January 24, 2021

 

Homily by Sister Cecelia

Isaiah 6:1-19, 1 Corinthians 15:1-11, Luke 4:16-24

How quickly a person’s mind can change!  When Christ uttered the words that the prophet Isaiah had said, the people of Nazareth were delighted and amazed. When he warned them that a prophet is not accepted in his own town and proceeded to give examples from their history of others than Jews being helped, their delight turned to fury, and they determined to throw Jesus off the nearby cliff.

What was in their minds that would prompt such a response? Yes, Jesus was criticizing his people. Perhaps they understood from his words that he was not going to do all his good works of healing the blind, freeing those in prison, and preaching the good news to the poor, as he had in other locales. But, instead of trying to understand why Jesus had said this, they hardened their hearts even more and determined to kill him.

When we look at our own lives, do we recall any similarities to the Nazarenes’ reaction when we are criticized? There must be reasons why we react sometimes with hurtful defensive anger rather than look at ourselves to see if we could do better. Then, even be thankful someone had the courage or audacity to vocalize their thoughts to us. It takes patience to come to know ourselves. It takes patience to appreciate every easy or difficult step along the way. Perhaps the first steps are easier, then comes the hard, wearying repetition of the process of learning. Learning to know ourselves with both patience and bravery.

The Spirit teaches us if our hearts remain open.

I’m reminded of my early years in the monastery in Indiana. Though we received some teaching, learning to live the gospel in community was done more by example than by words. I learned by the example of others in two ways. Some nuns behaved in what I judged to be very saintly ways, and I tried to make my behavior like theirs. With some others, I judged their behavior to not be what I thought was pleasing to God, so I promised myself I would not be like them. Since then, I have learned that judging others is not the most wholesome approach to life. We do judge or see the exterior behavior of others, but we cannot know what is in their hearts. Taking the attitude that if others don’t do what is expected, then I don’t need to, is not a wholesome approach either.

 Knowing my own values, and living up to them, rather than comparing myself to any other person, is a much better approach. 

An aspect of the good news Jesus was not able to give to the Nazarenes because of their hardness of hearts is exemplified in another parable-the goats and the sheep- of those who will be chosen and those who will not at the end of life. The parable could be shock therapy to get us out of any complacency we might have about our own goodness or despondency about the lack of it. What we do for others, or do not do, is what we are doing to Jesus. The surprise of the people involved in the parable of not knowing when they had done or not done those things to Jesus was they perhaps were thinking too big.  It is good to run the soup kitchen, but it is also good to take a sandwich to your next-door neighbor or to make one for your own hungry child. It is not good to rob a bank, but also not good to swipe a scarf from your friend. To get a glass of water for someone you think could be thirsty is an act of love or is not if you do not do it. It does not have to be big feats that Jesus is commending or terribly wicked things he is condemning. What we do or not do for or against another is what we are doing for our Lord.

Let our own hearts be open so that the Spirit can teach us to know ourselves, so that the Spirit can teach us to know God who is love.

Christ is in our midst!

 

Homily: Theophany

January 06, 2021

As preached by Sister Rebecca
Holy Wisdom Church

            Today we celebrate Jesus’ baptism in the Jordan. Last evening at Great Compline we heard the Gospel where John the Baptist was called by God to proclaim a baptism of repentance. There was something incredibly charismatic about John’s voice in the wilderness that drew people to him in droves.

            Maybe most of those people were filled with an expectation for some kind of change in society. After all, the Jordan was viewed as a national symbol, the memory of God’s leading his people through the Jordan River to the promised land of freedom and prosperity. Instead, they were suffering under the political and economic power of Rome. There was in the air a nostalgia for the past promises of God that led the Israelites from servitude to freedom. Some people, or even many people, thought that John was the awaited-for Messiah or the one who was ushering in this kind of Messiah. And they were even willing to change their ways, but that willingness did not go deep to the roots of inner conversion.

