but one doth come, And though each one as much as all receive, Not one too much, nor all too little have.
One soul in man is all in every part, One face at once in many mirrors shines, One fearful noise doth make a thousand start, One eye at once of countless things defines: If proofs of one in many nature frame, God may in stranger sort perform the same.
God present is at once in every place, Yet God in every place is ever one, So may there be by gifts of ghostly grace One man in many rooms yet filling none. Sith angels may effects of bodies shew, God angels' gifts on bodies may bestow.
What God as auctor made he alter may, No change so hard as making all of nought: If Adam framed was of slimy clay, Bread may to Christ's most sacred flesh be wrought. He may do this that made with mighty hand Of water wine, a snake of Moses' wand.
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, in our reading from Acts, we meet the Ethiopian eunuch who served the country’s Queen. The man was sitting in a chariot reading the prophet Isaiah. Philip asks him, “Do you understand what you are reading?” He replied, “How can I, unless someone instructs me?” Philip’s instruction results in this faith-filled man’s Baptism.
It’s a bible story I’ve loved since I was a novice and read the excellent book by Alexander Jones, “Unless Some Man Show Me”. That long-ago era in my life was a time when Vatican II opened up to the faithful the power and beauty of scriptural study and prayer.
The 1960s were a wonderful time to be committing myself to a life-long spiritual journey. Over the next few years, I devoured the published documents of Vatican II which included the one on sacred scripture, the “Dogmatic Constitution on Divine Revelation” (“Dei Verbum”).
Before Vatican II, like many Catholics, I had had limited experience with scripture. Mainly, we had it read to us at Mass. We had a Bible in my childhood home, but we used it mainly to record familial births and deaths inside the front cover.
Part of the reason for this scriptural vacuum was the long-held belief that most Christians were not theologically astute enough to interpret scripture on their own. Vatican II initiated a blessed change in that perception.
In 1966, the same Alexander Jones, in the company of 27 colleagues, edited the magnificent Jerusalem Bible. My parents gave me this revered book as a gift for my Religious Profession and it has accompanied my prayer for more than a half-century.
Reading the phrase in Acts today, “unless someone show me”, brought the whole sacred journey back to me.
I offer this brief reminiscence to confirm how precious and important it is to build our prayer life on scripture. It is also important to educate ourselves continually by reading good commentary and spirituality. Such thinkers are like Philip in today’s passage. They are the ones who will “show” us, opening to us new understandings for our prayer.
Walter Brueggemann
Elizabeth Johnson
Thelma Hall
Macrina Wiederkehr
Raymond Brown
Brother David Steindl-Rast
Sandra Schneiders
Margaret Farley
Matthew Fox
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
I would love for some of you (even though you are a shy audience) to list some of your biblical and spiritual guides in the comment section, if you feel so inclined.
Poetry: Give Me a Name – Emily Ruth Hazel, a New York City-based poet and writer whose work has appeared in numerous publications, including Magnolia: A Journal of Women’s Socially Engaged Literature, Kinfolks: A Journal of Black Expression, and Ruminate Magazine. In 2014, she was awarded a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship to develop a full-length poetry book manuscript during a residency at The Hambidge Center for the Creative Arts & Sciences.
