The third lap is the worst #SCC

Link to today's readings - Third Sunday of Advent [Cycle C]
Sunday, December 15, 2013

(Disclaimer: this reflection originally published in December, 2010)

Reflection

The third quarter is THE WORST.  The third quarter of anything.  The third lap of the mile around the track.  The third quarter of an academic semester at college.  Being only halfway through writing a paper.  The third quarter is, without a doubt, the toughest part—mentally—of any race, physical or otherwise.  Same goes with Advent. 

A couple of researchers studying exercise science and human biology decided to take a look at the lap times for world record-breaking milers to see if they could determine which laps were the fastest and which were the slowest.  The results were unsurprising to anyone who has actually run a mile, particularly after having trained for it on the track: for most of the runners, the third lap was the slowest.  The final lap was almost always the fastest, followed in quickness by the first lap.  The researchers merely broke down the splits; they did not offer any suppositions as to why the third lap might be the slowest, but it is not hard to speculate.

Generally speaking… the first lap, you’re full of energy and excitement; you’ve been anticipating this moment for weeks, months, possibly even years.  The combination of fresh legs and pent-up excitement is a potent mixture. The final lap is when you can see the finish—you’re almost there, so you’re drawing on whatever reserves you may have left in the tank to push through to the end.  If you’re going to finish strong, you suppress the protests from your now-tired muscles and focus on the exhilaration you will feel upon finishing.  (Those who have survived final exams, papers, qualifying exams, and other types of grueling academic “races” likewise recognize the feeling.  Even if you’ve paced yourself well, you’re still forced to make that last push through to the finish, so you can finally rest and enjoy being done.)

The mile is a lot like Advent.  Four laps to a mile; four weeks to Advent.  And like a mile on the track, the season of Advent is a time of discomfort and anxiety.  Of anticipation and eagerness for the feeling that follows.  Humans recognize how difficult it is to do anything straight through with no breaks, and so all major team sports—football, basketball, soccer—have intermissions.  Halftimes.  It’s not just hard to play straight through—to pour yourself into that athletic competition wish such reckless, unrestrained intensity—it’s even hard for the fans to watch!  Even the spectators need a break!  And so football games, theatre productions, academic semesters (woooooh, Spring Break!)… All have intermissions about half-way through.  Because otherwise—as a miler can attest—it’s really, REALLY hard to maintain 100% intensity straight through, and especially in the third quarter.  The Church recognizes this, too.  And so, the third week of Advent, we observe what is known as “Gaudete Sunday.”  Also known as the Sunday when the priest wears “pink” and we light a “pink” candle instead of a purple one on our Advent Wreath. 

In fact, the actual Liturgical color is “rose,” and it dates back to a time when the color worn by the priest were not purple, but black.  Black as in penance.  Black as in ashes and death and mourning.  Advent, much like Lent, was seen as a time of radical penitence.  After all, the readings focus upon John the Baptist’s calls in the desert for us to “Repent!” and to prepare ourselves for the coming of the Lord.  And so the priests wore black at Mass, to remind us that we were supposed to be focused on our sinfulness, and more specifically, on our ongoing effort to repent from that sinfulness to be ready for the coming of new life at Christmas.  At a time when black symbolized death and penitence, rose—like the flower—symbolized hope and new life.  Indeed, the word, “Gaudete” literally means “Rejoice” and calls us to hope.

“Gaudete Sunday” is so named because, back before we had a piano and a choir to open up Mass, the priest would enter to what is known as an “Antiphon.”  (In fact, many daily Masses continue to use this in place of an opening hymn.)  An antiphon is a fragment of a Psalm or part of Scripture that basically sets the tone for service.  And on this Sunday in Advent, the opening antiphon begins with a call to “Rejoice!”  and to be “hopeful!” 

The opening antiphon of the third Sunday of Mass is basically like a big, hand-made posterboard being held up by your friends along the side of the track that reads, “You can do it!” or “Keep going!” or “You’re almost there!”  The Church, in its understanding of human experience, knows that, during that third quarter of Advent, we need a little pick me-up, a little boost.  And so, in the depth of winter, amid the season of repentance, we take a week to “Rejoice” and focus on the celebration we’re going to experience as soon as the race is over, i.e. at Christmas. 

In your own life, think of the many “races” you have undertaken or in which you currently find yourself.  Think also of this Advent season—of how you are “almost there” and to “keep pushing through” this third part, because next Sunday, we will light the final candle, and you will be able to see the finish line.  By that point, you’ll get your second wind, and you’ll find yourself full of adrenaline (and possibly sugar cookies, hot cocoa, or candy canes) that will sustain you in the final lap.  Therefore, “Rejoice!” and “Keep Going—You’re Almost There!”

