Some
had the usual first Confession jitters, but they all seemed pretty happy by the
time they headed back to class. One parent emailed me to say that her son told
her “I like it when Monsignor tells funny stories! And Father Giovanni does
too. Priests have good stories!”
That
review from a young critic was very welcome—because it’s been a rough week. The
cold I’d managed to shake before my vacation decided to come back with a vengeance,
meetings and appointments seemed endless, and I felt more pressure than a
certain Minister of Justice.
But
a bad week and bad days can be a big help to good preaching. Because I really feel
called to emphasize the darker side of our readings today.
The
dark side of these Scripture texts, like the dark side of our lives, is rarely
central. But it’s there, and I think we should take a look at it.
The
first reading is about the glorious covenant God makes with Abraham and the Chosen
People. But if we take a close look, we notice that it’s not all sweetness and
light. As Abram sleeps, “a deep and terrifying darkness descended upon him.”
The
Gospel is more glorious still, as Jesus reveals his glory and his plan for salvation—a
second Exodus and a new covenant sealed in his own blood.
But
smack in the middle of this awesome revelation, Peter, James and John are
scared out of their wits: “they were terrified as they entered the cloud.”
Even
the second reading, which grants us heavenly citizenship, a passport to
paradise, speaks of “the body of our humiliation.” That phrase is also
translated “our lowly body.” Until the glorious day when our bodies are
transformed, we are weighed down by earthly reality.
And
that reality includes the complex chemistry of our brains, our physical
reaction to pain in mind our body, and other things that can be confused with
our faith in God.
We
sometimes think we’re entitled right now to the rewards Christ promised his
disciples. I hear people say things like “I wouldn’t be depressed if my faith
were stronger” or even “if God loved me I wouldn’t be living in this darkness.”
I
don’t blame anyone for thinking this way; I think that way myself when I’m
feeling miserable or things aren’t working out. Since we thank God for peaceful
and blessed times, it’s not surprising that we blame him in dark and difficult
times.
That’s
especially true in times of physical illness and depression. We get confused
about where God is, and what he is or isn’t doing. And then we blame ourselves
for being confused.
The
Psalm today is a spiritual reality check. Whoever wrote Psalm 27 was very
human, even if it’s part of the inspired Word of God. First, he professes faith
in God, who is his “light and salvation.” Half a second later he talks about
being afraid, and crying aloud.
The
Psalmist worries about God hiding his face and turning away in anger, even
about being cast off. It’s a pretty good picture of depression.
And
yet by the end, he affirms his faith—“I believe I shall see the goodness of the
Lord in the land of the living”—and offers us some powerful advice: “Wait for
the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage.”
I
don’t know if I would dare to say those words to someone in the grip of
depression or a painful illness. The healthy must be careful what they say to
the sick. But I could probably work up the courage to share one word, the word
the Psalm repeats twice: “wait.”
Wait.
It’s not over till it’s over. Yogi Berra spoke those words when his team seemed
to have no chance of capturing the division title, though they went on to win.
For us, the wait is longer—but the promise is surer.
Jesus
gave his three disciples a glimpse of his glory for a reason. It was a powerful
way of saying one word: wait. When you are terrified on Holy Thursday, wait.
When you see me hanging on the cross, wait.
Wait
for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage.
It
is not here on earth that God fulfills all his promises to us; we expect a
Saviour from heaven who will transform our sorrows into joys, and bring peace
to our troubled hearts.
There
is no spiritual formula fancier than the two words at the end of St. Paul’s exhortation
to the Philippians: “stand firm.” Hang on.
In
the meantime, we neither pretend the darkness is light nor rant against it.
I
listened this week to the wonderful podcast called Way of the Heart with Jake Khym
and Brett Powell. Brett quoted a line from the French writer and diplomat Paul
Claudel. I want to end with it:
“Jesus
didn’t come to do away with suffering or explain it. He came to fill it with
his presence.”
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