"Who Do You Say I Am?"

Jesus searchingly asks his disciples, “Who do you say that I am?”  The episode in the Synoptic Gospels (Mark, Matthew, Luke) in which Jesus asks this questions occurs within a fairly long and complex narrative.  For our present purpose—which is more for meditation or reflexion—I will not engage in a scholarly interpretation, but bring out some of the meanings which the evangelist seems to be intending.  In other words, why does Matthew report this question with its context?  What is he saying to us, and why? Homilies this week-end and next will present, I hope, more insights into Christ’s Question than can be offered here.

A master teacher asks a probing question to guide his hearer, his disciple. Christ is the master Teacher and the master questioner. He does not crank out facile answers, but leaves his hearers wondering and seeking the truth by means of questions and provocative stories—often, in his justly famous parables. Heard well and properly, the parables lead one to make a firm decision for or against God. The questions open up a mind to reality, to being examined and searched by God:  “Why you are afraid?  Don’t you have faith?”  “How long have I been with you, and yet you do not know me?”  “When the Son of Man returns, will he find any faith on earth?” And today’s great question, the decisive one: “Who do you say that I am?”  The answer we give is the life we live—or seek to live.

Jesus is not looking for “the right answer,” for a correct, churchy formulation, such as “You are the Second Person of the Trinity,” or “You are true God and true man,” or even “You are the Christ, the Messiah.” The formulas may be true enough, within the limits of words, and if properly understood; but Christ is looking for far more than words: He is seeking to cause a revelation. Yes, Jesus Christ has come to us, not to cause a revolution in society, but to provoke a revelation in his hearer. By his question, Christ is verbally laying his hand on the heart of his disciples, and seeking to pull back the veil that keeps them from seeing the truth of reality. He does not credit this divine action of unveiling or revealing to himself, but He credits the working of the unknown God, through the word of Christ, in the depth of his hearer’s heart: “No human being has revealed this to you, but my Father.”  “The Father” is Jesus’ name for the unknown God, the depths of divinity beyond anything that can be known, felt, seen, experienced in any way. Beyond the Christ who questions you, is the unbounded One, that which simply is, the I AM. 

The I AM indeed: for what “the angel of the LORD (Yahweh)” does to Moses at the burning bush, Jesus is now doing in the minds and hearts of his chosen disciples. The kind of response Moses gives to the Presence is extremely rare in human history, and so it is even among the disciples of Christ. For only one man speaks up, only one enters into the divine-human dialogue which Jesus instigates. The other 11 disciples remain silent; whether or not their minds have been unveiled on this occasion, we do not know.  Perhaps, at this point, their inner hearts remain veiled. Why? The mystery of divine election (choice) is at work. Christ invited each man to open up to the truth of who he is, but on this occasion, only one responds, only one enters into the process of revelation.  Jesus acknowledges this revolution of revelation: “Blessed are you, Simon Bar Jonah, for no human being revealed this to you, but my Father.  And I tell you, you are Petros (Peter, Rocky), and on this rock foundation (petra), I will build my Community.” On what foundation is the community of Christ founded? Not on the man Peter or on any particular human being, but on the process of revelation in a human being—on the unveiling that takes place, not in a book or in an institution, but in a human being. 

In you, in me, either the unveiling of our heart takes place to see and to communicate with the living God in Christ, or it does not. What matters is not information, but formation:  One must be formed by Christ’s word, and respond with a quiet openness that allows the unknown God to pull back the veil covering the human heart from divine reality. When the unveiling occurs, then one enters into “the Kingdom of God,” that is, then one lives in God and for God. And that is a real spiritual revolution.

Elijah Hears

Perhaps to save time during our divine liturgies (Mass), the readings selected for our hearing are often highly abbreviated, often neglecting their original context.  As heard at Mass, these readings have some meaning, and some spiritual value for the person who is attentive and thinks about what was proclaimed.  It would be far better if our parishioners were accustomed to reading the entire passage from which the abbreviated reading was drawn, but rarely have I heard of anyone making the effort.  Still, I recommend the practice:  read the excerpted passage in context.

The story of Elijah on Mount Horeb, which we hear read at Mass this week-end (the first reading appointed for the 19th Sunday of ordinary time, Year A) is so truncated that much of the intended meaning and significance is lost.  On the other hand, the few sentences which we hear read are rich in meaning, for one who makes the effort to understand them and apply them to his or her own spiritual life.  Again, I must wonder:  How many of our parishioners make this kind of effort?  In truth, I do not know, but few usually admit to “hearing the word” in what was read or proclaimed.  If we are not attentive to the stirring of the silent Word, how do we tune in to God?