Reflection Questions

1) Have you ever run a mile around a track?  How about played some other sport?  What was the toughest part, mentally and physically?  How did you push through?  What sustained you?

1) How do you experience the flow of the semester?  How do you keep yourself focused and motivated, even when you are tired and just want to be done?  What do you draw upon to keep you going?

1) How is your Advent going?  Have you “paced yourself” well?  What have you done in terms of repentance and preparation for the coming of the Lord?  What might you do in the final two weeks?  How could you “pick up the pace” if you haven’t done your best to this point?

  

"I should get to the gym more" #SCC

Link to today's readings - 31st Sunday in Ordinary Time [Cycle C]

Sunday, November 3, 2013

This reflection originally appeared October 30, 2010 as part of the Small Church Community program at the University of Michigan. 

Reflection

“I should really [insert behavior modification here].”   Pray more.  Get to the gym more.  Eat more leafy green vegetables.  Get more sleep.  Call my parents more. Find time for community service.  Stop smoking.  Stop getting so drunk on Saturday nights that I spend half of Sunday recovering.  Stop letting my significant other/roommate/best friend take for granted that I will always be there for him/her.  The first step in the conversion experience is recognition—explicit acknowledgment that a certain activity or part of our life is problematic.  And while, for many people, this  recognition is a very challenging first step, for most, it is not the hardest.  Actually doing something about it is. 

In today’s readings, the central theme is that of Metanoia—a Greek word that conveys a whole-self conversion from a certain type of sinful activity towards a more healthy way of being.  It is not enough simply to say, “I am sorry, I should not have done that.” Rather, we are called by Jesus to “Go and sin no more.”  The first reading reassures us that God’s love for us is “imperishable” and unrelenting.  God’s grace never wears down, God’s energies never tire.  Our ability to keep screwing up is nothing compared to God’s persistence in trying to help us get back on track.  (Pretty amazing, when you think about it.)

The Gospel, too, demonstrates to us that we can never truly put ourselves outside the reach of God’s mercy.  Zacchaeus recognizes a problematic behavior in his life—exploiting his powerful political position to help make himself more wealthy at the expense of the local citizens—and he tries to figure out how he might be able to change.  He climbs a tree to hear the message of this person Jesus—in this case, climbing the tree is figurative as well as literal.  Zacchaeus’s diminutive stature can be seen as a metaphor for inadequacy, that is… he cannot encounter Jesus on his own.  His shortness requires that he take steps to have this conversion experience. 

In some way, we are each of us “too short” to encounter Jesus on our own.  But the moment we recognize some aspect of our life that needs work, we should find the closest tree and climb it, whatever that means for us.  Perhaps it means showing up to Mass after we have been away for many months, and really listening to the words of Scripture.  Maybe it means setting up a one-on-one conversation with a spiritual advisor like a nun, priest, or pastoral counselor.  Perhaps  it means reading a book by C.S. Lewis, starting a daily journal of our struggles and accomplishments, or simply making ten minutes a day to sit in silence and be still—unplugged from the internet, unbothered by our smartphones, uninterrupted by our iPod.  Once we “climb the tree,” we can be assured that Jesus will respond with immediacy and enthusiasm—inviting us to a deeper, more intimate encounter, just as he quickly told Zacchaeus, “Come down quickly, for today I must stay at your house!”  Quickly!  Today!  Now!  Right now!  

Once we’ve had this deeper conversation with Jesus, we begin to be equipped to tackle the challenge of metanoia.  Zacchaeus exclaims to Jesus that he will give half of his possessions to the poor and repay anyone he may have swindled.  For us, once we have climbed the tree, admitted our problematic behavior, and sought Jesus’ help, it is a matter of taking the necessary steps to ensure that we will be able to follow through.  If our recognition is: “I should really eat healthier,” but the next time we are at the grocery store, we stroll right past the baby carrots and head straight for the potato chips, it is going to make it awfully hard to live up to that conversion experience in the week that follows.  If we know that we should probably delve deeper in our faith but never call the front office to set up a conversation with a spiritual guide or make time to unplug from our electronic devices, again, it will be challenging to integrate metanoia. 

