Homily: Luke 16:19-31 Parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus

 

By Sister Rebecca

Just prior to our Gospel reading today, we are told that Jesus cried out, “You cannot serve God and money,” to some of the Pharisees and Scribes who were listening.  They were known to be lovers of money. They turned up their noses to him and mocked him.  But Jesus did not back off.  He told a very disturbing parable so that those who were possessed and blinded by their riches might open their eyes.  This story is an incredibly upsetting one.  It describes a harsh and cruel situation.  The story is about a nameless rich man and a poor beggar, Lazarus, whose name in Hebrew means “God helps.”  Saint John Chrysostom adds, “God helps the one who cries out.”  But this man’s “cry” is a silent cry; he utters not one word.  Jesus breaks the silence—but not only the silence of this man.  Throughout Luke’s Gospel, Jesus takes a stand for the silent suffering ones, the dispossessed, the sick, the marginalized—in short, those who have no voice.

            Jesus also breaks through indifference.  In our story we hear of a rich man and Lazarus, who live near one another but are separated by an abyss that exists between a life of abundance and ostentatious opulence and the extreme misery of a poor, sick man, Lazarus.

            In describing these two persons, Jesus strongly points out the contrast between them.  The rich man goes about dressed in regal purple and the finest linen, while the poor man is clothed with nothing but his wounds.  The rich fellow sets up grandiose banquets, not only on festive days but every day, whereas Lazarus, lying at the mansion gate, cannot even bring to his mouth whatever falls from the table of the rich man.  Only the dogs get to feed on what he longs for.  The dogs alone see this man and give him some relief by licking his wounds.

            Nowhere do we hear that this rich man has exploited, mistreated, or despised the poor and miserable.  He is not a bad man; there is no mention of him doing evil things.  He is simply indifferent to the needs of others.  His entire life seems to us inhuman, since he is egotistically concerned only for his own comfort.  There is a total disconnect between himself and the poor man right under his feet.  He ignores Lazarus because he is so utterly self-absorbed.  He has no conscience because he is not conscious of anything beyond himself and of his own pleasure.  He has a heart of stone.  

            We must not deceive ourselves: Jesus does not only denounce the Galilean situation of his times.  He attempts to stir up the conscience of our own Christian community.

            As followers of Jesus, and hearing this story anew today, we can ask ourselves: What words stand out in our own minds?  The readings this morning from the Book of Deuteronomy and the Epistle to the Romans give us insights into the path: “The Word is near you—it is in your mouth and in your heart so you may practice it.”  What “Word” of life is Christ striving to get through to us?  What is he stirring us to reflect upon?  The Word of God is on our lips and in our hearts so we may listen to it and practice it.  Surely, the Word of God to each one of us today is not as individuals to try to eradicate poverty or bridge the gap between the haves and the have-nots.  Even Jesus said, “The poor you will always have with you.”  One of the three great temptations of Jesus in the desert was to use his gifts to turn stones into bread and do just that: eradicate hunger.  Rather, his mission was to teach and turn hearts of stone into hearts of love and compassion.

            But when we read the Gospels and the Epistles we note that there are all kinds of poverty, suffering, and misery that are not just about food and clothing.  Most of those who are listening to this Gospel today are both rich and poor.  The story depicts what is blatantly obvious of what rich and poor look like, might feel like.  This is real.  Yet, like all parables, this one needs to be unpacked at a personal level.  These stories are meant to strike our imagination as metaphor and lead us to a deeper level of listening to what Jesus is calling each of us as his followers: Listen to the silent cries of not only those close to us but of our very own hearts.

            We all have riches, different levels of riches: talents, knowledge, health in mind and body, skills that are proper to each of us.  We received them in order to steward them for the good of others.  Are we really sharing the ones that are needed by those in our midst or part of our social lives?  Are we sensitive to a particular need of the one closest to us at any given moment?  Are we so “possessed” or blinded  by one or another of our personal riches, a particular gift that might so absorb us that we fail to see the bigger picture of our community lives, whether here at the monastery or in our families and workplaces?

            What Jesus really points to is the great chasm—the sin of the world that has created relational chasms all over the place.  For example, is there is a chasm between us and God, between us and them, between us and ourselves, between us and creation?  That is what hell is like.  That is the darkness from which we are all called to realize that we need to be saved.  Is there a silence that needs to break through in our lives, or an unfeeling indifference that creates gaps among us?  Do we act sometimes like the indifferent rich man but also like a silenced “Lazarus”?  We absolutely need to cry out for God’s help as we are called to break through the barrier of an unhealthy and painful silence.  We need to communicate at a deeper level and close the gap that may exist between us and with one another.  Anthony the Great said that life and death is in your relationship with your neighbor.  Love bridges the chasm between life and death.

