Laetare! Rejoice!

(The following is a homily given on Sunday, March 15th, 2015, "Laetare Sunday" the 4th Sunday in Lent)

“Rejoice, Jerusalem, and all who love her.

Be joyful, all who were in mourning” (Is. 66:10)

 

This is from the traditional opening antiphon for today, the 4^th Sunday in Lent.  For ages this Sunday has been known by the Church as “Laetare Sunday”.  The word “Laetare” comes from the Latin, and translates into the first word of that antiphon “rejoice.”  Laetare Sunday is written into our liturgical calendar so that we will take a moment, in this season of penance, to rejoice in the coming of the New Jerusalem; the Salvation of Easter.

 It seems to be coming a little too late for me, though. I’m so tired of Lent.  I’m tired of only fish on Fridays; I’m tire of feeling the Lenten guilt all the time; I’m tired of violet vestments…

 It is human nature that when we’re tired, we tend to be less and less faithful to what we need to do or who we need to be. 

Like the Israelites, we start to forget about the coming Jerusalem; Lent becomes like a personal Babylon (II Chron. 36), where we sit and weep, remembering the good ol’ days of McDonald’s and green vestments and just being happy (see Ps. 137).  Our tongues only know how to groan and complain now, and they are silent when they should be praising the Lord.

 St. Paul, in his letter to the Ephesians that we read today, tries to move us out of this complacency.  He tells us, “Brothers and sisters,” that we are to rejoice, because we belong to a “God who is rich in mercy, because of the great love He [has] for us,” and that “even when we were dead in our transgressions, [He] brought us to life with” His Son, our Lord Jesus Christ (Eph. 2:4-5)

Through the ministry of St. Paul, our God tells us to shake off our faithlessness, because if we don’t, we will rely on ourselves, and that is the surest way to hell.  “For [it is] by grace [that we] have been saved through faith;” that ‘this [salvation] is not from [us]; it is the gift of God; it is not from [our measly] works’ that we should boast, but in the fact that our every breathe depends upon the love of God.

 And what of this love?  Why do we owe so much to this “God of Love” who sometimes we wonder even exists?  How are we to rejoice in something that escapes our understanding because sometimes it just seems too abstract?  Too irrelevant to us? 

Love is supposed to feel good, right?  It’s supposed to comfort us; it’s supposed to meet our needs, and ask no questions.  Love is supposed to be free; its’ supposed to give us what we want.  Right? 

That’s what our culture would tell us that love is. That’s what our fallen human nature would hope that love is. 

But we know better, don’t we?  When a parent loves a child, does that mean that there will be no hardship?  When a husband loves a wife, does that mean that there will never be turmoil?  Just because we love does not mean that we will not experience loss, failure, pain, or even death.

 So, what is love?

Well, What does Love say that it is?  From our Gospel reading today, love seems to be speaking loudly to us.  It tells us that it is our God and our Brother; Love says that it is utterly and completely ours; it tells us that it desires to save us. 

 “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life” (John 3:16)

 The God of Love tells us that he is not only making us a heavenly dwelling place, but making us into the New Jerusalem; the City on a Hill for the world to see, where we will need no light from lamps or the sun, for the Lord God – the God of Love – will be our light (see Rev. 21-22).

 But be forewarned: This light will burn us so that we may healed; this light will reveal our weaknesses so that we may become strong; this light will blind us, as it blinded St. Paul on the road to Damascus, so that we may see more clearly the truth we live by.

The light of God’s Love shines upon the straight and narrow path that leads to glory.  It shows us that our Lenten journey is not for nothing, but is preparing us for the salvation that awaits us.

  And so I say Laetare! Rejoice!  Be done with your self-pity; be done with your complacency.  Rejoice in the knowledge that you are given today.  Rejoice because the God of Love sees you here, at his altar, with your burdens and with your blessings. 

 

He sees you; He loves you, and He wants to save you! 

 

 

 

 

Reflects on John's Gospel: The Woman Caught in Adultery (John 7:53-8:11)

I often learn the meta-message of certain passages best when I engage them on the level of imagination.  With this in mind, my hope is that you will forgive me for taking a less-than-orthodox approach to understanding the relevance of the Gospel story of the woman caught in adultery, and that you are able to find in this personal depiction of John 7:53-8:11 a message of forgiveness, solidarity, and love.