Knowing we should work out more means going and getting a gym membership or buying a pair of running shoes, and acknowledging that we have some area of our live that needs work requires doing the same sort of thing.  The more we reinforce a problematic activity, the less we will be bothered by its presence in our life and the more difficult it will be to correct.  If you’ve been going to Mass every Sunday your whole life, and you miss once, it will likely feel like a very big deal.  But if you simply stop going, a few months later, you probably will not feel nearly that acute a sense of angst on Sunday night when you realize you haven’t gone.  Many Catholics who grow up believing that sex should wait till marriage are incredibly anguished over their first time, but after they’ve been having sex regularly for six months, it often doesn’t seem like a big deal at all.  

The Gospel writer does not tell us what prompted Zacchaeus to recognize the problematic nature of his behavior; all we know is that, having come to that recognition, he climbed the tree to make it possible for him to get Jesus “in” on his conversion efforts.  Oftentimes, in our own lives, it takes some negative experience to shake us from our complacency—coming down with a sickness because we haven’t slept enough; failing an exam because we haven’t been focused on our schoolwork; having our heart ache because we haven’t been pursuing the right kinds of romantic encounters.  Whatever it is, the next step is always: So what are we going to do about it?

Reflection Questions

1) Are there any areas of your life that you struggle with, or even explicitly acknowledge as being problematic?  Have you ever found yourself saying, “I know I should [X]” but struggling to follow through?

2) How do you think you might “climb the tree” to encounter Jesus in a deeper way and enlist His help in addressing this part of your life?

3) Do you know of any people in your life—siblings, friends, others—who are struggling to address some challenge?  How might you be a support to those people?   

Thank God I don't sin like *those* people #SCC

Link to today's readings - 30th Sunday in Ordinary Time [Cycle C]

Sunday, October 27, 2013

(Disclaimer: this reflection originally published in October, 2010. Hence the Tiger Woods reference.)

Reflection 

I always feel a little bit superior when I work out in the morning. 

Back in college, when I would walk across campus at 8:30 am, already having put in a couple hours of intense physical exertion at swim practice, I would look at the sleepy eyes and labored gait of my classmates as they struggled in a semi-conscious daze to make it to their first class.  To this day, when I finish a run in the early morning hours, I stroll back to my apartment with a self-satisfied smile… as though I’ve accomplished more before breakfast than most people will manage all day.

It’s easy to feel superior.  To feel as though we are going above and beyond what most people in similar circumstances do.  To put ourselves in a category apart (that is, above) from those around us.

Our daily experience is replete with examples of people feeling superior in some way.  The student who pulls a $5 bill out of her pocket and puts it in the collection basket while most of her peers just pass it on without contributing anything.  The student who doesn’t drink and who rolls his eyes at all of his drunk classmates who are making fools of themselves stumbling back from South U on Saturday night.  Or the one who heads right to work after class and who has to contribute to her college expenses while her sorority sisters take for granted their rich family’s ability to send them to school for free.  It’s easy to feel as though we are different—better, really—than our peers for some reason or another.  Not drinking.  Going to Church every week.  Doing community service. 

This tendency to regard ourselves as somehow superior to others—to believe that we are better in some way—is perhaps the single most common affliction of “good” people.  We know sin when we see it, or at least, the really obvious forms of sin.  When a friend tells us she cheated on her boyfriend; or another informs us that he cheated on an exam by getting an advance copy from the GSI; or still another confesses that she has been hooking up with several different guys… all of those are pretty straightforward and common examples of people failing to live up to the ideals of the Gospel.

But it’s the subtler, more surreptitious variety of sin that so often plagues the devout believer.  The kind that, when we’re listening to those same friends list their litany of sins, convinces us that we are better than those people.  It is the deep-seated desire to peek into the lives of others and decide that we would never make those same decisions.  It is the reason we tune into trashy reality television and the very basis for Bravo’s existence: there is a tendency within us to glimpse the flaws of others and to say, as did the Pharisee in Jesus’ parable, “God, I thank you that I am not like the real housewives of New Jersey or that egomaniac Tiger Woods who thought he could get away with those affairs.” 

As much as we enjoy hearing about a public figure who has successfully started some great initiative like bringing fresh vegetables to urban housing projects to improve the nutrition of impoverished children, we also tune in to hear about the latest political scandal or the news that some baseball player was caught to be using performance enhancing drugs.  There is an entire industry devoted to informing us of the latest fall from grace of some politician or celebrity.  All because we get a sense of delight from hearing about it and telling ourselves that we would never behave in that manner.

