Primacy of Peter Does Matter to Us (21.A)

I've mentioned before that I thought the pandemic was going to give me some time to read, at long last. Well, we all know what a crazy idea that was. I'm busier than ever.

But somehow I found the time to get into two books this week. One is the first volume of Pope Benedict's Jesus of Nazareth, which is so rich that I will probably be quoting it in every second homily from now to Christmas. And by Christmas I hope I've finished the third volume of the Pope Emeritus's work, which is about Christmas.

(Note to reader: Of course I am ashamed that I never read it before now, despite several false starts!]

I won't be quoting from Jesus of Nazareth this week though, because the other amazing book I started really helped me prepare a homily on this Sunday's readings.

The book's called To Believe in Jesus. It's by a Carmelite nun called Ruth Burrows. For me, at least, it was just the right book at just the right time. For one thing, it really confirmed my decision to plough ahead with Pope Benedict's books. The author reminds us that although only the Holy Spirit can reveal Jesus to us, we have a duty to use our intellect to search for God.

(By the way, Ruth Burrows is a pen name. She is actually called Sister Rachel. She manages not even to have an entry on Wikipedia, no small accomplishment for someone who's written at least a dozen books over the years and is now in her nineties.)

Sister Rachel entered the convent at eighteen, so I figure she's been living a cloistered life for more than seventy years. But like most cloistered nuns, she knows what's going on in the world. So it was no surprise that she compared our religious thinking to a skyscraper.

We build this structure from our thoughts and beliefs, room by room, until it towers "majestically to the sky." Floor by floor it soars to heaven, built of the doctrines and dogmas that we Catholics believe.

It's an impressive high-rise that gives us a sense of security and even pride--we like to show it to others.

 But, Ruth Burrows writes, we ourselves are living on the ground floor. Most of those doctrines and dogmas "might just as well not exist for all it means to our daily life."

That's a pretty strong statement, but it's hard to argue with an elderly nun. I know, because I've tried once or twice!

Instead of arguing. let's see where this remarkable author goes with her statement: straight to us, to you and me. She points out that "everything God has revealed is for living, is for use."

Therefore, we have to think out for ourselves what the various formulations of faith really mean to us." We can't just be "content with rattling off the answer given us by others" but need to see how religious truths are relevant to our lives.

Today's Gospel presents us with one of those religious truths that we may find on one of the upper floors of our skyscraper--the primacy of Peter, the authority of his successor, the Pope.

It's easy to leave this Gospel upstairs and unconnected to our daily life, or even to our life, period. The Pope's in Rome thousands of miles away; he's far from important to my walk as a disciple.

Yet the Catechism says that the "pastoral office of Peter and the other apostles belongs to the Church's very foundation and is continued by the bishops under the primacy of the Pope" (CCC 881).

Can something belong to the foundation of the Church and live at the top of our building of beliefs, way up in the clouds?

Again, we can listen to Ruth Burrows: "everything God has revealed is for living... If we seriously want God then we have to think out what the various formulations of faith really mean to us."

So how do we do that? She has an answer ready: we must study the word of God ourselves, with the ability God has given us.

Certainly, you can look at the dogma of papal infallibility from Vatican I, or teaching about papal primacy from Vatican II, the Catechism, or St. John Paul II. But today we have before us the word of God.

Jesus is not setting up an efficient organizational structure in today's Gospel. He is revealing a plan for his Church that exists to help us grow closer to him. It must mean something for Christians today or it really makes no sense.

Nothing he taught, no truth the Church believes, has no use or purpose.

It's taken me a while to present this argument for the value and purpose of all dogmas and doctrines, so I haven't left myself a lot of time to unpack the truths Jesus reveals to us today. But I can do it quickly.

A key and a rock. With those images in our minds, we can begin to think about why what we believe about how the Pope leads the Church matters to each of us.

