Take off the garment of your sorrow and affliction, O Jerusalem, and put on forever the beauty of the glory from God.
At Mass last night, here at
Christ the Redeemer, Father Richard Conlin celebrated his first anniversary of
priesthood with our parish, to which his whole family belongs.
When Father Richard was ordained a priest, pandemic restrictions meant that there were ten people in the 900 or so seats of Holy Rosary Cathedral.
I can’t imagine how I would have felt in his shoes. But I know how I felt in mine—very proud to be the only priest invited, and to have the honour of putting his priestly vestments on him during the liturgy.
He recalled the moment when I placed the stole on his shoulders and put the chasuble over his head: “I made Msgr. Greg cry.”
And then he made last night’s congregation laugh by adding, “Of course, that’s not difficult.”
The back story began while he was on retreat preparing to be ordained. As he stood before God, he imagined himself as the prodigal son in the Gospel story. More than that, he saw himself dressed in the tattered rags that Rembrandt so brilliantly painted in his masterpiece “The Return of the Prodigal Son.”
When he told this to the priest directing him on the retreat, he gave him some unfamiliar scripture verses to read and pray with.
That prophetic passage, Fr. Richard told us, was fulfilled when I placed the priestly vestments on him at the ordination.
Which, of course, made me cry again.
Fast forward, if you will, to yesterday. Last night he told us the same story for a second time, since he had he preached here some months ago.
The same story—but with a twist.
An astonishing twist: the passage the future Father Conlin had been given to read on his retreat, the prophetic word he felt was fulfilled at his ordination, is the first reading we just heard.
When we fixed the date for the anniversary celebration months ago, no-one thought to look at the Sunday readings, so it’s by pure coincidence—or can we say pure providence—that things come full circle with this passage from the Book of the Prophet Baruch.
Small wonder that he told us the story again.
When Deacon Richard prayed with the text on his retreat, it was as if he’d never heard it before; when he told me the story, I didn’t recall the reading either.
But here it is, right in front of us on this second Sunday of Advent.
How did we both miss the importance of this reading, in my case for more years than Father Richard Conlin has been on this earth?
Pretty easy, I think. We read Baruch every three years, but it seems like just a prologue to today’s Gospel. All I ever noticed was that the first reading anticipates the words of John the Baptist: “every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low.”
Until last night, I had missed the heart of today’s first reading; in fact, only last night did the words go straight to my heart.
Let’s look for a moment at the Gospel. We are stirred by John’s words, intrigued by how they echo Baruch’s, both pointing to the coming of the Saviour. All good. But what does this Gospel passage tell us to do?
Nothing, really. Not that
every Gospel must be a plan for action. But the fact is you can listen to this one without
being invited to any particular action.
Now turn back to Baruch.
Again, we’re uplifted by the Advent message of hope, the promise of God’s coming. But Baruch tells us to do something!
Because when the prophet speaks to Jerusalem, he speaks to us. The words “Take off the garment of your sorrow and affliction,” which spoke so clearly to the future priest on his retreat, are spoken to you and to me.
A little over a week ago, I put on the garment of sorrow and affliction, devastated by my brother’s stroke. Today, I am invited—even commanded—to take off that garment.
Not just to take it off, but to replace it with the beautiful garments of faith and hope—to put on “the robe of righteousness” that comes directly from God. This I am trying to do, so that I can receive the gift of peace God promises.
Are you wearing tattered garments of pain, fear, sin, or despair? The prophetic word today says, “take them off.” Take them off and put on the robes of beauty and glory.
What would it look like, what would it feel like, to toss out the garments of sorrow and affliction? In case it all seems a bit abstract, we have today a beautiful Psalm to provide an answer.
“When the Lord delivered Zion from bondage, it seemed like a dream.” God’s people were filled with laughter and gladness. Weeping under heavy burdens when they set out to labour, they come back singing. Knowing the great things God had done for them replaced sorrow with joy.
We all have burdens, and many experience bondage of one sort or another. Advent is a time to pray for the knowledge and insight that allows us to seek something better, as St. Paul says in our second reading, and to allow God himself to bring to completion the good work he began in us.
I have seen Rembrandt’s painting with my own eyes when I was in St. Petersburg, and I admire it as much as Father Richard, who used it on his ordination holy cards.
But if I could have made one suggestion to the great Dutch master, it would be this: there’s a servant doing nothing in the painting—I wish he were holding “the best robe” that the father ordered in the parable. The painting shows what garments of sorrow and affliction look like, so I wish we had a glimpse of the robe of righteousness.
Of course, it’s much easier to paint rags of despair than robes of righteousness. Just as it can be easier to wear them.
But we can start our change of clothes right now by rejecting the hopeless lies we are told—or tell ourselves—and live in the hope of joy and glory so richly promised us today and throughout this Advent season of preparation and hope.
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