It is precisely this self-satisfaction, this tacit understanding that we are righteous persons who are set apart from the more obviously flawed hordes of humanity, that Jesus takes aim at in today’s Gospel.  The Pharisees were among the most morally upright members of society—fervent in their belief and upstanding in their action.  And yet it is this sense that they were so morally blameless that they did not require the mercy of God that Jesus condemns.  Even the holiest among us still needs a savior.  Every single one of us has our flaws, and we all depend on the grace of God for our salvation.  The inherent danger of being so morally good is that we may come to think that it is by our own merits that we earn our way into Heaven.

And yet this mistaken understanding of the moral life is explicitly condemned by the Church as a heresy.  (It’s called Pelagianism, and St. Augustine spent much of his energy combating it.) 

Jesus is reminding us that, no matter how “good” we may be, no matter how attentive to the Scriptures and adherent to the Commandments, we are still, ultimately, imperfect beings who rely on God’s grace and mercy to be redeemed.  It is, of course, important to be assured that we are essentially good individuals, created in the image and likeness of our all-good, all-loving God, but it is likewise crucial to acknowledge those areas of our life where we need to improve. 

The problem with being a devout believer is that it can lead us to become convinced that we are finished products, not requiring further work.  It can result in a sort of moral complacency where we decide that our vocation is to go around helping others make better decisions, while being of the belief that we, ourselves, are all set.  Jesus wishes to shake us from that complacency and challenge us to consider those areas of our life where we feel superior, where we may be convinced that we are different than others—better—and not

in need of improvement.  The next time we find ourselves watching Bravo or reading online some salacious story about a political scandal and  patting ourselves on the back for not cheating on a spouse or drunkenly driving our car into a tree, perhaps we might pause to pray to God and ask what it is WE still have to work on. 

Reflection Questions

1) Do you ever find yourself feeling superior?  What sorts of things do you do that make you feel as though you are doing more than those around you? 

2) Do you think of yourself as being in “need” of a savior?  Unpack that language a bit—how is the knowledge of Jesus as savior affecting your life?  Is it?  How does it permeate your daily decision-making? 

3) In what ways could you continue to improve yourself?  In what areas of your life do you think that Jesus might be calling you to become more the person He created you to be?  What concrete steps could you take to make that a reality?

The Purpose of Prayer #SCC

Link to today's readings - 29th Sunday in Ordinary Time [Cycle C]
October 20, 2013

Reflection

What is prayer?  And, perhaps more importantly, what does it do? 

There may be no single subject in all of religion that has been scrutinized more closely and debated more vigorously than the nature and purpose of prayer.  Broadly speaking, most would agree that prayer is communication with God.  But what kind of communication?  Must one cross oneself at the beginning in order to initiate the conversation?  (And re-cross oneself if one “hung up,” but then thought of something else.) 

Is prayer primarily the recitation of rote formulas—the repetition of syllables that constitute a Hail Mary or Our Father?  Can it be action oriented?  Does it count as prayer to sit silently at a vigil protesting the execution of an inmate, or to wash dishes at a soup kitchen following a meal?  Can vacuuming the floor before hosting friends be considered a prayer?  How about a walk through the Arboretum in fall, when one is struck by the beauty of the foliage and the peacefulness of the path?  Is it a form of prayer to let fly a

profanity following God’s name in a moment of pure human anguish? 

In today’s Gospel story, we see Jesus., who previously has compared God to an infinitely forgiving father in the Prodigal Son, and a shepherd who would leave behind 99 of His flock to search for one lost sheep, introduces a decidedly less flattering comparison—an unjust judge who relents not because it is the right thing to do, but because this widow wears him down.  Jesus’ point is: if even someone who cares not a bit about you or your needs will eventually give in to your requests, simply due to your incessant petitioning, imagine how much more effective those same requests will be when you go to someone who cares immensely about you and would love to help you attain happiness!

But is that how prayer works?  Do we simply go to God with a particular concern or need and ask that our request be granted, in our own understanding and on our own terms?  Is that the experience of believers—that they simply go to God and ask that their mother be cured of breast cancer or they land the amazing job they just interviewed for or pass the qualifying exam they’ve spent months fretting over—and God simply grants the request because we’ve asked?   It seems that this sort of prayer is more akin to rubbing a magical lamp and expecting God to materialize like a genie.  Is prayer simply the religious believer’s version of wishing?  By saying that “God does not answer my prayers,” do we really mean, “God has not granted me my wishes?” 

The philosopher Soren Kierkegaard suggested that, “The function of prayer is not to influence God, but to change the nature of the one who prays.”  Mahatma Gandhi added, “Prayer is not asking.  It is a longing of the soul.  It is a daily admission of one’s weakness.  It is better to have a heart without words than words without a heart.”  Helen Keller and numerous others have remarked that we should pray not for challenges equal to our strength, but for strength equal to our challenges. 