The key is a symbol of trust.  In the first reading, the king's new steward or minister receives a key and a mission. With the key, he can unlock the treasury in service of the king and people.

 A key in those days was not small.  And the holder did not share it with anyone. Which reminds me of the English abbot who invited us into a parlour in the monastery where we were guests. He pulled out a very large key from under the front of his religious habit. As he turned to a carved cupboard set in the wall, I expected to see a cabinet of relics or something of the sort.

Instead, the door swung open to reveal a liquor cabinet! You can be sure that that key didn't get passed around.

The keys to the kingdom given to Peter are, in one sense, his alone, and handed down to the Pope alone. But in another sense, as the Catechism says, the bishops together continue Peter's ministry under the primacy of the Pope.

What's that mean to us? At its simplest level, we know who has authority and who does not. When some trouble or other arises at church, people come straight to me and say "Father, have you got the keys to the kitchen, or the washroom, or the storeroom."

Now no-one's come to me yet and asked if I have the keys to the kingdom of heaven.  But I do... and so do you. Hans Urs von Balthasar puts it boldly: "Instead of the pastor being built on the rock of the congregation, it is the congregation, a part of the Church, that is built on the rock of Peter in which all priestly offices have a share."  (Light of the World, p. 121).

Which takes us to that other image, the rock. It's even more powerful a symbol than a key. In the Psalms God is called a rock. And speaking of the rock Moses struck to give water in the desert, St. Paul says "the rock was Christ."

Peter is called a rock because Christ is a rock. We don't put our faith in the Pope; we put it in Christ.

Let me conclude with another quotation from von Balthasar: "Faith in God and in Christ can only become rockhard faith in a rocky fortress through God and Christ himself. Such faith is a foundation upon which Christ, not man, builds his Church" (p. 120).

We've just skimmed the surface today, so let's continue reflecting at home on this question: How does what the Gospel teaches and the Church believes about the primacy of Peter and the Pope help me to be a more confident and faith-filled disciple of Christ?

Everyone is Welcome in God's House (20.A)

 

I took the ferry to Victoria at the start of my short vacation last month. The car ahead of mine in the ferry lineup had US license plates. It also had a message written in big letters on the rear window.

“We’re Canadians! Honest, eh! Moving home from the U.S.”

I complimented the driver on his good idea. He said it was more than a good idea—it was necessary.  He had been getting some pretty nasty looks from people who spied his U.S. plates.

As you all know, Canadians aren’t rolling out the welcome mat for Americans during the pandemic. At the moment, we like our friends from the States to stay right where they are—below the 49^th parallel.

Throughout the history of salvation, God’s people have also had some interesting feelings about foreigners. Some of those feelings were very negative and hostile.

In the Old Testament, “Gentile” is no compliment. The Jewish people had been oppressed by foreign powers, breeding hatred and resentment.[1] They considered the Gentiles, the foreigners, to be worshipers of false gods and judged them harshly.

This attitude found its way into the earliest Christian community. We find unflattering references to the Gentiles right in the Gospels. “Do not even the Gentiles do the same?” Jesus asks in one place, where in another he warns against praying with empty phrases “as the Gentiles do” (cf. Matt. 5:47, 10:5).

Worse still, Jesus say the renegade Christian is to be treated like “a Gentile and a tax collector” (Matt. 18:17). We heard those words at daily Mass on Wednesday.

So, there’s the background to the challenging conversation between the Lord and the Canaanite woman that we’ve just heard. She’s not only a Gentile, but a follower of a religion particularly repulsive to the Chosen People.

What Jesus said about Israel being his priority wouldn’t have surprised the disciples. The Book of Exodus calls Israel God’s “firstborn son,” while Deuteronomy says, “it is you the Lord has chosen out of all the peoples of the earth to be his people, his treasured possession.” [2]

So Jesus certainly didn’t shock anybody, or the woman herself, with his strong language.