The excerpt is from chapter 19 of I Kings in the Hebrew Scriptures, and is part of the Elijah cycle which has been preserved for many centuries.  Although chapter 19 does not stand alone, at least if one reads it closely, one should gain insights into what the anonymous author of the text is trying to communicate to his readers.  Indeed, without reading the chapter in the original Hebrew, but in several respectable English translations, much comes across: chapter 19 of I Kings is, among other things, a profound insight into healthy spirituality.  At the same time, it eclipses and surpasses the kinds of interpretations that one can receive from the stories of Moses on Mount Sinai.  (Note: Sinai and Horeb are the same mountain, as named differently by the two Israelite kingdoms.). Or in other words, the story of Elijah on Mount Horeb tells us what is especially significant in the Book of Exodus’ account of Moses on Mount Sinai.  In reading the story of the Exodus, it is easy to become fascinated by the spectacular, and miss the “sound of silence,” the darkness and quiet in which God communicates Himself to Moses. It is precisely this kind of communion with the unknown God that comes to the fore in the story of Elijah on Horeb.

The prophet Elijah bears his name meaning “Yahweh is my God.”  Elijah is the true successor to Moses—not the kings of Israel and Judah, and not various religious voices and practices that led the Chosen People into worship of false gods. What is at stake is the truth of God and the truth of human existence under and in God. The people have been led astray, deceived by the failed institutions of kingship and priesthood. The prophet Elijah becomes the one place where God breaks in and acts decisively—not a Temple or a king, however exalted. Elijah fled to Horeb, driven by his fear of death as threatened by Queen Jezebel; out of fear Elijah loses sight of his vocation as prophet.  So in fear Elijah fled into the wilderness—away from political and priestly institutions—and sat to rest under a broom bush—a reference back to the bush out of which God addressed Moses in “the burning bush.”  But now the angel of the LORD sends Elijah on a 40-day journey up to “the Mountain of God,” Horeb / Sinai. 

On Mount Sinai / Horeb, Elijah hears the word of the LORD addressing him with the penetrating question: `Why are you here, Elijah?’”  The fleeing prophet responds:  “I am moved by zeal for Yahweh, the God of Hosts, for the Israelites have forsaken Your covenant, torn down Your altars, and put Your prophets to the sword.  I alone am left, and they are out to take my life.”  “Come out,” Yahweh called, “and stand on the mountain before YHWH.”  And then “the LORD passed by,” with mighty wind, earthquake, and fire, but Yahweh was in none of these.  “And after the fire—a soft murmuring sound [or, a still, small voice].  When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his mantel about his face and went and stood at the entrance of the cave” (I Kgs 19, NewJPS translation).

Parables of the Kingdom: Treasure and a Pearl of Great Price

After telling several parables to his disciples, Jesus asks, “Do you understand all these things?” “Yes,” they replied, in their all-too-quick fashion.  In truth, has anyone really understood well and completely the meaning of Christ’s parables of the kingdom? One understands by living them well.  Whom do we know who has lived the gospel well, but Christ Jesus, and his blessed Mother—and various saints, all to some imperfect yet beautiful degree. As Origen wrote (184-253 AD):  “Jesus is himself the Kingdom.”  Do you know of a better Kingdom of God than the fullness of God’s presence in Jesus Christ, and hence to a degree, in us, the body of Christ?   

“The Kingdom of heaven is like a merchant searching for fine pearls. When he finds a pearl of great price, he goes and sells all that he has and buys it.”  Jesus shows us what is of ultimate value or worth in human life:  discovering God in Him, loving Him, following Him, obeying Him, rejoicing in Him.  “My happiness lies in God alone,” sings the Psalmist, who has found in God alone his pearl of infinite value. Whoever finds God, finds the Pearl of great price. Whoever does not find God, however rich or powerful, comes up empty.

But here is the uniqueness of finding God:  the One who is found is found to be ever with, in, and beyond the one finding. The God who is found is utterly inexhaustible, a spring of pure water ever flowing up out of the depths of the unseen earth. “The one who seeks, finds.” And the person who truly finds finds that he must keep seeking, as St. Anselm teaches.  And he must keep loving, following, obeying, or what he has found will be lost again.  It is not that this Pearl of great price is slippery, like an eel; rather, we are inconstant, unsteady in our love affair with the all-loving One.  And so we must seek to fall in love again and again—just as two married folks must keep striving to love each other ever afresh, here and now, and not say with Pushkin:  “I loved you once, I love you still—perhaps.”  That is not love, nor is it the way of life for one who keeps falling in love with the God who “loved His own in the world, and loved them to the End” (John 13).