 

 

As she was dragged to the temple by her accusers, the woman’s veritable “via dolorosa” began.  She thought to herself: “How has this happened?  I was so careful… both of us were… how did they find out?”

No one really knew her; no one had taken the time to know her.  And so the woman had been forced to look for love in places the world around her had condemned.  The love she had found had left her empty and alone, as she stumbled down her walk of shame.

The woman’s eyes were filled with tears of fear and anger: “Why didn’t he stand by me when they caught us?  I had given him everything: my body, my affection, my dignity.  And he just vanished.  He used me, and threw me away like some rag of old clothing.”

The woman’s accusers had been rough as they prodded her along.  She had fallen a few times, scraping open the wounds on the palms of her hands, the soles of her feet, and the chambers of her heart.  Once she had been beautifully decorated for her lover with rich perfumes, dazzling jewelry, and flowing fabrics.  Now, she looked like a homeless dog; mud-encrusted and cheeks stained by tears.

The woman said to herself: “Today, I’m going to die from what I’ve run from my whole life; it won’t be the stones that kill me.  I’m going to die and, if I admit it, nothing will really change for me.  I’m going to die – alone.”

The party of the accusers and the accused stopped when it reached the temple area.  There, a man was sitting down, talking to a crowd of people (Jn. 8:2).  With what seemed like malice, directed not at the woman, but at the man sitting down, the accusers began to speak: “Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery.  Now, in the law, Moses commanded us to stone such women.  So what do you say?” (Jn. 8:4-5)

The way in which these words were laced with such hatred and arrogance made the woman wince.  Had she not been the one about to die herself, she would have felt pity for the man to whom her accusers spoke.

The man himself did not seem to be affected by this onslaught of verbiage, though.  Instead, he simply began to write in the earth before him (Jn. 8:6).  The woman felt a deep desire to see what he wrote… Were those words?  Or maybe symbols; a fish perhaps?  Her curiosity almost made her forget about her fate… 

When the woman’s accusers did not receive the reaction they wanted, they continued their barrage of threats and goads at the man.  They also began to ready their weaponry of stones, priming themselves like a pitcher at a baseball game. 

It was then that the man straightened up and said to them, “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw as stone at her” (Jn. 8:7).  With this, the man began to write in the dirt again; it was his turn to wait for a response now. 

Everyone seemed stunned by these simple words: the accusers, with their stones in hand, seemed paralyzed with both anger and shame; the woman stood in the middle of them (Jn. 8:3), simply dumb-founded.  Even the crowd that had gathered to speak to the man they called “Teacher” were all in a trance-like state. 

These simple words had left their world, a world built upon the foundation of moral certitude at any cost, floundering for a shred of understanding.  These simple words had dealt a death blow to pride and self-righteousness because no one – not one accuser, not one scribe or Pharisee, not one onlooker, had the capacity to throw a stone on the grounds laid down by these simple words. 

Thud.  Grumble.  Jeer.  Thud.  These sounds – of stones falling out of hands and curses falling out of mouths – were the only reply the accusers could give.  They backed away from this “teacher,” like hyenas spooked by a distant lion’s roar.

Moments passed, and then the woman was left alone in front of the man.  She wanted to thank him, but she was too ashamed of her condition to even consider speaking to him.  She wanted to know who he was; how he came to have such wisdom and power over hearts and minds. 

Jesus straightened up and said to her, “Where are they?  Has no one condemned you?” [The woman] replied, “no one, sir.”  Then Jesus said, “Neither do I condemn you.  Go and from now on do not sin anymore.”(Jn. 8:10-11)

Her eyes met his gaze, and for the first time in her life, the woman felt like she was not alone.  This man somehow knew her in a way more intimate than any physical encounter could achieve.  He had given her a mercy that had stayed the execution of her spirit as well as her body.  He had shown her a love that saw her for who she was and not what she could give; he had saved her that day: from her accusers and from the solitude of sin.

As she turned to leave, she was able to decipher what Jesus had written in the earth.  It was her name.