What’s truly shocking is how the story ends. Despite the seeming harshness of the exchange, Jesus recognizes the faith of the Canaanite woman, and grants her prayer—"instantly,” as the Gospel says.

A new era has begun!

Before we talk about the meaning of this miracle for us, let’s backtrack to the first reading. I’ve described the hostile history of Jew for Gentile, but here we see something else. Foreigners can come to the Lord and worship him in the temple!

Today’s Psalm celebrates this, calling on “the nations” to join in Israel’s praise of God and to receive his blessings.

Following the law and loving the Lord are, for Isaiah, more important than being born an Israelite.

This was not the universal belief—later, the prophet Ezekiel rejected Isaiah’s view. But the seed sown in today’s first reading was destined to sprout in the Church.

The story of how that happened is too long to tell today, but the second reading shows the fruit. St. Paul received a direct call from the Lord to bring the Gospel beyond the Jewish community. He calls himself the Apostle to the Gentiles—the missionary to the nations—and his tireless journeys began the spread of the good news far beyond the people to whom it was first preached.

What does this all mean for us?

Let me answer this with a story. Before the pandemic, a quiet elderly man with limited English spoke with me after Mass. He said, quite simply, that he loved God’s house. That he wanted to be one of God’s people.

Last Sunday he appeared again. He told me that he had to return to his country, one where Christians are persecuted, and the Church is outlawed. Then he added, “I will come back.”

I hope the Lord might say to him what he said to the Canaanite woman, “great is your faith. Let it be done to you as you wish.”

God continues to call all nations to himself, and to make people joyful in this house of prayer. Our parish does not exist only for that tribe we like to call “us.”

The nine people who were baptized in this parish at Easter came from at least three countries. A majority came from the Middle East, from cultures we could certainly call foreign.

And let’s not think of modern Gentiles entirely in terms of geography. There are many people “out there” for whom the Christian message is truly foreign. We are called to welcome them with warmth and understanding—whether it’s in person or through this live stream.

No less than in Isaiah's time, these cultural “foreigners” should feel welcome to place their prayers and offerings on our altar. Today, and every Sunday, let’s pray with them and for them—so the joyful news of Jesus Christ will reach every nation and people on earth. 

 

 [1] Dictionary of the Bible, v. Gentile, p. 303

[2] Catholic Commentary on Sacred Scripture, “The Gospel of Matthew,”

Listening in a Noisy World (19.A)

We live in a noisy world. In fact, many people have noticed that life got quieter when the pandemic shut down the planes and reduced the traffic. But it didn’t last long.  

And the noise isn’t only the kind that hits your eardrums. This is a time of noisy ideas.

Lately in the U.S. it seems like a contest to see who can shout the loudest. And Canada has the same problem on a smaller scale.

Sometimes, we wish God would just straighten everything out. A few booming words from Heaven would help us know what’s right and what’s wrong, where we need to go in these confusing times.

Maybe it would help if we could see Jesus walking on the water. But if we read today’s Gospel carefully, it wasn’t exactly an easy experience for poor St. Peter. Even the sight of Jesus and his calming words “it is I, do not be afraid” wasn’t enough for him.

So how do we get away from the noise and find the peace that we need in our frantic world? The story of Elijah in our first reading has an answer: it shows how the Lord works with most of us, most of the time. We’re looking for fireworks, but what we get is “a sound of sheer silence.”

The sound of silence is one translation, but there are others. Another version of the Bible says Elijah heard “a still, small, voice”, another “a tiny whispering sound”, and still another “the sound of a gentle breeze”.

Have you ever heard those sounds? Only if you were listening carefully. And in our noisy world, we’re more likely to expect God to speak at the top of his voice.

To appreciate what a great this story is, and how much it can teach us, we need to understand that Elijah is not in the cave making a spiritual retreat. He’s not taking a day off to rest up from his work as a prophet. An evil king is pursuing him, to kill him. He’s running for his life.