 “Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient, ever new; late have I loved You.  Behold you were with me, but I was not with you.  You were within, but I was without, spending myself on these things that ultimately do not satisfy, and would not be at all if You did not will them to be.”  The true lover of God, like St. Augustine in his Confessions paraphrased here, knows that he has “only just begun,” and in truth does not love as he knows and wants to love.  And yet, even to taste, even to begin to live God in Christ, the Pearl of infinite value, one begins to leave the world of passing things and enter into communion with that which simply is. 

“He who begins to love begins to leave.  Many there are who are leaving Babylon, and yet they do not know it. And yet they are leaving by the affections of their heart” (Augustine on the Psalms). “Ubi caritas et amor, Dei ibi est.” “Where charity and love are, there is God.” One who loves has indeed found the Pearl of great price, “the many-splendored thing.”

Parables of the Kingdom

Coming attractions at our week-end Masses:  For the next three week-ends, we will hear three “parables of the Kingdom” from Matthew 13; then on 6 August, the Feast of the Transfiguration; then the following week, the story of Jesus walking on the water.  All of this material is highly significant not only within the New Testament and early Christianity, but through the centuries, and in the life of the Church.  My task will be to take each lesson as it comes, and seek to help make it meaningful for our parishioners. We will try to understand the LORD’s teaching together.  It is not easily understandable, because Christ is leading us into the mystery of God; or rather, into a life well lived in tension toward the unknown God whom he calls “my Father.”  As I have often done, we must move towards a true understanding dialectically:  that is, warding off misunderstandings, and using misinterpretations to help us arrive at a deeper or better grasp of what Christ is telling us here and now.  One learns to discern the truth by seeing and breaking from error.  This process is never-ending, because our minds are limited, our understanding always fallible.  The search for the truth of God is always greater than, and encompasses, any results one discovers along the way.  If one is not seeking, wondering, exploring, then one is stagnating. 

There is nothing stagnant about the “Kingdom of God.”  This symbolic phrase, used by Jesus to speak about the reality and ways of God in our lives, is dynamic, creative, freeing, challenging, demanding, consoling, guiding. It is, among other things, a way to speak about God’s providential care for his creatures, for us.  God’s way of doing things is not identical with our ways.  Whereas human beings gravitate to the powerful, the famous, the wealthy, God’s way is to seek out the lost, the lowly, the humble, those rejected by fellow human beings.  Whereas we human beings seek status, wealth, or power, the Kingdom of God—God’s way of acting—is life-giving, affirming, able to “tear down the mighty and lift up the lowly.”  (Are you lowly enough to be reached by God?). 

God’s way brings judgment only to bring peace, to heal, never to condemn and lock up in a hell of human imagination.  

Peace.

On The Ways Of Truth

 Human beings seek to be happy, to know the truth, to do good.  In this quest we find fulfillment and happiness.  A life of mere pleasure-seeking, of constant entertainment, of restless money-making, of power-seeking, will not bring one happiness or truth, and will not help one become a truly good human being. 

To the best of my knowledge, three different and especially profound ways to live well and happily have emerged in human history:  life under God as explored by Hebrew prophets, Jesus, and the saints; the discovery of reason and the search for wisdom and happiness as lived and taught by Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and their philosopher-disciples; and the way of the Buddha with the search for inner calm and insight.  To these three irreplaceable ways one should also add the works of science and scholarship that may usefully contribute to one’s search for happiness and truth.  (Historically, western science is an offshoot of Greek philosophy.).

In my judgement, one seeking to live happily, and to understand the truth about man’s place in reality, should have recourse to Judaeo-Christian spirituality; to reason and the life of the mind that is philosophy; to meditative practices as developed within the Buddhist tradition; and to the best insights from science.  There are other spiritual traditions that are very rich indeed, and no doubt one can draw spiritual nourishment from them (such as from Hinduism, the Tao, or from native American spirituality).  One way or another, four enormous figures of human history keep presenting themselves in my search:  Moses as the carrier of the I AM; Jesus as the human being fully immersed in God; Socrates and the unending quest for truth by means of right reasoning, with its openness to divine reality; the Buddha and the quest for inner peace and freedom from suffering. 