Prior to our Gospel today, we heard that John saw his mission as precursor of the one who was to come, who would baptize with the Holy Spirit and fire: Whose winnowing fan was in his hand…and he would purge his floor and burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire. Earlier, John cried out, “Oh you vipers…now the ax is laid to the root of the trees, and every tree that does not bear good fruit is hewn down and cast into the fire.” John had it right—to strive to awaken people to repentance—but he had it wrong as to the way God sees sinners and salvation. People do not really change from their inward being by fear. Yes, one can conform by will power, to avoid punishment, but the inward heart is not touched.

Jesus’ understanding of God’s Spirit is different.

In Luke’s Gospel we learn that when all the people had been baptized, Jesus came to John to be baptized. Only after all the people had shed their sins into the waters did Jesus go into those sullied waters to be baptized. He was in solidarity with all people. Jesus did not see his call in the same way John saw the Messiah. John was even shocked that Jesus was asking to be baptized by him, and he objected. But Jesus insisted. He knew deep down what he needed to do: “Let it be for now in order to fulfill all justice.” All justice? The Old Testament shows us that for humans, justice is bringing order into our temporal lives, but justice for God is compassion; it is understanding the ignorance and brokenness of human beings. And Jesus embodies this Spirit of God—not the mind of John. Jesus allows himself to be plunged down into the waters, and when he rises the heavens open up, and Spirit in the form of a dove alights on him, and a voice is heard: “This is my son, with whom I am well pleased.”

            It is at this moment that Jesus becomes conscious of his deepest identity: the Beloved Son of God. Here and now, God’s eternal time breaks through into chronological time, with Jesus’ realization and consciousness of his deepest identity: “I know by experience that am God’s child and deeply loved.” In the wake of this experience, he knows he has a mission, and his heart burns to perceive God’s direction.

Jesus embodies God’s Spirit: He is to reveal to people who they really are—that all human beings are sons and daughters of God. For him, love is his message. When people experience love, are conscious of being the beloved, of being good, then their lives are changed. When we know we are loved, we desire to act in goodness and kindness, and we find our purpose in life.

We are all at times called to our own “Jordans.” Sometimes life itself throws us into the dark waters of our weaknesses, where we have a sudden awareness of our need for conversion in some area of our lives. Jesus shows us the path: we need to go into those dark areas of our lives and feel our need for God. As the Psalmist says, “I will run in the way of your commandments when you enlarge my heartfelt understanding.”(Psalm 119) This happens when we know we cannot by sheer willpower change our selves, cannot be transformed into who we are called by God to be. The very yearning itself is God’s own desire for us to awaken, to be God-conscious in our own minds. This urgency is all the more essential now, when millions of people are struggling, suffering in this time of the plague of suffering and death. In our present brokenness and darkened world, we can be renewed in the Spirit, who tells us to go out into the darkness with love—not from our own limited self, but from the Spirit here and now, desiring us not only to be beacons of hope and trust in God’s goodness, but to embody God’s very compassion in our daily thoughts and actions.

I’d like to end with a few lines inspired of a favorite author of mine, the German poet Rainier Maria Rilke:

God speaks to each of us as God continues to form us; God walks with us silently out of the night. These are the words we dimly hear:

“You are sent out beyond your recall, beyond what you can remember; go to the limits of your yearning. Embody me. Flare up like a flame. And make big shadows I can move in. Let everything happen to you: beauty and fear. Keep going forward. No feeling is final. Don’t let yourself lose me. Give me your hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The holy family returns to Nazareth after the death of Herod

As preached by Sister Cecelia
Holy Wisdom Church 
December 27th, 2020

1 Samuel 19:11-17, 2 Samuel 5:1-3; Matthew 2:19-23; 1 Corinthians 13:1-13
Christ is born! Glorify Him!

This week we have again seen news reports of the lines of cars and people coming to receive boxes or bags of food were amazingly long—stretching for miles. There are so many in real need. The epistle this morning speaks of love as being the greatest, the only long-lasting virtue or capacity we have. Think of how many are responding with love for so much food to be available to fill this need.