And he was afraid.

The story makes it clear he was really afraid. He wished he were dead – he had lost hope.

But strengthened by an Angel, he kept moving and ended up in the cave. And then…  the Lord came to him.

I would love to meet the prophet Elijah and ask him how he felt standing at the mouth of that cave. He’d just had a frustrating and probably terrifying experience. He expected the Lord to pass by—to be present to him in his distress. But he wasn’t there.

A powerful hurricane was a logical place to look for the all-powerful God. Christians know that on Pentecost the apostles heard the sound of a mighty wind. But Elijah didn’t find God in the storm.

And then an earthquake. Another reasonable place to encounter God, who threatens to shake the earth in a prophecy of Isaiah and another of Ezekiel. But the Lord was not in the earthquake.

Neither did he appear in the form of fire, though we know that’s just what he did when he appeared to Moses in the burning bush.

Instead, the sound of silence. Or a still smile voice, or a gentle murmuring sound—take your pick.

To hear the voice of God, to receive God’s direction in his desperate situation, Elijah had to listen. And not just listen—he had to listen carefully.

And so do we.

God’s guidance and compassion may sometimes come when we attend a big conference or hear a famous preacher on YouTube. Spiritual earthquakes or spiritual fireworks aren’t unheard-of. But most of the time we will hear God speaking when we’re quiet enough to listen in the silence of our hearts.

How do we do that? I can think of three things right away.

First, turn off your phone. Trying to pray with my iPhone in my pocket is one the dumbest things I do—and I do it pretty often.

Second, find a cave. Not literally a cave, in case you disturb a hibernating bear. But a place to hide out—which can be this church, which is open seven days a week, or a room in your house with a door that locks. Or your own living room, if you make sure you’re the first one up in the morning.

Finally, listen with the ear of your heart.  We find those words at the very beginning of the Rule of St. Benedict. We need to tune in on God’s frequency, which we don’t only do in times of prayer.

God speaks through what happens in our daily lives. At the start of each day the Church prays Psalm 95 in the Liturgy of the Hours, the Divine Office. That psalm says “Today, listen to the voice of the Lord.”

We can miss his message if we’re no listening for it. A simple example: I was writing this homily after a very demanding week and looking ahead to another just as tough. A parishioner dropped a handmade card with one of my favourite scriptures through the mail slot. And inside was a second card, as gorgeous of the first, celebrating Dr. Bonnie Henry.

I could take that as a random act of kindness. Or, if I’m listening, I might be like Elijah and recognize the Lord speaking a word of encouragement and blessing.

I chose the second option. It answered the prayer in today’s Psalm: “Let me hear what God the Lord will speak, for he will speak peace to his people.”

Expect to be fed! (18.A)

I began my brief acting career in 1968 by appearing in a production of the musical “Oliver!” I auditioned for the starring role of Oliver Twist, but the director said, as kindly as he could, that I didn’t look undernourished enough.

Still, as a chubbier kid, at least I could sing the show’s opening song with real conviction. The title was “Food, Glorious Food.”

I’m afraid to say I’ve been singing that number ever since. My doctor says it’s really not the best theme song for a middle-aged man piling on the pounds in a pandemic.

But there are good reasons why people have been eating more these days, and baking bread especially. Food bring us comfort, and cooking and baking for others expresses our love and concern.

Is there any wonder that Jesus chose to give himself to the world in the form of bread and wine? As Psalm 104 says, God brings forth food from the earth—wine to gladden the human heart and bread to strengthen it.

The miraculous multiplication of the loaves and fish is also called the feeding of the five thousand. But even if the Lord gave me the power to work miracles, it would be against the law to feed more than fifty!

However, I am very happy to tell you that we have started to celebrate our First Communion Masses, feeding youngsters for the first time with the Bread of Life. And although they’re in much smaller groups, these children have a couple of things in common with those gathered with Jesus in today’s Gospel.