As I look back on my life, and consider how to spend time remaining for me on earth, these figures keep emerging as demanding my attention and study.  Moses is known primarily through the Hebrew and Christian scriptures, in the Law, and in the Chosen People; Jesus is known through the same scriptures, but above all in lovingly doing the will of God and in the lives of His saintly people; Socrates is known through right reasoning, and especially as embodied in the texts of Plato and Aristotle, and their learned disciples through the ages; and the Buddha is known through his teaching, (the Buddha-dhamma), and through diligently practicing mindfulness-meditation. 

The ways of the prophets, of Jesus, of Socrates, and of the Buddha, are not identical, nor can they be unthinkingly harmonized or “syncretized.” Each of these ways is valid, and requires a committed life.  To give an example of an enormous tension between them—a tension demanding much study and thought—Moses and Jesus lead one into the mystery we call “God.”  Socrates, open to all truth, respects “the gods” and God, but employs reason as moved through an inner dialogue with divine reality as it presents itself to consciousness.  The Buddha is consistently non-theistic, avoiding all speculation on the gods, and any explicit reliance on divine help in the search for inner peace. 

For years I have allowed my faith in God and Christ to be illumined through the life of reason as developed by Socrates and the best human minds who have written philosophy.  On this path I have very far to go, but I found reliable models, as in St. Anselm, with his “faith seeking understanding.”  The more difficult challenge is to explore and live more fully the mutual penetration of the way of Christ and the way of the Buddha. While being true to the God of Moses and of Jesus Christ, and true to right reasoning, I must seek to practice meditation as guided not only by Christian mystics and saints, but by Buddhist meditators.  Only in meditative practice, and in right living, can one gain insight into how living faith in God, the life of reasoning, and the Buddhistic way of “being lights unto yourselves” are essentially one, or harmonize.  For all that is true is good, and worth seeking.   

One must live the truth to understand it. Otherwise, one is merely speculating and playing intellectual games—an enormous problem in our culture and in mass education today.  The light of Christ, of Socrates, and of the Buddha all reveal our culture and contemporary ways of living as deeply flawed and self-destructive.  In the question of Jesus, “What does it profit a man, to gain the whole world, and lose his life?”  In the Socratic insight, “the unexamined life is not worth living.”  And in the light of the Buddha, “To cross the stream of life, bale out this boat!”

A Meditation on the Feast of Corpus Christi

“Do this in memory of me.”  Do what in memory of whom?  Jesus said:  “Whenever you eat my Body, and Drink my blood, do it in memory of me.”  Why did Jesus say this at “the Last Supper?”  Was he being selfish telling us to remember him? 

In general, it is good and enriching to remember the noble deeds and characteristic actions of truly good human beings.  The action of Jesus which he tells us to remember is first of all what he did at his last meal before being crucified.  Knowing what was about to take place, Jesus took bread, gave thanks to God, broke the bread, and gave it to his disciples to eat.  The action itself, in the context of the Passover meal, is clearly rooted both in the Exodus event and in Jewish family meals and prayers.  And then in a similar way, after supper, Jesus lifted up the cup of wine, gave thanks to God, and asked his disciples to drink from the one cup.  Again, the action befits the Passover, the celebration of the LORD God leading His people, through Moses, from captivity in Egypt to freedom under God.  Jesus gave his disciples bread and wine in the context of the Passover meal as a memorial for keeping his disciples mindful of what Christ did for each and for all.  He makes of us an Exodus people:  human beings on a journey through death-in-self into the sheer peace and freedom of God.

The prayer and sharing of the bread and wine, with the command to “do this in memory of me,” are not rooted in themselves, nor do they point simply to themselves.  Rather, they direct our minds directly to Jesus Christ and to what he did for us and for all in his ultimate self-giving act of love, even unto death by the brutal torture of crucifixion.  Christ established what he called “the new covenant in my blood” through his life-giving death on the cross; and he established the memorial for the new covenant at the Passover Last Supper.  Jesus used the rich meaning of the Passover to throw light on his suffering unto death for us, and to show us the way to the new Exodus into God.

Christ is teaching us, among other things, that the God who led His people out of bondage in Egypt through Moses is now leading his disciples from the bondage of sin and death into life eternal in God.  This is the new Exodus.  “God was in Christ, reconciling the world to himself,” as the Apostle Paul explains.  The evangelist John similarly turns the life-giving action of Christ into a lesson for every disciple:  “As I have done for you, so you also must do for one another.”  And what must one do for each other?  Give oneself up in love to bring each other into union with God. 