There is also the man who experienced many years ago the choice he had to make for his family of four—the choice of which bill to pay. He lived in Florida, so he chose to not pay the utility for heat. That was the year Florida had the coldest winter ever. Many years later, he had made a success of his own business. Remembering his own difficulties back then, when he had to choose which bills to pay, he contacted several utilities and requested how much they would need for their customer’s delinquent bills that would necessitate stopping their service. Imagine the surprise when many families received a notice that their delinquent bill had been paid by this man. Hearing of this man’s creative generosity, many others are following in his footsteps and helping others in the same way in other locations.

These are just some of the stories we have heard that epitomize for me the presence of the love that God has put in our hearts. I have been amazed at the creativeness of the many endeavors across the nation. Many commented on how much joy it gives them to be able to help in so many ways. Then there are the medical personnel who feel joy when their patients get better, but they are also facing sadness and sorrow when so many succumb to their illnesses and die with their own loved ones not able to even be present.

In today’s Gospel, we hear that Joseph learned in a dream that it was now safe to take Mary and Jesus back to Israel. While he was joyful about the ability to return home, he also faced the fear and sadness of what could still happen, with Herod’s son Archelaus, who was worse than his father, ruling the area. Witness the love that Joseph had for Mary and Jesus and the faith and trust in God that he showed by listening to his dreams. We don’t know what creative ways Joseph chose to care for his family, but we do know they survived.

I recently read We Belong to the Land, written by a Byzantine priest living in Palestine, Father Elias Chacour. His family had lived in Palestine for umpteen generations. While a lot of the book spoke of the extreme difficulties the native Palestinians have experienced since Israel became a country, what I am amazed at is the creative love Father Elias displayed over and over again, in bringing disparate groups together.

 When he was ordained, he was assigned to a village that had not had a priest for some time. There was an elder of the parish who let the young priest know he was not wanted and to go away. Since Father Elias opted to stay, the elder showed him to his awful accommodations, gave him no food, and for years made his life quite difficult.

 In the village were members of his Byzantine church, members of the Orthodox church, Muslims, atheists, communists, and Jews. None of them spoke to or associated in a friendly manner with those in the other groups, though they sometimes had to work together. After several years, Father Elias’s creative ways with all the people in the village eventually brought them together. Now there are daily examples of real co-operation and love among all the different groups in the village and even beyond. Father Elias realized that the Palestinians needed to have available higher educational opportunities for them to ever get beyond their poverty level. Overcoming many difficulties by his creative loving work, he has fulfilled his dream to build a school for both high school and accredited college levels for both Jewish and Palestinian youths together.

What have we been able to do to help others? Many phone calls and zoom visits have been made just to give those who are shut-in a chance to talk and know someone is thinking of them. Creatively managing the safety precautions for the work areas so that our businesses could keep going and our employees employed has been no small task. Making extra donations to food banks does not take any creativity but is a work of love.

Being creative in how we show our love to those we live with or come into contact with—always at a distance these days—is a gift of God that takes the same faith and trust that we see in Joseph.

May we always remember God’s love for us so that we may find our own ways to love in return.

Christ is born!

 

Homily: Luke 13:18-21

December 12, 2020

As preached by Sister Rebecca
Holy Wisdom Church

This morning we read two parables from the Gospel: one about the mustard seed, and the other about the yeast in the dough. Both are metaphors for the Kingdom of God—the Divine presence here and now.  The fact that the three evangelists (of the synoptic Gospels) all included these parables indicates their importance to the Christian communities. Through these parables, Jesus strives to awaken what is potential and most often dormant in the hearts and minds of his listeners.