First, they waited a long time. Like the crowd that waited until evening, these young people received their First Communion late in the day. And second, they were hungry. Like the crowd that had not been fed all day, they were more than ready for the breaking of the bread.

First Communion Masses are always a joy. The faith and devotion of many of the young people is heartwarming. This year, though, these celebrations—there are four or five of them to accommodate the numbers—remind us that Jesus continues the miracle of multiplication today, in a far more wonderful way.

And he wants to feed tired and hungry people today and every Sunday. While the live streamed Mass answers some of our needs, it’s failing if it doesn’t make us hunger for the full meal deal.

Earlier in the pandemic, I talked to some parishioners who simply ached to receive Communion, and I watched as others wept when finally they could.

That hasn’t been everyone’s experience. Some people I’ve talked with just love the live stream and haven’t missed going to Mass very much. That doesn’t automatically mean they’re second-class disciples; it might just mean you’re not inclined to reflection, to thinking much about spiritual things. People are different, and some are more introspective than others.

 But it does mean it’s time to do some thinking now.

Whether you’ve been able to return to Mass, or whether health concerns are still keeping you home, the miracle of two thousand years ago—the overflowing and loving care Jesus shows in today’s Gospel—can move us to think long and hard as we near the six-month mark of the pandemic.

The Church had to hit the “pause” button for public Masses; now that we are able to gather again, even in a limited way, each one of us needs to spend some time thinking about a gift we might have taken for granted. Feeding five thousand or five million people with loaves and fish isn’t even close to being as wonderful as the Mass.

God no longer feeds us with miraculous bread and fish, but with the Bread of Angels which is the Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of Christ his Son. And that bread not only promises eternal life but gives us strength for our journey on earth.

Today’s Psalm says the hand of Lord feeds us. He satisfies our needs and desires. So let’s sit down today with the crowd in that deserted place, in the quiet of our hearts. Is the Lord feeding us? Is he answering all our needs?

If that’s not what we’re experiencing, let’s start to expect more. Because the Eucharist is real food—glorious food—for our hungry souls.

God is Kind, and Asks the Same of Us (16.A)

“This is our time to be kind, to be calm, and to be safe.”

Kind, calm, and safe. We find Dr. Bonnie Henry’s catchphrase on T-shirts, posters, and coffee mugs.

Her wise words help us reflect on some key messages in our readings today. Because, for one thing, the readings tell us important things about God himself. Although he rebukes insolence, although he has the power to act whenever he chooses, God judges “with mildness.”

The first reading tells us that even though God is “sovereign in strength,” he governs us “with forbearance.” God is calm and serene in judging his people.

The psalm says that God is not only merciful but gracious. We often think of him as merciful, which indeed he is, but gracious not so much. But what a wonderful way of looking at the Lord—isn’t it a great compliment to say that someone is ‘gracious’?

The second reading says that the Spirit helps us, that the Spirit intercedes for us—what could be more gracious than that?

All in all, these readings paint a lovely portrait of a loving God. Then the Gospel adds another dimension, the patience of God. He may rebuke insolence and show his strength to those who doubt his power, but God is patient. Patient enough to let the weeds grow alongside the wheat. Patient enough to let his kingdom grow slowly from a small seed.

The third little parable really strikes home for me, even if it’s not as obvious as the first two. I’ve tried lately to bake some bread. But even the so-called shortcut recipes require patient mixing. Without enough kneading, the results are uneven and less than successful, although I never made bread I didn’t manage to eat!

Thus today’s Gospel gives us good reasons to stay calm in our relations with our kind and generous God—to rejoice that we are safe in God’s hands and to ask for his help in every situation.

But the Word of God today takes us even one step further. God is teaching us by example. If he will tolerate the weeds among the wheat, should we rush to isolate or exclude sinners? Many times, the Gospels tell us not to judge; today we’re reminded of that but also asked to put up with the weedy people in the Church, our parish, and even in other aspects of our lives.