The way home is a desolate road through the desert. Only my driver and I roll through the noonday heat. Ahead of us, the air shimmers. Then out of a cloud of dust, a man runs up behind us. He calls out, Who are you reading? A poet’s vision unfurls in my lap. I’m thirsty for company, someone to walk between these lines with me, clear a path through my own wilderness. The stranger says he’s well acquainted with this writer. If he knows who I am, he doesn’t let on. He climbs in and we plunge beneath the words. Whose story is this, anyway? The one who takes a vow of silence, an outcast whose most loyal friend is heartache—is this a portrait of the poet or of another? I hold the words like water in my palms, my face reflected in them. Back in Jerusalem, I was an unexpected guest in God’s house. There I was dark enough that I’d never pass as a native. In a land of divided rooms, neither side claims me. Smooth chinned, voice unchanged, even among my own, I am always other. My educated tongue surprises. I read the way my people envy and despise me in the same blink. The jewel of Ethiopia, our warrior queen, trusts me with the nation’s treasure. But power of the purse came with a price. Still a boy when I was taught my body could not be trusted, I was like a lamb that hears the metal scraping hot against the stone. When they came for me, my gut churned. A boulder sealed my throat. Only mangled moans escaped. They carved me into a loyal servant ashamed of my own voice. Deep in my chest liquid rage threatened to erupt. I tried to swallow the unspeakable. Learned to amputate everything I felt. Any part of me that trembled was a danger best denied. All the boys I knew marched into manhood believing courage hung between their legs. But I’m my mother’s child. Long after the men who tore me from my home washed my blood off their blade, I remembered my mother had shown me how to be brave.
Wherever I go, I’m described by my difference, defined by what I cannot do or be, haunted by echoes of violence known but unnamed. Never to look into a young face and recognize my likeness, I’m tired of being seen as an absence, a shadow that merely calls attention to what is touched by light.
Here in this barren place, riding with a stranger, I feel like I belong. The wheels of my world slow to a stop. I step out of the story I’ve been told must be mine. The man I’ve just met stands beside me as we wade into a river. He holds my shoulders. Dips me into the muddy water. Not as I was held down years ago. This time, I’ve chosen to be held. I feel the muscles in my back relax against his arm. Memory stirs, half-awake: my mother’s gentle hands bathe me as a baby. Raised up again, my body breaks the surface. Bright sky overwhelms. Boulder rolled away, my tongue unguarded now. Laughing and coughing, mouth full of water and silt and suddenly a song in a language I’ve never heard. God of the unsung, God of the present and the missing, God who translates phantom pain, who holds the map of all my scars, may this body be your temple. Some say my branches died before they bloomed, water too precious to be wasted on me. Don’t let me wither under the blistering sun, cursed for bearing no fruit. If I can offer shelter to someone called to walk a lonely road, maybe that’s enough. God of the forgotten, God of the never begotten, will my story, at least, outlive me? Give me a name worth remembering, a name that will never be cut off.
Today, in God’s Mercy, Jesus asks Peter an open-ended question, the kind that leaves both parties very vulnerable to the answer:
Do you love me?
Wow! What if Peter says “No”, or “Sort of” or worse yet, just stares off into the distance in silence? Would that break Jesus’ heart?!
And the question is kind of scary for Peter too. Maybe he’s thinking, “OK, this is it. Jesus wants me to lay it all on the line. Am I ready?” — because, as Jesus says so clearly, the measure of true love is service and sacrifice:
Jesus said to him the third time, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Peter was distressed that Jesus had said to him a third time, “Do you love me?” and he said to him, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep. Amen, amen, I say to you, when you were younger, you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go.”
John 21: 17-19
The Gospel poses questions to each of us today as well:
Who and what do I really love?
How does my primary love drive my life choices?
Are there places in my life that lack love – places where prejudice, blindness, selfishness or hate have filled in the emptiness?
How inclusive is my love? How redemptive? How merciful? How Christlike?
Where is God in my loves?
Prose: St. John of the Cross wrote this:
At the end of our lives we will be judged on love. Learn therefore to love God as God wishes to be loved.
Music: Where Charity and Love Prevail – a lovely English translation of Ubi Caritas, written in Gregorian chant.
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, our readings invite us to consider our capacity to trust. Who, what, why and when do we feel that we can trust?
In Acts, we see a beautiful example of the community trusting itself – presenting a concern, having it heard, and coming to a mutual resolution.
As the number of disciples continued to grow, the Hellenists complained against the Hebrews because their widows were being neglected in the daily distribution. So the Twelve called together the community of the disciples and said, “It is not right for us to neglect the word of God to serve at table. Brothers, select from among you seven reputable men, filled with the Spirit and wisdom, whom we shall appoint to this task, whereas we shall devote ourselves to prayer and to the ministry of the word.” The proposal was acceptable to the whole community,
Acts 6: 1-5
What a blessing such a process would be in any community from family, to work, social, and global communities!