Very frequently, Jesus uses familiar God-in-Nature metaphors—such as the mustard seed and the yeast in the dough in today’s Gospel—to describe the Kingdom of God: the Realm of God right in our midst.  The image of the mustard seed emphasizes the reality of the Presence of God in our midst in Nature.  The second image, the yeast in the dough, points to the rising of our spiritual instinct into our consciousness, which perceives the Kingdom of God right now.

Here is the question I pose: How is it that Jesus uses the stories of a mustard seed and yeast in the dough to describe both the kingdom of God and our nascent glimmers of inner sight and faith? Where is the connection? What are these stories trying to get through to us?  The following thoughts may shed some light.  In the third century A.D., when St. Anthony the Great was asked how in the desert he managed to be such a learned man without the aid of books, he replied: “My book is the nature of created things, and as often as I have mind to read the words of God, they are at my hand.” A little over a century later, St. Augustine would echo this experience in one of his sermons: “Some people, in order to discover God, read books. But there is a great book: the very appearance of created things. Look above you! Look below you! Note it. Read it. God, whom you want to discover, never wrote that book with ink. Instead, He set before your eyes the things He had made. 

The Book of Nature speaks of the realm of God here and now. The poet Saadi Shiraz also wrote about this experience: “Every leaf of the trees becomes a page of sacred scripture; that is, once the heart is opened and it has learned to read.”

Recently I stumbled on a story that spoke to me. This is how I recall it: “A certain fellow, four or so months ago, was planning to make a solitary retreat in Colorado.  He expected to bring along some of his favorite books that speak about God in Nature. That did not happen.  The pandemic interrupted his travel plans, and he was forced to spend the summer at home alone.  He had been so looking forward to the dry, crisp Colorado dawn at a retreat house surrounded by awesome beauty. The only thing ‘crisp’ facing him now was the drying brown grass in his backyard. Then he stepped back and began to wonder. Maybe I can open the Book of Nature around me now, starting with my own backyard?  After all, Augustine did not say, ‘Go to Colorado and look above you! Look below you! Notice it. Read it.’ The Book of Nature was already open and before me, in my own backyard, waiting to be read. Then I read the rising sun as the gift of a new day and wondered what it might offer or ask of me. I read the stars as light shining in the darkness of my night sky. I read the silence and stillness of the grass as an invitation to learn to just be. I read the mystery of growth and life in the seeds planted in my garden, and in the green peas, tomatoes, and cucumbers that rose up from the depth of the earth. I read chattering squirrels as a reminder to lighten up and not take myself too seriously. I read the huge oak tree, as Rumi says: ‘returning me to the root of the root of my soul.’ I read a hungry kitten as a foreigner waiting to be welcomed. I read the birds splashing around in rain puddles and recalled Julian of Norwich’s ‘all shall be well.’ I read the falling leaves and the first cool morning as a reminder that there is a season for everything.  I read the wind as God breathing new life into this world and encouraging me to trust when I cannot see. I read the colors of the setting sun as a palette of awesome beauty lifting my soul. It was a good read. It was a very good read.” 

Another metaphor was included in today’s Gospel: the narrow gate.  What does this mean in the context of understanding the metaphors of the seed and the yeast? I believe it is a word of caution and warning: the passage to the heart’s vision is very narrow.  We need to unload the stuff in our minds, such as troubling anxious thoughts and negative musings; we need to pare down our fragmented ego tendency to try to figure things out with our brains and, instead, surrender and move to naked trust in God. 

I would like to offer a reflection by one of Rumi’s poems that may inspire you as they have me, especially in these times of the overwhelming disheartening daily news of millions of people sick and dying of the Covid-19 virus, not to mention millions who are suffering from the consequences of the virus.  The parables are about life and growth.  Can I be open to Life as it is presented to me now? Can I rise up like the “yeast in the dough,” to be God’s agent in bringing about love and life in the face of so much fear, suffering, and hopelessness?  (To Rumi’s lines I have added a few thoughts for reflection):

 

Don’t go away, come near.  (Let us not bury our heads in the sand like the ostrich)
Don’t be faithless, be faithful.
Find the antidote in the venom.  (Venom? What is poisoning my mind now?)
Come to the root of the root of your soul.