What each of these quotes gets to is this notion of prayer not as something that is going to change God’s mind, but as something that radically transforms us, the one who is praying.  It is to suggest that, in praying, we are acknowledging our limitations as humans.  Our need for outside help.  It has been observed that most prayers can be described as an admittedly unworthy person begging God for the laws of the universe not to apply to a given situation.  I pray that I will somehow magically pass a final, despite not having spent sufficient time studying.  I pray for my parent’s rapidly metastasizing cancer not to spread, even though the doctors agree there is little to be done to stop it. 

We may find that the cancer does, miraculously, disappear (and certainly many people can tell us stories of these apparent Divine interventions).  But more likely, we find that our prayers are “ineffective,” so to speak.  By which we mean that our wish was not granted… at least not in the way we wanted.  Still, perhaps we have realized that modern medicine can do only so much against cancer, or that we can handle only so much anxiety by ourselves, before we are forced to turn to family members, friends, and other persons in the human community that can support us in such a moment of anguish.  Perhaps we have been changed by the experience, in some way, even if we cannot see it in the moment and it feels as though God simply did not hear our prayers. 

We may not always get what we (think we) want.  But if we trust in the providence of God—if we have faith that God really does have a plan both for our lives and for the larger universe—we may also find that, as the British philosopher Mick Jagger pointed out, we get what we need.

Reflection Questions

1) If someone totally unfamiliar with religion asked you for a definition of prayer, how would you define it?  What sorts of things “count” as prayers? 

2) In your understanding, what is the purpose of prayer?  Do you get anything out of it?  Have you found that God “answers” your prayers?  What would you say is the ultimate outcome of your praying?  Does it make any difference at all?

3) Do you, personally, right now in your life, pray?  What form does it take?  Do you pray every day?  Always in the same way?  What other types of prayer have you thought about trying?  How might you go about expanding your experience of prayer?

In sickness and in health #SCC

Link to today's readings - 28th Sunday in Ordinary Time [Cycle C]
October 13, 2013

Reflection

What does it mean to be healed?  Moreover, what does it mean to give thanks?  These two experiences, so fundamental to human existence, are explored in today’s readings.  The phenomenon of being healed from illness is so common as to elicit little special attention in our daily lives.  For most of us, being sick is simply a mundane part of modern life—we catch the flu, we take some medications, we rest up for a few days,

and then we’re back to business as usual.  Other ailments, of course, are far more damaging to our health and disruptive to our routine—torn ligaments, cancerous tumors, degenerative diseases—these sorts of afflictions require more than a brief visit to the doctor’s office or an extra supply of chicken noodle soup.

There is an underlying physiological pathology to disease and injury, be it the actual broken bone, the virus that is attacking our respiratory tract, or the neurochemical imbalance that is contributing to a depressed mental state.   But there is likewise a social and spiritual dimension of suffering—one that often goes unnoticed.  Sickness, in its many forms, often prevents us from being full participants in one or more of the communities of which we are a part. 

A violinist who suffers a strained tendon in her wrist not only experiences the physical pain emanating from the surrounding nerves, but the emotional and spiritual anguish of being unable to play with her orchestra.  The pain is not simply a physical sensation, but a social separation from the community of which she is a part. Likewise, a football player who suffers a torn ACL and is forced to go to rehab while his teammates are out on the field, preparing for the weekend’s game, experiences not simply the somatic sensation of soreness in his knee, but a far larger feeling of disconnect from his team.  Sickness—in its many forms—afflicts us on a social level, because it impedes our ability to fulfill our social role, whether that is at our job, on our team, in our family, or in any other community to which we belong. 

The leprosy described by the authors in today’s passages is describing precisely this sort of disconnect from the community.  Because Jewish law was directed towards worship at Temple, the focus centered upon purity and cleanliness—who met the requirements to offer these sacrifices.  Myriad things, ranging from personal moral failures like adultery to everyday physical occurrences like menstruation, could render one unclean, and thus, unfit for worship.  The lepers in today’s reading suffered from a particular sort of physical ailment that left them permanently unclean, and thus, incapable ever of being part of the Jewish community.  They were forced to live on the outskirts of town, begging for food, since no one would hire them for labor.  And since this impurity was considered to be contagious, few from the village would venture out to interact with them, as it would have left them impure as well.  Thus, many of these lepers had not seen sisters, brothers, parents, or other loved ones in years.