But it’s not easy to come by that kind of trust, is it? It has to be proven – accumulated over small and consistent affirmations that such trust is safely given to the other, whoever that might be.
In our Gospel, the disciples’ ability to trust is tested.
When it was evening, the disciples of Jesus went down to the sea, embarked in a boat, and went across the sea to Capernaum. It had already grown dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them. The sea was stirred up because a strong wind was blowing.
Jesus walks across the stormy water to meet his frightened disciples. They are afraid of the wind, the night and the wonder of Jesus.
One of my favorite quotes comes from the spiritually gifted Paula D’Arcy:
“Who would I be, and what power would be expressed in my life, if I were not dominated by fear.”
If you’re like me, your first inclination is to think, ” Well, I’m not dominated by fear!”
Just wait a minute. I encourage you to think about it. How has, or does, fear hold you back in your life?
As human beings, we harbor many fears even if we pretend to be very brave. We may be afraid of failure, loneliness, responsibility, insignificance, aging, dying or a thousand other things. Essentially, what we most fear is that we might be unloved or unlovable.
Just as he came to the disciples, Jesus comes to us through the night of any fear to prove that we are irrevocably safe in God’s Love. Even in darkness, we are the precious breath and heartbeat of God and cannot be extinguished by our fears.
Poetry: Trust by Lizette Woodworth Reese, (1856-1935), an American poet and teacher. Born in Maryland, she taught English for almost five decades in the schools of Baltimore. Though Reese was successful in prose as well as in poetry, the latter was her forté. She was named Poet Laureate of Maryland in 1931.
I am thy grass, O Lord! I grow up sweet and tall But for a day; beneath Thy sword To lie at evenfall.
Yet have I not enough In that brief day of mine? The wind, the bees, the wholesome stuff The sun pours out like wine.
Behold, this is my crown; Love will not let me be; Love holds me here; Love cuts me down; And it is well with me.
Lord, Love, keep it but so; Thy purpose is full plain; I die that after I may grow As tall, as sweet again.
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, we meet Gamaliel, the revered rabbinical teacher and early mentor of St. Paul.
The Old Rabbi by Rembrandt
With his patient wisdom, Gamaliel famously intervened to save Peter and John from the Sanhedrin’s wrath.
“Fellow children of Israel, be careful what you are about to do to these men…. …I tell you, have nothing to do with these men, and let them go. For if this endeavor is of human origin, it will destroy itself. But if it comes from God, you will not be able to destroy them; you may even find yourselves fighting against God.”
Acts 5: 35-38
Biblical scholars have interpreted Gamaliel’s intervention in various and even contradictory ways. Some see in him a hesitancy which will believe only that which is proven and successful. Others suggest that Gamaliel was already a believer who maintained his Sanhedrin position in order to assist the early Christians. In the Catholic canon, Gamaliel is venerated as a saint whose feastday is August 30.
Thinking about Gamaliel may lead us to the question, “What do I need in order to believe?”
Do I, like the Sanhedrin, need to see proven success?
Do I, like some of the crowd fed in today’s Gospel, need miracles?
Do I, like the rich young man, need answers to all of my questions?
Do I, like Thomas, need to see and touch the Resurrected Christ?
In other words, am I looking for a faith that is a fail-proof blueprint, or is my faith a living journey with Christ, as was Peter’s and John’s?
The Apostles’ faith and trust were so complete that they saw even persecution as evidence of God’s plan and power:
So the Apostles left the presence of the Sanhedrin, rejoicing that they had been found worthy to suffer dishonor for the sake of the name. And all day long, both at the temple and in their homes, they did not stop teaching and proclaiming the Christ, Jesus.