Molded of clay, yet kneaded   (Like the woman who adds the yeast to the flour and kneads it)
from the substance of certainty,
a guard at the Treasury of Holy Light —
come, return to the root of the root of your Self.

Once you get hold of selflessness,
You’ll be dragged from your ego 
and freed from many traps.
Come, return to the root of the root of your Soul.

You are born from the children of God’s creation,
but you have fixed your sight too low.
How can you be happy?
Come, return to the root of the root of your Self.

You were born from a ray of God’s majesty
and have the blessings of a good star.
Why suffer at the hands of things that don’t exist?  (This too will pass!)
Come, return to the root of the root of your Soul.

You came here from the presence of that fine Friend,
a little drunk, but gentle, stealing our hearts
with that look so full of fire; so,
come, return to the root of the root of your Self.

(My gratitude to Rev. Michael Marsh and unnamed others for offering access to Rumi’s poetry for inspiration and providing me here with words to express the inexpressible.)

Thanksgiving 2020

November 26, 2020

As preached by Sister Cecelia
Holy Wisdom Church


Dt 8:7-16, Phil 4:4-9, Mt 6:25-34

How might not indulging in worrying be connected to giving thanks?

In Jesus’ time, and for us now, Jesus commands us to NOT WORRY. “… do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more than clothing? What is Jesus calling us to? Ponder on how we unpack this in our lives. He was not advising an attitude of being care-free, shiftless, reckless, thoughtless, failure to take seriously our responsibilities, the concerns of everyday life or to provide for the future.

By worry he was talking about being unreasonably preoccupied, being worried, fearful and anxious of that which prevents us from the joy of life. Anxious worry wears out the mind as well as the body. This worry affects our judgment, lessens our powers of decision and renders us progressively incapable of dealing with life in a healthy and life-giving way.

How can we give thanks when we are beset with anxieties and fears, especially during these times of the pandemic when we are even more prone to worry, to fret over the incredible unpredictable life-threatening issues coming our way?

The antidote to worrying, being anxious Jesus says, is to consider the birds of the air, the flowers in the fields, are we not of more value than they? Strive first to give the best we can for God’s Kingdom and all the rest will be given to us.

Jesus is showing us the path to trust… when we trust, we surrender our sense of being able to work out life’s problems by our own means alone. A line of thought from Teresa of Avila: “Trust as though everything depends on God; act though like everything depends on you.” If we give our best to every situation -we cannot give more than that- then in thankful trust we leave the rest to God.

Giving thanks to God is good to keep our thoughts full of energy. It is not true, psychologists tell us, that we think the way we feel. On the contrary, we feel the way we think, and thoughts can be changed. Joy too is an attitude of mind, an awareness that my life is basically good. Giving thanks to God is a thought process and can change the way we feel.

In a line for a food handout a man was asked what he would be grateful for this Thanksgiving: “I will sit and think about all my past Thanksgivings and how wonderful they were. I realize that only one out of my 67 years being not so desirable was not such bad odds”. He was most grateful.

Engaging in ordinary prudent foresight is giving our best to all our decisions. Being free to make these decisions is something to be grateful for. Knowing we can take everything to God in prayer is one of the greatest things to be grateful for. We can take our own past, present and future into the presence of God. We can pray for others, for those near and far who are in our memories and our hearts.

Let us keep in mind all the people who have decided to travel this year in order to celebrate Thanksgiving with their families. For us here now, take a few minutes to remember the gifts of God to us personally… to experience within the depth of our hearts the many events of God’s loving care and for life itself.