Is this explanation of “Do this in memory of me” too familiar, and perhaps too superficial?  Familiar it is.  But let’s bear in mind that the depth of the meaning comes not from the words used to interpret Christ’s Eucharistic gift to us.  Whatever real depth of meaning is in the Eucharist comes from the depth of Christ’s love, which surely is in the mystery of God—in the mystery of the divine abyss.  We may peer into this abyss, but not see.  Love alone understands love.  Only to the extent that one “goes and does likewise,” that one is self-giving as Christ is self-giving, can one truly understand the Eucharistic feast.  The man, woman, or child, who comes to the table / altar of the Lord, and humble and lovingly surrenders “all that I am, all that I have,” is the one who has a genuine understanding of the Eucharist.  “Just as I am, without one plea…”

"Do this in memory of me.”  Do what in memory of Christ?  Ultimately, the entire orientation of our lives ought to be “in memory of Me,” in a faith-union with the Christ who “humbled himself, and became obedient into death, even death on a cross” (Phil 2).  As we consciously remember who Christ is, and what He has done for us and for all, and as we put into daily practice his abandonment of a self-centered life in all of its forms for the good of others, then we truly are living “in memory of Me.”

What Is The Holy Spirit?

After thirty-five years of functioning as a Benedictine brother and priest in the Catholic Church, it is evident that the faithful are often fairly aware that they do not understand well what is meant by “the Holy Spirit”?  In general, the entire mystery of God—symbolized as “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit”—baffles our people, and that is good, for in speaking of God in any way, we are entering into the realm of divine mystery.  That means that we are speaking about reality that lies beyond our physical and mental grasp, beyond our mortal understanding. 

Even our human condition—and particularly what it means to be a human being—is far more difficult to understand than we often assume.  For we dwell in shadows, between light and darkness, but often mistakenly believe that we are in the light.  Far wiser is the saying inscribed above the portal at Delphi in ancient Greece:  “Know thyself—that you are a human being, and not a god.”  One cannot know what it is to be human without knowing the divine; and the divine is ever beyond our under-standing.  Superficial minds and the intellectual elites of our day flatten out human existence so much that they think they know who or what we are.  In effect, they seek to bring our common humanity down to their shrunken level.  They even think that they know what “the self” is, or what you mean when you say, “I.”  Do you really know what you mean when you say, “I”?  Herakleitos said that he could not find the borders or limits of his soul, so great is its divine depth.  On a practical level—for action in this world—yes, you have an initial grasp that allows you to act.  But if you keep still, and seek to find who or what you are, and if you are open-minded (a very big “if” indeed in this day and age)—then you will discover that you do not know what you think you know.  All of one’s knowing about oneself, the world, and what we call “God” is far more unknown than known, and largely beyond our understanding, and surely beyond our ability to grasp or to control.  The way of wisdom begins as one wakes up and realizes, “I really do not know what I have been talking about—myself, you, or what is called “God.”  Like Job, one realizes:  “I did not know what I was talking about.”  So begins the journey into wisdom.

If one is led to realize, “I do not truly know myself well, and I barely know who or what God is,” then one is being led by the Holy Spirit.  That is called humility; and “humility is endless.”  The Spirit shows us that we do not know as we ought to know, nor do we know why we have so much difficulty understanding “the things of God.”  If one thinks, “I know who I am, and I know God,” then one is truly self-deceived, and is living in darkness unenlightened by the divine presence.  If one claims, “I know that there is no God,” one deeply immersed in an impenetrable cesspool of self-deception, and remains imprisoned in that muck. 

The way into the realm of the Holy Spirit begins with a penetrating insight into one’s own ignorance—and with an awareness that one has shared in this ignorance by pretending not to be in darkness.  We deceive ourselves more than we like to admit.  When one has been “in the Church” for many years, and still has a weak insight into the workings of the Holy Spirit, one would do well to admit, “I know far less than I have thought I knew.” 

When I was a young man, speaking with a leading philosopher to understand the spiritual experiences of the Apostle Paul, we mentioned St. Paul’s frequent recourse to writing about “the Holy Spirit.”  I asked the philosopher, “What is the Holy Spirit?”  He looked me in the eyes and asked, “What do you think is moving you to ask your questions?”  His question was a gift of the Spirit; and my questioning was a sharing in the Spirit.  The Spirit provokes wonder and questioning.

How refreshing it is when we in the Church become aware that we do not grasp well the divine mystery to which we often give lip service.

Who or what is “the Holy Spirit?”