Acts 5: 41-42
When we are completely given to God in faith, all our life experiences bring us closer to God. All circumstances reveal God to the deeply believing heart.
May we grow every day in that kind of faith.
Today, as we celebrate the feast of the great Saint Catherine of Siena, a reflection in place of our usual poetry.
We can learn Catherine’s spiritual wisdom. Without formal education, she grew by grace into a Doctor of the Church.
She was born Catherine Benincasa on March 25, 1347, in Siena, Italy, and was a twin, the 24th child of 25. She only lived to the age of 33, dying of a stroke in Rome in 1380. Catherine of Siena, often referred to as “great Kate,” is well known for her expressive life of prayer shared in three major sources of writings: over 400 letters, 26 prayers, and The Dialogue of Divine Providence, which she referred to as “the book,” written in the format of a conversation between herself and God. She was noted for her style of learning, not acquired from formal education and degrees, but gained from an interior wisdom that came from lived experiences and a mystical life of prayer. ( https://www.hprweb.com/2020/02/the-trinitarian-theology-of-the-eucharist-according-to-st-catherine-of-siena/)
Here are two selections from Catherine’s extensive writings which reveal her ever-deepening relationship with God through the gift of the Bread of Life.
Eternal God, Eternal Trinity, You have made the Blood of Christ so precious through His sharing in your Divine Nature. You are a mystery as deep as the sea; the more I search, the more I find, and the more I find the more I search for You. But I can never be satisfied; what I receive will ever leave me desiring more. When You fill my soul I have an ever-greater hunger, and I grow more famished for Your Light. I desire above all to see You, the true Light, as you really are.
St. Catherine of Siena, Prayer 12, V 124–157
And by the light of most holy faith I shall contemplate myself in you. And I shall clothe myself in your eternal will, And by this light I shall come to know That you, eternal Trinity, Are table And food And waiter for us.
You, eternal Father, Are the table That offers us as food The Lamb, your only-begotten Son.
He is the most exquisite of foods for us, Both in his teaching, Which nourishes us in your will, And in the sacrament That we receive in Holy Communion, Which feeds and strengthens us While we are pilgrim travelers in this life.
And the Holy Spirit Is indeed a waiter for us, For he serves us this teaching By enlightening our mind’s eye with it And inspiring us to follow it. And he serves us charity for our neighbors And hunger to have as food Souls And the salvation of the whole world For the Father’s honor
So we see that souls enlightened in you, True light, Never let a moment pass Without eating this exquisite food For your honor.
Music: Ave Verum Corpus – words attributed to 14th century Pope Innocent VI, melody to Mozart
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, we read about miracles and Light. These are good things, right? It would seem that we shouldn’t be slow to acknowledge the miracles around us, nor to open our eyes to the Light.
Well, let’s see….
In our reading from Acts, we read about a miracle:
The high priest rose up and all his companions, that is, the party of the Sadducees, and, filled with jealousy, laid hands upon the Apostles and put them in the public jail. But during the night, the angel of the Lord opened the doors of the prison, led them out, and said, “Go and take your place in the temple area, and tell the people everything about this life.”
Acts 5: 17-20
Still when the Temple guards and the High Priest discover God’s miraculous action, they re-arrest the disciples and try again to stop the spread of the Light!
When I read this I say, “Come on, guys! Take a hint! Maybe there is something to this preaching!”
But the truth is that it can be really hard to take that hint — to wake up, to acknowledge the miracles around us, and to choose Light over darkness. Why? Because miracles and Light get in the way of our agendas, our lazy choices, our indifference to others’ needs and our own excesses.
Most of us don’t want to live completely bereft of blessings and inspiration. We’d like a miracle now and again, but not enough to demand our deep conversion. We’d prefer a little shade and shadow, a little spiritual oblivion in our lives.
In our Gospel, John will have none of it! The Light demands our conversion to the fullness of the Gospel.
Listen to John’s astonishment that people choose darkness over Light.
And this is the verdict, that the Light came into the world, but people preferred darkness to light, because their works were evil.