When Jesus heals these persons, he is violating a social norm, in that he risks becoming unclean himself, in order to stage a dramatic performance of profound healing.  It is not simply that Jesus “cures” them in the way that we think of a particular prescription curing an infection, but that he heals them.  That is, by removing the physical ailment, he allows them to be rejoin their community.  Newly “well,” these persons can return to town, hug their family, take up a job, get married, and do all of the things that “healthy” people can do.  Jesus’ singular act of healing is, quite simply, the best thing that has ever happened to them. 

In healing the modern day linebacker’s ACL or the violinist’s wrist, Jesus would be not merely eliminating bodily pain, but restoring those individuals to the fullness of their identity on the team or in the orchestra.  They would be, once again, an integral part of the community. And so we arrive at thanksgiving.  To be thankful is to acknowledge, before God and others, that our healing was not of our own doing.  When we pray to God that our mother’s cancer might go away, or that we might pass an exam, we are prostrating ourselves before the God of the universe and saying, “I recognize that my ability to effect the outcome of this situation only goes so far… and that, ultimately, you, God, are in control of this.”  In thanking God for the result, we are once again recognizing that it was only by the goodness and grace of God that the favorable outcome was possible. 

In thanking the surgeon or physical therapist or spiritual counselor who helps restore us to health, we are acknowledging that we cannot heal ourselves all by ourselves.  We give thanks because we recognize that the cancer, or the eating disorder, or the immune deficiency, was an entity much bigger than ourselves, and that we needed the help of others and the grace of God to overcome it.  There is a profound humility in giving thanks.  Today’s readings invite us to consider what sorts of “ailments” prevent us from being full members of a given community—drama with our friends, tension with our family, stress at work, disagreement with our Church, frustration with our country—and to ask Jesus for healing.  Finally, we are encouraged to look around our lives at the many ways in which we already have been healed, and to offer thanks to God and to those people who were human instruments of that healing.

Reflection Questions

1) Have you ever been seriously sick or suffered a broken bone/torn ligament?  What sorts of things did it prevent you from doing?  Did you feel as though you were not fully part of some community (school, family, a team, etc.) while you were ill?  How did it feel once you got better?

2) What sorts of things in your life might count as “sicknesses” or sources of separation from the community?  Is there anything in your life that prevents you from being spiritually, physically, or emotionally flourishing?

3) Do you ever thank God for moments of healing, or other good things that happen to you?  What sorts of things have you been thankful for? 

Do you want an award for doing your job? #SCC

Link to today's readings: 27th Sunday in Ordinary Time [C] 
October 6, 2013

Reflection

In the ancient society of which Jesus was a part, most families—even relatively poor ones—had someone in their household who would be classified as a “servant.”  For some, this type of service was a temporary phase, not terribly unlike an apprenticeship.  For others, it might be that the individual was a prisoner of war or alien from another land, that is, someone who lacked the legal rights of a local. 

Young women would have joined the women of their family in tending to the children.  They were, in a sense, being apprenticed for motherhood.  Young men, by contrast, would have been learning the family trade—perhaps shipbuilding or stonemasonry—or, if the oldest son was by his father’s side preparing to inherit the family business, the younger sons might have been sent to work for other families.  It would have been these young men who were considered “servants” like the one mentioned in the story by Jesus today.  In exchange for their service, these men usually were not paid—their recompense was to be provided with food, shelter, and safety.  (In contrast to the adult male day-laborers of, for instance, the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard, who are depicted as all being paid the same wage at the end of a day’s labor.) 

The job of these young men would have been to attend to various tasks around the house.  In the instance Jesus cites, the family appears only to have one servant, and so it is up to him both to take care of the manual labor (plowing the field or tending the sheep) and to come inside and prepare food.  Quite a lot to ask!  And yet, that is what the relationship entailed—the young servant was receiving food and shelter that he could not have procured otherwise, and the family whom he served was gaining his labor.  It was a relationship that involved both sides owing one another something as part of the arrangement.  Moreover, it was most likely only a phase for the young man—once he was older, he would have a household of his own. 

It isn’t hard to translate this metaphor to a modern setting.  Imagine Jesus had said: When you go to a restaurant, you expect to be seated and served by others.  When the high school student or college kid shows up to serve you, you do not say to her/him, “Oh no!  You look like you’ve been rushing around all evening!  What’ve you been on your feet for?  Eight hours?  Twelve?  Have a seat!  Rest your legs a while.  Can I get YOU anything?”