The first reading states this simply: The righteous must be kind. The Book of Wisdom says that this is something God has taught us by example: “Through such works you have taught your people that the righteous must be kind.”

It’s interesting that the term “self-righteous” is almost more of an insult than unrighteous. The righteous person who is not kind is self-righteous. And haven’t we met those folks from time to time in church? They can do a lot of harm within the family of faith.

I don’t know about you, but my patience is running a bit thin these days. The pandemic has lasted far longer than I expected, and the fact that no end’s in sight is very discouraging. It’s easy for me to get cranky or judgmental.

So the timing of today’s readings couldn’t be better. This is a time to be kind, to be calm, and to be safe. Kind with others, as God is kind to us, patient with others, as God is patient with us.

That’s a formula that should bring calm to our hearts, and keep us safe in God’s love at this difficult time. He's even more reliable than the amazing Dr. Henry.

Parents, Teacher, Priests, Evangelizers: We Sow, but God Grants the Growth (15.A)

The delightful Danish comedian and musician Victor Borge decided to buy a chicken farm.

“But you don’t know anything about breeding chickens,” a friend argued.

“No,” Borge replied in his usual deadpan way. “But the chickens do.”

I’m not funny like Victor Borge, but I’m with him when it comes to any kind of farming or gardening. In fact, someone once accused me of having a black thumb.

So, whenever Jesus starts talking about vines or plants or ploughing, I can get a little lost. But today’s parable is simple and straightforward; even someone with a black thumb can understand what’s happening.

The seeds fail to produce for three reasons: they get gobbled up by birds, they’re planted in thin soil, or they’re choked by weeds.

Or, rooted in good soil, they produce an abundant crop. 

That’s what’s happening with the seeds. But what’s really happening? What’s the point of the parable?

Jesus usually allows his stories to speak for themselves. With the parable of the sower and the seed, however, he spells out the meaning. Today we had the choice of a longer and a shorter Gospel. I chose the shorter, because I didn’t want my homily to compete with the that one Jesus gives in the longer text!

Actually, my big reason was that sometimes we tune out words that are too familiar. So instead of reading the longer Gospel, I thought I would read you a passage from a New Testament paraphrase called The Message.

Here’s how it presents the thought of Jesus:

“When anyone hears news of the kingdom and doesn’t take it in, it just remains on the surface, and so the Evil One comes along and plucks it right out of that person’s heart. This is the seed the farmer scatters on the road.

“The seed cast in the gravel—this is the person who hears and instantly responds with enthusiasm. But there is no soil of character, and so when the emotions wear off and some difficulty arrives, there is nothing to show for it.

“The seed cast in the weeds is the person who hears the [good news of the kingdom], but weeds of worry and illusions about getting more and wanting everything under the sun strangle what was heard, and nothing comes of it.

“The seed cast on good earth is the person who hears and takes in the Good News, and then produces a harvest beyond his wildest dreams.”

A bit easier to figure out what the parable means, don’t you think?

But there’s still more to this story. Notice, for one thing, that there’s no criticism of the sower. Jesus doesn’t point out that he or she should be more careful, less wasteful with the seeds.

If you’re spreading handfuls of seed from a sack you’re carrying, you don’t have a whole lot of control where it lands. It’s not really the sower’s fault if some spills on the path and some lands where there’s more gravel than earth.

We naturally take this parable as a warning to ourselves, not to let the seed of faith be snatched away from us or choked by our worries and ambition. Fair enough.

But I’ve never forgotten a homily that pointed out how the parable is also a consolation to those who sow the Gospel with disappointing results. At the top of that list, of course, are parents.

I wouldn’t know how to research the subject, but I am pretty sure there’s never been a time in history when so many children of faithful and devout Catholics have stopped going to Church.