Christ is in our midst

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Homily, November 8, 2020

 

Luke 7: 11-17   

By Sister Rebecca

 

This morning I would like to share some thoughts with you through the lens of poverty.  All the scriptural readings have this common thread: Poverty.  The readings present us with people who are hopeless, in despair, incredible distress, neediness, and dire want.  We hear of two widows losing their only sons, and the Jerusalem community suffering from lack of the basics for life.

The first story, from the Book of Kings, is about the Widow of Zarephath, whose son had just died. Incredible deprivation and despair characterize this poor woman. Just before the text we read this morning, this same woman and her son were described as being on the brink of starvation.  The prophet Elijah was on the run, fleeing for his life and living in exile. God provided him with food by means of a raven, and told him that this same woman would provide him with food.  We may recall that she was ready to give up: she expected that she and her son would have their last meal and die.  Thanks to Elijah, she was given a steady supply of food.

In today’s story we see in this bereaved mother a deeply challenging type of faith. She asks difficult questions regarding her understanding of sin, suffering, and death. She sharply challenges Elijah, accusing him that his presence is what has brought her sin to God’s attention, which is ultimately responsible for the death of her son.  This accusation leads Elijah to confront God: he actually chastises God for bringing calamity upon this poor mother.  In these stories of dire deprivation, we see a wonderful image of a God who in the previous section of the Book of Kings intervened in a precarious situation. Now, we see God listening to Elijah’s prayer for the dead son: “And the boy’s life returned to him, and he lived.”  Elijah gives the boy back to his mother.  The mother exclaims: You are a man of God. We need to keep in mind that Elijah himself is in an exceedingly desperate situation, leading a precarious existence, but he is still willing to act as God’s hands and feet on earth, even when he himself is in dire straits.

The widow’s doubt, and even the prophet’s struggle with this death, may also be our own in these desperate times of sickness and death. It is easy to spiral down into a belief in death-dealing powers, for this is what we witness in our world each day. 

Elijah’s revival of the widow’s son is echoed in today’s Gospel reading, in which Jesus revives another widow’s son. Jesus, like Elijah, shows us today an aspect of his life as a pilgrim, a man of God walking in our midst.  He is on the road again.  This time, with his followers in tow, he approaches the gate of a town while another group is crossing in the opposite direction outside the city.  This crowd surrounds a funeral procession of a widow’s young son on their way to the burial grounds.  Jesus, without being solicited to do anything, feels compassion, tells the widow “Do not weep,” and then puts his hand on the bier and says, “Young man, arise!”  The story couldn’t be simpler.  Yet, from the very depths of his being Jesus feels the wrenching suffering of the poor woman’s incredible grief. No words are needed from her.  Jesus sees, he feels, he acts—and he brings forth new life.  This is Jesus’ mission: “I have come to give life and to give it in abundance.”  Early in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus announces his vision and mission in life:  “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor;  he has sent me to heal the brokenhearted [literally, to those who are crushed], to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised.”

In all these scripture readings, we have also witnessed another thread: compassion: the feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.

Whence comes compassion?  Is it not from love? Both eros and agape together? In Hebrew, the word “compassion” comes from the root “womb,” which enriches our image of God, who loves the world with a deep and abiding compassion.  In these texts, as in the others, love for the afflicted is manifested through this feminine image of nurture and gentle caring. It’s one image among many that we need to recapture and emphasize if we are to return to a more complete and rounded image of God. 

This compassion is manifested by Elijah in our first reading, by the Corinthian community in the second reading, and by Jesus, explicitly, in the third reading.  All have been profoundly moved to action: bringing new life from death-dealing circumstances.  In the second reading, Paul holds up the Macedonians as exemplars of loving generosity to meet the needs of the poor among the Jewish Christian community in Jerusalem.  The word “generosity” denotes a kind of love that acts out of single-minded giving without reserve, without strings attached.  It is all about koinonia: a community spirit of love.