 

 

Homily, March 25, 2021 Annunciation

 As preached by Sister Cecelia
Holy Wisdom Church

Heb.2: 11-18   LK 1:26-38

Today we heard Archangel Gabriel greeting Mary with these words: “Rejoice, O favored one! The Lord is with you!”  Some icons of this event depict Gabriel landing like a blast of strong wind running toward Mary—a very dynamic approach. Other depictions are like a quiet still life. Perhaps we can relate these depictions to our own experiences of God’s visitations to us: Some are an overwhelming sense of God’s presence, at other times a sense is so subtle that it is easily unheeded.

The angel’s next words to Mary were “Do not be afraid.” How often throughout Scripture we are told not to be afraid.  What do these words mean to us now? During the almost 400 days dealing with the effects of the virus on the world and more specifically our own little worlds, how often have we needed the comfort and encouragement of these words: “Do not be afraid.”

Mary was indeed puzzled by the angel’s words, but after initially questioning the angel, she was willing to say “Amen”—So be it done according to the will of God. Was Mary able to put her fears aside, or did she continually renew her Yes to God in spite of still facing her fear? What can we learn from Mary’s response? We have had to say Yes to great efforts to make our actions and surroundings it safe for others as well as ourselves. Much suffering and death, as well as constant inconveniences, have been met with many Yeses in our nation. Also some No’s.

We know from history the heroism that Mary’s Yes called for, over and over. We too, having made an absolute choice of Yes to God, must continue saying Yes when we encounter vexatious situations that we would gladly avoid. Think of life as running a race, a marathon, but not competing with others. Each of us then can be winners, crowned with the laurel of eternal life. Or we can lose the race that day when we say No to God. We must get up and start again.

None of us are utterly stupid or supreme geniuses. None of us are so poor that we could not be poorer. None are so rich that we would not like more. No one loves God so much that we could not love God more. No one is so totally destitute of goodness whose heart could not still long for God.

We are all on a journey, a pilgrimage. We have much work to do to understand what God is asking of us. Are we counting the successes of our Lenten practices? We can derive a personal satisfaction, a comfort, that comes from knowing that we are doing something to make ourselves better. Athletes do the same thing. These things are good, but they are not all that the spiritual life is about. The core values of the spiritual life are as much about the attitudes that underlie the way we go about life as they are about the regularity of our devotions.

We can use our own practices as a benchmark with which to judge—and find wanting—the religious disciplines of others. Abba Poemen, who lived in the third or fourth century, was asked by the other monks if they should pinch a brother who had fallen asleep during the services. Abba Poemen answered that he would gently put the sleeping monk’s head on his own lap to let him sleep more comfortably instead of pinching him awake.

As important as regular religious practices are to awaken spiritual consciousness, they are not the essence of spiritual life. Legalism and false asceticism are pale reflections of great virtue. Mercy, compassion, and forgiveness are the holiness that pious practices are meant to sow in us. Rigidity for its own sake can never substitute for real virtue. We are meant to prod ourselves to regular discipline so that thereby our hearts will be softened to serve those whom Jesus served. Be not afraid, and know that Jesus wants kind hearts from us, not sacrifice: deep basic commitment, our Yeses, not blue ribbons for winning the marathons we’ve run to make ourselves “feel holy.”

 A truly holy person once wrote “Be kind, be kind, be kind!” Let our own Yes be that we act with kindness each day and are open to receive kindness from others as well.

 Christ is in our midst.

 

Homily: Prodigal Son, February 28, 2021

 

Luke 15:11-32

By Sister Rebecca

The story of the Prodigal Son reflects the same theme as that of the Pharisee and the Publican. The difference is that the characters of the long-suffering and compassionate father and the self-righteous hidebound elder son bring out some deeper elements of repentance: change of heart, and forgiveness again. But now it is in the context of exile and coming home. We see the obvious sin of the younger son contrasted with the more subtle sin of the elder brother, along with the long-suffering compassion of the father, who is the uniting figure in a house torn apart for years.