That seems silly because the job of a server is precisely to serve.  It would be a very strange thing (inappropriate even) to try and offer to get food for the young waitress—after all, that is what she is there to do for you!  It doesn’t matter that she probably spent the entire day in class and has been going for sixteen straight hours without a proper break.  That’s just the way it is when you’re in high school or college!  Then, when she is out with HER family for dinner, she will have the chance to be the one who is served. 

Thus is the nature of the entire service industry in our culture.  Waiters.  Hotel housekeeping staff.  Auto repair persons.  Computer tech people.  Anyone to whom we go for a specific type of service, we expect them simply to do their job (and do it well) without complaint or expectation for any sort of compensation beyond what the contract calls for.  In some industries, like hair styling or table-waiting, we may be inclined to tip the person for an especially good experience, but we would be quite put off if, at the end of our meal or upon being handed our bags at the grocery store, we were told by the person serving us that it was pretty rude of us to expect that they bag our groceries FOR us or bring us all our food.  After all… that’s what their job entails!  Why should they be offended that we expected them to do it?

This is what Jesus is saying to His hearers today.  Insofar as we, Christians, are all called to be servants of God and one another, why should that bother us?  What more do we expect?  God asks us to devote ourselves to Him, and in exchange, we receive the promise that He will take care of us.  (Just like an RA who knows that it’s her job to keep order on her floor and, in exchange, she’ll receive free room and board; or a GSI who understands that he has to grad all of the final exams as part of his agreement with the University to be able to pursue his doctorate without paying!)

Jesus likely was responding to a sentiment that was common among His first disciples and continues to be a pervasive experience today for those who dedicate their lives to the service of God and His people: they feel under-appreciated and frequently put-off that they labor away, often without any “proper” recognition. 

 Jesus reminds us that this sort of experience is all part of what it means to be in the position we are in.  Like a waiter at a restaurant whose job, while working at the restaurant, is to be totally focused on the service of those who come in, so, too, is our mission to be of service to one another.  And at the end of a particularly long day, we shouldn’t allow ourselves to get all worked up that we weren’t properly compensated or appreciated.  You wouldn’t stand up on your table and ask the whole restaurant to join you in a standing ovation recognizing the fact that your waiter dutifully re-filled your water, and you probably aren’t going to be on the receiving end of an ovation when you, personally, spend a day serving others per your Christian vocation.

It’s unlikely that anyone will ever come give you an award for listening to a friend while she’s going through a tough breakup; putting up with your parents’ craziness when they’re stressed out about the finances; vacuuming the apartment for your roommates on a week when they’re all consumed with anxiety over an impending exam; or helping out with the dishes following an event at Church.  It’s nice to be thanked for your efforts, and certainly, we all seek some level of appreciation, but what Jesus today reminds us is that we shouldn’t be doing it for the praise.  We should be doing it because we love our friend, and we hate it that she’s miserable because of this breakup, and we want to try and assuage that pain in any way we can.  We should be putting up with our parents not so that they’ll turn around and gush to us about how thankful they are, but precisely because part of being in a family is being there for one another through tough times—not to mention the fact that they raised, clothed, and fed you for all those years! 

Just like it is the “job” of the waiter to serve us our food, it is our “job,” but more properly described, our vocation, our call as Christians, to be of service to one another.  Not expecting any special acclaim… but because that’s what love entails. 

Reflection Questions

1) Have you ever worked in some job that you felt you served others?  Did you feel like your service was appreciated?

2) Are there any ways in your current life in which you serve others?  Listening to friends?  Dealing with drama?  Cleaning up around the house?

3) Are there ever times when you wish people were more grateful?  Do you feel as though you do not receive the recognition you deserve? 

4) What do you believe the Christian vocation calls you to, in terms of service to others?  Waiters get paid for serving customers.  What do you think you get for being a Christian?

[This reflection originally published October 3, 2010]

Who's your Lazarus? #SCC

Link to today's readings - 26th Sunday in Ordinary Time [Cycle C] 
September 29, 2013

Reflection

Jesus was a masterful story-teller, integrating imagery from the surrounding culture that would resonate as both familiar and accessible to His audience.  But the content of these stories was not simply well-worn truths repackaged in a more imaginative form… The underlying message was often quite provocative or even counter-intuitive.  Many of Jesus’ most famous parables communicated a lesson that directly contradicted an accepted maxim or well-established norm of His day.  At times, Jesus employed nuance and metaphor to convey these radical messages; in other instances, He eschewed subtlety, taking transparent aim at certain groups or beliefs.  The parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus, which some scholars have suggested is better translated, “the Greedy Man,” is an example of the latter.