In today’s Gospel, when we hear Jesus say, “Young man, rise up,” isn’t he also inviting us to experience this same reality? Rise up! Rise up from whatever holds you down, drains out your energy, your pain, your doubts, your griefs, worries, anxieties. Today, may his words resonate within us: the words I have spoken to you are Spirit, and they are life.   

The pandemic in our times has literally changed our world. With what attitude do I choose to face the unknown future? Facing poverty in all its facets: physical, psychological. and spiritual.  Do we need to examine our core values of conscience, which are greater than anything surrounding us, that threatens us, where we feel anxious, worried, or deprived?  We are now leaving Chronos time, and Kairos time is beckoning to us,  rising from within us.  We are being precipitated into liminal space, the space of unknowing, when we see the open wounds of our country.  At no other time in my life have I experienced such a need for God—not for a God who will just take away our problems, but God who will give us new wisdom, a vision to see when and how I need to allow his love to be embodied and acted upon in my life now.  It seems to me that God is calling us to abide in his love made visible in our times.  We are not meant to pull down the blinds and remain like a cocoon, in a hermetic self-sufficiency. But we are called to rise up and allow ourselves to be irradiated by Divine love and make proactive efforts to bear new life into this broken, suffering world of ours.

 

New Wine

Homily Preached by Sister Cecelia
October 18, 2020
Holy Wisdom Church

This morning, Saint Paul wrote to the church in Corinth that he felt so unbearably crushed that he was despairing of life. Paul realized he could not handle his afflictions, nor can we, without relying on God’s help. “My yoke is easy and my burden is light” was a quote we heard a few weeks ago. While the reflections that Sunday were all quite meaningful and helpful, I also thought of a saying I often remembered when life was bringing me much more than I could bear. It was that God never gives us more than we can handle. God never gives us more than we can handle when we trust that God is helping us. Our reliance on God and the prayers of the whole body of Christ enable us to carry whatever yoke is coming upon us, rather than relying on just our own strength.

The gospel this morning comes after the miracle of Jesus healing the paralytic who was lowered through the roof by his faith-filled friends. The people who witnessed the healing, and heard Jesus forgiving the man his sins as if he were God, were filled with amazement. No doubt the crowds would have told the tax collector, Levi, about it. When Jesus told Levi to follow him, Levi had every reason to rejoice that the wonder-worker had called him. He then gave a great banquet to celebrate and invited all his friends, as well as others like the Pharisees. These holy ones looked down on the friends of Levi, and they also questioned Jesus’ other followers who did not fast as the Pharisees thought they should.

Jesus defended his followers and compared life to a wedding feast. The first reading this morning from Isaiah tells us that the hand of God rested on the mountain where God had prepared a feast of rich food and wine for his people. Joy is a Christian characteristic when we trust that God is helping us. Far too many people think that Christianity compels us to do all the things we do not want to do and stops us from doing what gives us joy. Jesus was very much aware of the cross he was carrying, and of his approaching suffering and ignominious death, but knew the joy of the awareness of God.

Jesus was warning the Pharisees and us not to be rigid like old wineskins. Jesus was condemning the shut mind and pleading that we not reject new ideas. The Holy Spirit is always leading us into new truth. At times it is not even new truth but rather opening our minds to the truth that has always been. Think of Galileo condemned by the church for teaching that the earth moved around the sun. Think of Joseph Lister, who had to fight for using antiseptic techniques during surgical operations. The list of resistance to new truths is almost endless. Why be so afraid of the new? Let us take care and never shirk the adventure of thought.

The Pharisees’ trouble was that the whole religious outlook of Jesus was so startlingly new, they simply could not adjust to it. That seems to be the meaning of the phrase that the old wine is better. We have a tendency to prefer the old that we know rather than the new. Facing the new can be a fear-filled burden, but remember Jesus’ words: His yoke is easy and his burden light when we trust in our God. When the new wine matures, it will be better than the old.