2nd Sunday Lent C
See Commentary on Luke 9:28-36
Homily 1 - 2007
I shared a ward in a hospital a few years ago with five other fellows. One of the nights I was there, as I was trying unsuccessfully to get off to sleep, a nurse was talking to one of the men. She was saying that she and her husband had decided not to have any children. Given the way the world is, she felt it was not a good place or a good time to bring a child into it – too much suffering, too much violence, too much uncertainty.
I was glad she was not talking to me. I don’t know how I would have worded my reply. She was a very compassionate and caring nurse. And I agree that there is too much suffering, too much violence, too much uncertainty. But I didn’t share her conclusion.
Jesus promised his followers that they would have to suffer, indeed, that they would have to die, at least to their pervasive and irrepressible self-interest. Certainly, no one lives wrapped in cotton wool. But he also relied on them to build a better world based on the common dignity of every person because profoundly loved by God. And he assured them that God would work with them. A few more duplicates of herself would be good news in a suffering world.
In today’s Gospel, the transfigured Christ was shown talking with Moses and Elijah. They were talking about his passing which he was to accomplish in Jerusalem – a euphemism, if ever there was one, for his tortured death there. But Jerusalem was also the place from where he passed to the Father - the place where he was raised by the Father to a new mode of living (that we, for lack of something better, call risen life).
Talking to Moses and Elijah was significant. Both men in their time had stood up to and were oppressed by the political rulers of their day, both went through experiences of depression and even despair. Yet both were also key players in the unfolding of God’s dreams for Israel and for the whole world.
Suffering is an unavoidable part of life - but surprisingly it’s also the context from where wisdom, and joy and peace and contentment have grown.
There was a Greek playwright, Aeschylus, who lived about five centuries before Christ. He wrote in his insightful, poetic way: Whoever learns must suffer; and even in our sleep the pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart; and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.
Tonight I shall baptise Nate Chalmers into the Church. I’ll christen him, placing on his life, as it were, the matrix of Christ. That wonderful font over there is the womb from where he will draw Christ’s life. At the start of our gathering tonight, young children, with their families, have indicated their intention to continue their initiation into that mystery of Christ and the Church. We have three adults at this moment preparing for entry into the Church at Easter. And the rest of us are here to take part once again in the mystery of Eucharist.
None of them really realises what they are taking on. None of us really realises what we are taking on each time we step up to join in the Eucharistic mystery. We know that life is a mixture of suffering and joy. We know that they somehow connect – though we often wish they didn’t – as Aeschylus said so cryptically, by the awful grace of God... or better, by the mysterious graciousness of God.
As Catholics we have no monopoly on wisdom. We have no monopoly on joy. We have no monopoly either on suffering. What we do have is each other to support, enlighten and encourage us. We have a faith that holds meaning and purpose, and the help to recognise the presence of Christ in the thick of life.
We don’t see him transfigured. We don’t need to. We know he’s there – and that’s enough.
Homily 2 - 2013
Tonight's Gospel is so full of symbolic allusions, one tumbling over the other. Together they add up to a wonderful message, a wonderfully encouraging message. Let us tune in, towards the end: "As Peter spoke, a cloud came and covered them with shadow; and when they went into the cloud, the disciples were afraid. And a voice came from the cloud, saying, This is my Son, the Chosen One. Listen to him."
Perhaps you can relate to the cloud. Perhaps your prayer experience can be that, or your life. Thick cloud – can't see anything, stumbling about, fumbling around. Perhaps not quite fear [like Peter, John and James], but confusion, uncertainty … well, perhaps, a little fear. But sometimes, a voice, or a thought, or an insight, or a change of mood – that you wonder might be from God…
Let us look more closely at what Peter, John and James heard. "Listen to him!" What had he said? There were two things, in fact, that he had said - just beforehand. The first: "The Son of Man is destined to suffer grievously, to be rejected and to be put to death; and to be raised up on the third day". Immediately following that, he had added: "If any of you want to be followers of mine, renounce yourselves, and take up your cross everyday, and follow me."
Let us listen again to the voice. "This is my Son, the Chosen One". The disciples had just witnessed a symbolic enactment of that: "As he prayed, the aspect of his face changed and his clothing became brilliant as lightning."
The Jesus they had known so far, whom they had knocked around with, the Jesus who would soon be rejected, humiliated and helplessly crucified was in fact God's Son – the human revelation of God, deeply loved, not abandoned, by his Father, sent to realise his Father's dream of a saved world – what Jesus called the Kingdom of God. What on earth does that say about Jesus, about God, about God's Kingdom … about you, and me?
And let us keep listening! "If any of you want to be followers of mine, well, renounce yourselves, take up your cross every day and follow me". What shape does your everyday cross take? It is simply what happens every day, sometimes not much more than being in the dark, uncertain, stumbling about, fumbling around. How might we "take it up" - choose to take it up - and "follow him"?
A lot of us here tonight [and apologies to the others] can feel "beyond it", no longer where the action is, increasingly irrelevant. Our energy reserves are not what they used to be; opportunities are fewer; our circle of friends reducing. Yet, there is something unique and precious that we can bring to our world and to our Church.
We have experienced a lot of life. Our wisdom has grown. [Not many might want to hear it, but it is there for the asking.] We have known our knocks, but we are still on our feet. And we can still keep smiling - [in a world that doesn't smile much] - and mean it!. We have learnt patience, and, deep within us, patience has become established as serenity. There is much more. Alone, none of us might bring much, but together it builds to a critical mass. Together, we create a mood, a climate, that can nourish and support and welcome others.