Yes, it’s hard when you invite someone to Alpha and they quit coming after four weeks, but it’s a whole lot harder when you’ve shared your faith with a child for eighteen years and he or she rejects it outright.

Today's first reading, Psalm and Gospel all remind us of the same thing: our job is to sow, not to make the seed sprout. St. Paul explains this very simply to the Corinthians “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.”

So discouraged faith study leaders, parish priests, teachers and parents all need to remember who’s in charge.  Pope Paul said, “The Holy Spirit is the principal agent of evangelization: … it is He who … causes the word of salvation to be accepted and understood.”

That doesn’t get us off the hook when it comes to preaching and teaching and reaching people effectively. But if we have done our best and taken our mission seriously, the rest is up to God.

 

We don’t give up inviting friends to Alpha or Discovery because our first efforts weren’t fruitful. And we don’t give up witnessing to adult children because they’re not coming to church.

The important thing is to keep on sowing. Like Victor Borge with his chickens, we don’t know what makes the seeds sprout. But God does.

Don't Let the Yoke Become a Burden (14.A)

I get annoyed when someone knocks priestly celibacy by saying an unmarried man can’t know anything much about marriage. That’s silly. A priest may not know marriage from the inside out, but he knows countless marriages from the outside in.

So even though I don’t preach often about marriage, I feel capable enough when I do.

But I’m not so sure of myself when it comes to preaching about suffering. I’ve suffered very little in my life so when I speak to others about their suffering, I tread very carefully.

A dear friend encountered great suffering this week, suffering of a kind that I’ll never face. I hope to see her in a day or two, so I was wondering what to say.

Of course, I knew enough to consider the good option of saying nothing. Sometimes there just nothing we can say to help. Just being there may be the only thing possible.

But what if she comes to Mass today or tomorrow? What would I want to say to her about the Gospel we’ve just heard?

I would want, somehow, to explain that these words of Jesus are not hollow—that they’re not meant to invite pious feelings in pious people. If they don’t contain some deep power to help and to heal, they’ll do her more harm than good.

At a time of deep pain, how can we respond to this invitation to come to Jesus with our weariness and our heavy problems?  In particular, how can his yoke lighten our burdens? That sounds like adding even more weight on our shoulders, already bearing the burden of our sorrow or distress.

Can you see the danger I see here? It wouldn’t be hard for me to make things worse for someone who is suffering, by suggesting that they need only put on the Lord’s yoke and carry on. Follow the formula, and all will be well.

If we're not careful, we can make the yoke seem like another burden. Small wonder I’m careful when I speak about suffering or to the suffering.

But despite these challenges, we can—and sometimes we must—get to the heart of what Jesus is saying here. So let’s try.

The first thing to notice is the unusual location of our Lord’s call to come to him for rest. Without any explanation or context, these words follow immediately after his passionate prayer to the Father. One minute, he is talking to God, the next he is taking to us, particularly those of us in pain or distress.

One scholar says today’s Gospel passage takes us into the soul of Jesus. We see the depth of his relationship to his Father expressed in words of gratitude. And then we are invited to the same unity with the Father through the Son.

We find rest for our souls not in the temporary relief of our pain, but in leaving it behind as we become one with Jesus in love—moving into an intimacy where our pain is his pain.

I said when I began that being there is sometimes all we can for a friend who is really suffering. When Jesus offers to ‘be there’ with us, it takes the ministry of compassion to a whole new level. Unlike any human friend, he knows exactly what we’re going through, and exactly how the Lord of heaven and earth will heal and console.

I don’t know exactly what my friend is going through, and I don’t know exactly how the Lord will heal and console her.  Maybe that’s why Jesus speaks about a yoke—clearly a two-person yoke that brings us right beside him as we plough on despite our burdens.

Maybe Jesus is just asking us to get close enough to hear him speak loving words of hope and encouragement that can bring our souls the rest they need.

The powerful image above is by Christian artist Maria Lang.  You can see her work and read her reflections here.