The accepted understanding of wealth in first-century Mediterranean culture was that, like health and other forms of prosperity, it reflected favor from God towards an individual or group.  This worldview is perhaps nowhere more explicitly on display than in the Book of Job, Where Job has all of his possessions taken away from him, and Job’s friends immediately question what he has done to incite God’s ire.  When Job insists upon his innocence, these same friends berate him for his stubbornness—of course he had done something to offend God—why else would God have left him poor and sick? 

This would have been the same attitude held by Jesus’ hearers when he described Lazarus—who presumably found favor with God, based on his very great personal wealth—and his counterpart, Lazarus—who, contrarily, must have sinned quite egregiously to deserve both financial destitution and physical ailment.  Instead of affirming this interpretation, Jesus completely reverses it, holding up Lazarus as the example of one who enjoys favor with God and the rich man as the one who had committed the sin.  The original hearers undoubtedly would have gasped in disbelief, and more than a few probably would have written Jesus off as deranged.

But what Jesus was challenging was the notion that our gifts—material, physical, and  otherwise—are our own, and that they are somehow the just reward for our efforts.  Jesus’ contemporaries would have viewed health and prosperity as the result of one’s voluntary fidelity to God’s law.  Sin—that is, a failure to adhere to the terms of the Covenant—led directly and inexorably to poverty and illness, as the Prophet Amos is prognosticating to his own audience.   

Jesus instead depicts an alternative reality in which sin is erased by the unconditional love of the Father (The Prodigal Son), and material prosperity is not so much a reward for one’s merits as it is a freely-given, unmerited gift from God (The Parable of the Talents) that we are entrusted to use shrewdly for the benefit of the larger community (today’s parable).  This notion of wealth as gift that intrinsically entails a correlating responsibility to use it to help those who have less is one that ought to continue to speak to us today.  Perhaps, in our modern milieu, it is even more pertinent than ever. 

By and large, we tend to think of material success as the result of our individual efforts—hard work in school, on the job, in life.  And while financial gain almost invariably necessitates industrious efforts (recipients of trust funds notwithstanding), a more comprehensive understanding of socio-economic dynamics exposes that much of success is “grace,” in the sense that, through no merit of our own, we are born into certain types of families; endowed with varying amounts of innate talents; afforded  incommensurate educational and social opportunities; and empowered by fortuitous external circumstances like living in time and place in history wherein people are free to pursue whatever profession they may choose.

It may be tempting—and certainly it is easy—to translate the parable to a modern setting, imagining the rich man to be a Wall Street CEO dressed in an Armani suit, and Lazarus to be a homeless beggar lying—like his ancient counterpart—just outside the building where the CEO oversees his corporate empire.  The metaphor would be apt—but it would also be inadequate to the task of communicating the broader message Jesus is relating: it is not simply the financially  well-off who are called to use their resources for the betterment of others—it is each of us, insofar as we are uniquely gifted and blessed. 

In your own life, as a (relatively) poor student walking to grab a slice of pizza, you may notice a homeless person lying outside the restaurant, but think to yourself, “I can barely afford to buy my textbooks, let alone pay my cell phone bill!  I can’t afford to give this guy money…”   And that may well be the case.  Nevertheless, you also undoubtedly are blessed with immense personal talent and social opportunity—including an intellect that allows you to succeed academically at a prestigious institution like the University of Michigan.  Too, you likely are blessed in other ways, relative to your peers.  Maybe you are a skilled listener, you boast a

superior ability to manage life’s many minor crises, or you possess some athletic ability.  

Jesus challenges us to consider the many ways each of us is “rich,” and who might be our personal “Lazarus.”  Maybe it is the socially awkward guy down the hall who struggles to make friends on your floor.  Perhaps it is the emotionally needy girl in your friend circle that can’t seem to keep herself together and whom everybody avoids for that reason.  The Lazaruses—those sitting right outside the respective doorstep that are not as blessed as we, intellectually, emotionally, athletically, socially—they are the ones we are called to minister to. 

Reflection Questions

1) In what ways are you “rich?”  To what extent would you say the good things in your life are the result of grace—unmerited gift from God—and to what extent would you say that you have earned these successes through individual effort?

2) What does this wealth mean for your relationship with those around you?  What kind of ways might you use that wealth of resources to improve the situation of those in your community?  (Is it even your responsibility to do so?)

3) Who are the Lazaruses in your own life?  Who are the comparatively less-gifted, unappealing people that you pass all the time… but never pause to engage or assist?