They tell me that in some thoroughbred horse studs, they have a donkey in every paddock. Apparently, when storms break and lightning flashes, the highly-strung thoroughbreds panic and gallop around wildly and dangerously. The donkey just stays in the middle of the paddock, standing quietly, perhaps chewing the grass. Before long, the terrified horses begin to circle around the donkey, slow down and grow calm.
Perhaps "listening to him" and "bearing our cross" may mean standing in our paddock, being simply who we are, as we are, deepening peace in our little corner of life.
Homily 3 - 2016
Towards the end of today’s Gospel, Luke wrote, “As Peter spoke, a cloud came and covered the disciples with shadow; and when they went into the cloud the disciples were afraid.” How do I feel at the moment? How do you feel? Perhaps cloud and shadow sum it up pretty well. And the darkness will be around for a long time. I know what I hope is true. That does not make it easier. I am afraid. I am afraid for the Church, for good people like yourselves, and for others not as committed as you are. It can be bewildering, disheartening, even disillusioning. What if? Who can you believe? Who can you trust? I can’t help thinking of people wondering, Why believe? Why trust?
In our different ways, I expect all of us here this morning are grieving. I think we need to respect our reactions, and give ourselves time – give ourselves time to grieve. That means allowing ourselves to feel whatever is there, trying to identify just what it is that we are feeling. Avoiding or denying the unpleasant gets us nowhere. We can follow the example of Jesus. In the incident immediately preceding today’s Gospel, Jesus had told the disciples for the first time that he was destined soon to suffer grievously, to be rejected by the establishment, and to be killed. How did he personally cope, stay sane and focused, with that prospect and with the feelings it inevitably gave rise to, turning over and over in his mind? The Gospel introduced today’s incident with Jesus praying, spending time with his God. It would not surprise me if he were processing his fears, his grief. The presence with him of Moses and Elijah “speaking of his passing which he was to accomplish in Jerusalem” might suggest precisely that.
As today’s story continued to unfold, it turned out that God was present also in the cloud that overshadowed the disciples. And the God present then in the cloud is the same God present now in our darkness. We can process our grief with the same God with whom Jesus processed his fears and his grief. I do.
I also believe that what God, in today’s story, said to the disciples from the cloud, God says now to us, “This is my Son, the Chosen One. Listen to him.” This is significant, highly significant for us. Jesus had just told the disciples of his pending death. He had straightaway added, “If you want to be followers of mine, renounce yourselves and take up your cross every day and follow me.” Our present grief surely qualifies as one of those daily crosses.
What keeps on testing me is the last of the Beatitudes, “Blessed are you when people hate you, abuse you, denounce your name as criminal, on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice when that day comes and dance for joy, for then your reward will be great in heaven.” Perhaps the only way to discover if it is true is by living into it on trust as life presents the challenge. I think I believe it. The inner sense of growing integrity brings the kind of adult reward that is the specialty of God. I wonder if that integrity was what Jesus was feeling in his depths as, on the outside, “the aspect of his face was changed and his clothing became brilliant as lightning.”
Our Church is bewildering. As institution, it often lets us down. Perhaps institutions are inevitably dysfunctional to some extent and always in need of reform. Yet, as faith communities made up of ordinary, often heroic, people like yourselves, the Church can be wonderfully supportive, challenging, encouraging and comforting.
We can well say to each other what Paul in today’s Second Reading wrote to the people of Philippi, “My brothers and sisters, and dear friends, do not give way – but remain faithful in the Lord.”
Homily 4 - 2022
In today’s Gospel passage, Luke wrote of Jesus, “As he prayed, the aspect of his face was changed and his clothing became brilliant as lightning.” I suppose that Luke was seeking to say that, as Jesus engaged with God through prayer, he became more noticeably like God. Perhaps, in today’s Epistle, Paul was taking his cue from the Gospel narrative when he said something similar about the Philippians. As they came increasingly under the influence of Jesus, Jesus would make them become more like himself — not physically but interiorly.
Perhaps, it is like a lot of people who genuinely love: they tend to become like the one they love. As disciples of Jesus learn to love, they grow, too, they mature, and their effect on others deepens.
At the moment, our TV news bulletins are full of images and interviews of people in Ukraine.
This has led me to ask myself the question whether there will be more love or hostility in my heart by the time that the conflict in Ukraine comes to an end. It is so easy to take sides. My tendency is almost automatic.
I am not alone. Already people are doing so all around the world. What good does barracking serve? I fall recklessly, without thinking, into attitudes of negative judgment and condemnation when confronted with behaviour that I do not agree with. Sadly, so many others do the same thing. The contribution that each of us individually makes to the quantity and prevalence of aggressiveness and anger in the world is almost infinitesimal — but not quite. Together, the mood deepens around us; and the muted rage and hostility oppressing us become more and more universal and entrenched. The attitude necessarily infects also the hearts and minds of national leaders, who, almost instinctively, think spontaneously of war and mutual destruction as the appropriate response to international injustice and conflict.
Was it madness for Jesus to say, Love your enemy? No! Is it possible? Yes! Love at its purest is a decision, not a feeling or an attitude. How else could God love us all? love any of us? We can deliberately choose to love another with whom we strongly disagree.But to respond that way in fact, we also need genuine inner freedom. Experience shows that such freedom does not come easily. In order to succeed in loving, we need constant, deliberate practice in cultivating the necessary self-discipline. Love can then become a habit, a welcome virtue.
Jesus not only said, “Love your enemy”. He followed that up with, “Pray for those who persecute you”. Well, people are not persecuting me — but I can, and I shall, pray — for change in myself, that I might view human persons and love them as Jesus does.
And, at the same time, I shall pray for everyone, because the deepest obstacle to peace in Ukraine, to peace everywhere, is lethally infectious but unconscious mutual hostility. It lurks in the hearts of all of us around the world.
The less we realise it, the more dangerous we are.