John 3:19
And yet, we see it all the time, don’t we? Even, unfortunately, sometimes in ourselves?
Let’s pray today for the strength to always choose God’s stunning yet healing Light. Let’s pray that strength for our terribly shadowed world – that we may open our prisoned hearts to the miracle of Light God has planted in each one of us.
Poetry: The Uses of Sorrow | Mary Oliver
(In my sleep I dreamed this poem) Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, we meet two towering figures of the early Christian story, Barnabas and Nicodemus.
In our first reading, Barnabas is cited as a devout member of the community of believers which …
… was of one heart and mind, and no one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they had everything in common.
Acts 4:32
Our Gospel brings us Nicodemus who “came to Jesus under cover of the night”. Nicodemus, obviously Ph.D. material, has a long exchange with Jesus in the attempt to come to intellectual comfort with Jesus’s message.
Nicodemus wants his faith to make logical sense before committing to it, to the point that Jesus sounds a little astounded at the effort:
You are the teacher of Israel and you do not understand what I am saying to you?
John 3:10
I think a little bit of both Barnabas and Nicodemus lives within each of us.
Like Nicodemus, we do believe, but we would like to understand more. We grapple with concepts of “God’s plan”, with the problem of evil, with what seems the random mercilessness of nature, and myriad other inexplicable realities.
Still, like Barnabas, we trust and are willing to lay our lives at the feet of Christ to be his agents in the world.
That balancing of trust with anxiety is the story of faith for most of us. And it’s OK. Both Nickie and Barnie turned out to be giants for Christ. And so will we with God’s help.
Poetry: The Night – BY HENRY VAUGHAN John 3.2
Through that pure virgin shrine, That sacred veil drawn o’er Thy glorious noon, That men might look and live, as glowworms shine, And face the moon, Wise Nicodemus saw such light As made him know his God by night.
Most blest believer he! Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes Thy long-expected healing wings could see, When Thou didst rise! And, what can never more be done, Did at midnight speak with the Sun!
O who will tell me where He found Thee at that dead and silent hour? What hallowed solitary ground did bear So rare a flower, Within whose sacred leaves did lie The fulness of the Deity?
No mercy-seat of gold, No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone, But His own living works did my Lord hold And lodge alone; Where trees and herbs did watch and peep And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.
Dear night! this world’s defeat The stop to busy fools; care’s check and curb; The day of spirits; my soul’s calm retreat Which none disturb! Christ’s progress, and His prayer time; The hours to which high heaven doth chime;
God’s silent, searching flight; When my Lord’s head is filled with dew, and all His locks are wet with the clear drops of night; His still, soft call; His knocking time; the soul’s dumb watch, When spirits their fair kindred catch.
Were all my loud, evil days Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent, Whose peace but by some angel’s wing or voice Is seldom rent, Then I in heaven all the long year Would keep, and never wander here.
But living where the sun Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire Themselves and others, I consent and run To every mire, And by this world’s ill-guiding light, Err more than I can do by night.
There is in God, som say, A deep but dazzling darkness, as men here Say it is late and dusky, because they See not all clear. O for that night! where I in Him Might live invisible and dim!
Music: Ye Must Be Born Again – sung by The Sensational Nightingales, a beloved Black Gospel Quartet that, with several membership changes, has been popular for over seven decades. (Lyrics below)
Ye Must Be Born Again written by William T. Sleeper in 1877
A ruler once came to Jesus by night, To ask Him the way of salvation and light; The Master made answer in words true and plain, “Ye must be born again!” “Ye must be born again!” “Ye must be born again!” “I verily, verily say unto thee, Ye must be born again!”
Ye children of men, attend to the word So solemnly uttered by Jesus, the Lord, And let not this message to you be in vain, “Ye must be born again.”
Oh, ye who would enter that glorious rest, And sing with the ransomed the song of the blest; The life everlasting if ye would obtain, “Ye must be born again.”
Lavish Mercy 