The younger son who leaves his father's house is like the unscrupulous tax collector in last Sunday’s parable of the Pharisee and the Publican. Taking his inheritance early, he wastes it, becoming poor and destitute. His self-inflicted suffering finally cracks open his rebellious heart, and he returns home to ask forgiveness. Jesus points in other places to more obvious sinners, like prostitutes and tax-collectors, and tells us that they will get into heaven before the less obvious sinners, like hypocrites and Pharisees—those who are deluded into believing that they are righteous. He tells us that those who sin much turn out to love much.

The elder son is like the Pharisee who boasted of his faithfulness to the Law. The elder son boasted that he had remained loyal and upright in his father's house. Both men thought themselves righteous, and they judged other human beings.  Did they do the right things but for the wrong reasons? Enjoying wealth and security, knowledge of the Law and a kind of self-serving obedience to it: neither of them was able to recognize his own sin and inner poverty. Pride and arrogance undermined all their so-called righteousness. Like a worm in an apple, it ate away at their hearts until there was little left to draw on when the time for compassion came around.

The Pharisee and the elder brother cared only for themselves. They actually broke the Law, which says, “You shall love your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength and your neighbor as yourself.” So it is with those two and with us when we abandon compassion for legalism.

Legalism, zealotry, and extremism are always signs that indicate spiritual bypassing is taking place. Beneath these behaviors there is always anger, denial, and actually very intense suffering. The word “passion” is often defined as “sin,” but that is not what it means. The word “passion” actually means “suffering.” So, the way to a real change of mind is also the path of the alleviation of our internal suffering. We must not avoid our pain if we want to heal our pain. There is no other way to heal it than to experience it, to go there armed with compassion and courage as God leads, and actually feel what it is we have tried so hard to forget and avoid. There is no other way. That is what the scripture means that says, “Of this be certain: your sin will find you out.” Eventually, we will have to deal honestly with what it is that is eating us up inside.

Here I would like to share a story that happened many decades ago and made a deep impression on me.  A particular family was celebrating the 18th birthday of the oldest of three daughters.  Upon return from Sunday mass, the family gathered together for their usual brunch.  When the gifts were being offered to the birthday girl, the middle sister, scowling as shoved her card over to her older sister, said in a nasty tone, “Here’s a card for you—if you even care!”  The older sister stifled her knee-jerk reaction: to shove it back to her, tit for tat. That would be the usual reaction. This time, however, she kept silent and opened the card.  Reading it, the older girl felt deeply moved, since this was the first time her sister had ever expressed positive, kind sentiments to her.  She got up from the table and hugged her sister, thanking her with all her heart.  Shocked, the younger sister suddenly burst into tears: “Oh! I am so sorry for being so mean to you…”

 

This was a real transformative experience for both of them. They had been always at odds with each other.  The younger sister was quiet and studious. She manifested a religious persona, always doing the “right thing.” She was a stay-at-home kid, cared little about her appearance, saved her allowance, and habitually criticized her older sister, who bore the traits of the young son in the gospel: impulsive, spending money thoughtlessly, fun-loving, with a passion for fashionable clothes, adventurous, and independent, not to mention uninterested in things religious. This sounds like small stuff, but often life presents the likes of such details that spark off a budding transformative experience. The two sisters became close friends. Both began to appreciate their differences and see what was hidden from their eyes about each other’s qualities.  This was an event, a transformative one for both. It reminds me of what Leonard Cohen wrote: “There is a crack in everything; that is how the light gets in.”

 

I would like to believe that the story of the elder son ends with the father’s gentle heart-warming words piercing the elder son’s heart. That he sees his own self-righteousness, his mean critical attitude toward his wander-lusting brother, toward whom he harbored such deep resentment and jealousy. That the father’s love cracked open his heart and ignited compassion to enter in.

Great Lent is only two weeks away. The call is always to a deeper and deeper gut-wrenching change of mind and heart.  Transformation is not an easy process, since it demands our cooperation as the searchlight of the Holy Spirit goes into the dark places where we do not wish to go. But, as the spiritual dictum tells us, “The way in is the way out.”

That is why how we treat others is so important to Jesus. Our ability or inability to love is the only true sign of spiritual health and the only criterion on which we will be judged on the Great and Last Day. It begins when we learn to have compassion on our own suffering. Only those in touch with their own suffering, who have taken the path of repentance, are able to see and experience God’s ever-encompassing unconditional and patient love.

I’d like to end with Lenard Cohen, again: “Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. It is through the crack that light gets in.”

 

Note: I would like to thank Fr. Antony Hughes of St. Mary of the Angels Church in Boston for his insights, some of which I have included in this homily.

 

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.)