This is the second homily I've written for April, but it's actually for the fifth Sunday of Lent. Can you believe that in just two weeks it will be Easter already. So much to do and so little time. Here is the text and the podcast of this week's installment:
On the last things
I said a few weeks ago that the gospel passages we hear during this Lenten season are meant to help catechumens (adults in this community who are preparing for baptism and-or for other Sacraments of Initiation at Easter). They are also meant to help all of us to deepen our understanding of our own faith, and perhaps to realize anew the precious gift that we have been given. Over these past couple of weeks, the scriptures have introduced us to a blind man who was cured by Jesus, and we asked ourselves about our own blindness, or even our reluctance to appreciate all that our faith has to offer. We also met a woman at a well, and perhaps we were challenged by that scene to believe that the life of a disciple has much to do with discovering the gentle but profound love that God has for all of us. Today, the scriptures present us with a dead man, a man bound with pieces of cloth, and with his family who despite their grief also believe that Jesus can do something about the situation.
So what does this scene have to teach us about the life of a disciple, or about the Catholic understanding of death, the afterlife, heaven, the Resurrection? There's a reason why this story is told particularly during the Lenten season. It's also repeated during some of our funeral liturgies because it reminds us that in the Catholic understanding, physical death which spells the end of life here on earth is not the final word. Sure, our society might like us to believe that we should fear death, that it's somehow and end in itself, but this is not the belief that the Church teaches. Physical death is but a moment of transition. In fact, the liturgy we celebrate teaches us that from the moment of our baptism, we begin the process of dying to self, and living for the other out of love. If we truly understand what it means to die to self, and if we practice this discipline each day, then physical death is no longer seen as something to be feared because it is merely the moment for which we prepare as we live out our terrestrial lives.
The story of Lazarus is among the most well-known of the bible, yet few of us have ever taken the time to examine some of the other characters in the story. Aside from the star of the show and Jesus himself, Martha and Mary, the sisters of Lazarus also are present, as are other friends and acquaintences of theirs who had come, presumably to console them in their grief. The conversations that take place between Jesus and these characters all reveal differing levels of calls to discipleship, and differing levels of belief. I wonder whether the fact that Lazarus' sisters sent word to Jesus about their brother's illness was something they did because they were good friends with Jesus and wanted him to know about their situation, like we might do with friends who are close enough to us to be concerned about the well-being of our family and friends. Perhaps they had heard that Jesus was known to perform miracles, and hoped he could do the same for them, but Jesus didn't seem to answer their initial request. I wonder whether they felt rejected or abandoned. Do we sometimes feel that Jesus doesn't hear our prayer, leaving us instead in the midst of our suffering, or do we trust that perhaps there is a reason for his silence?
We celebrated two funerals this past week in the parish. In both cases, friends of the families came from far and wide to express their condolences, and I'd like to think that in addition to those who were physically present, there are also many more people who could not be here, but who continue to support the grieving families with their prayers, their kind words and their faith. I'm sure that Martha and Mary's friends also grieved Lazarus' death. Perhaps like us, they too found it difficult to voice their condolences in words that make sense. Sometimes the greatest gift we can give to someone who is grieving is simply to be present, even without words, to hold their hands and to help them through the painful moments of separation.
Like the story of the blind man, and the encounter with the woman at the well, the story of Lazarus is also about coming to believe. Our faith teaches us that Jesus died and rose again to life. It also teaches us that we who follow in his footsteps are destined for resurrection and the fullness of life in heaven. From the day of our baptism, we spend the rest of our lives coming to believe in these truths, and unless we are given some extraordinary gift of knowledge, we are constantly coming to believe until the day we see God face to face.
The story of Lazarus is given to us in order that catechumens might learn, and that all of us might come to believe that Jesus is waiting for us, that he has a place prepared for us when this earthly life is complete, that we will not know the fullness of life, love, joy and peace until the day we see him in heaven, but until that day, we should all strive to live as people who believe that these truths are not figments of our imagination; they are part of the heritage Jesus entrusted us with, part of the inheritance that awaits us when we finally reach our intended destination, in the homeland of heaven.
On the last things
I said a few weeks ago that the gospel passages we hear during this Lenten season are meant to help catechumens (adults in this community who are preparing for baptism and-or for other Sacraments of Initiation at Easter). They are also meant to help all of us to deepen our understanding of our own faith, and perhaps to realize anew the precious gift that we have been given. Over these past couple of weeks, the scriptures have introduced us to a blind man who was cured by Jesus, and we asked ourselves about our own blindness, or even our reluctance to appreciate all that our faith has to offer. We also met a woman at a well, and perhaps we were challenged by that scene to believe that the life of a disciple has much to do with discovering the gentle but profound love that God has for all of us. Today, the scriptures present us with a dead man, a man bound with pieces of cloth, and with his family who despite their grief also believe that Jesus can do something about the situation.
So what does this scene have to teach us about the life of a disciple, or about the Catholic understanding of death, the afterlife, heaven, the Resurrection? There's a reason why this story is told particularly during the Lenten season. It's also repeated during some of our funeral liturgies because it reminds us that in the Catholic understanding, physical death which spells the end of life here on earth is not the final word. Sure, our society might like us to believe that we should fear death, that it's somehow and end in itself, but this is not the belief that the Church teaches. Physical death is but a moment of transition. In fact, the liturgy we celebrate teaches us that from the moment of our baptism, we begin the process of dying to self, and living for the other out of love. If we truly understand what it means to die to self, and if we practice this discipline each day, then physical death is no longer seen as something to be feared because it is merely the moment for which we prepare as we live out our terrestrial lives.
The story of Lazarus is among the most well-known of the bible, yet few of us have ever taken the time to examine some of the other characters in the story. Aside from the star of the show and Jesus himself, Martha and Mary, the sisters of Lazarus also are present, as are other friends and acquaintences of theirs who had come, presumably to console them in their grief. The conversations that take place between Jesus and these characters all reveal differing levels of calls to discipleship, and differing levels of belief. I wonder whether the fact that Lazarus' sisters sent word to Jesus about their brother's illness was something they did because they were good friends with Jesus and wanted him to know about their situation, like we might do with friends who are close enough to us to be concerned about the well-being of our family and friends. Perhaps they had heard that Jesus was known to perform miracles, and hoped he could do the same for them, but Jesus didn't seem to answer their initial request. I wonder whether they felt rejected or abandoned. Do we sometimes feel that Jesus doesn't hear our prayer, leaving us instead in the midst of our suffering, or do we trust that perhaps there is a reason for his silence?
We celebrated two funerals this past week in the parish. In both cases, friends of the families came from far and wide to express their condolences, and I'd like to think that in addition to those who were physically present, there are also many more people who could not be here, but who continue to support the grieving families with their prayers, their kind words and their faith. I'm sure that Martha and Mary's friends also grieved Lazarus' death. Perhaps like us, they too found it difficult to voice their condolences in words that make sense. Sometimes the greatest gift we can give to someone who is grieving is simply to be present, even without words, to hold their hands and to help them through the painful moments of separation.
Like the story of the blind man, and the encounter with the woman at the well, the story of Lazarus is also about coming to believe. Our faith teaches us that Jesus died and rose again to life. It also teaches us that we who follow in his footsteps are destined for resurrection and the fullness of life in heaven. From the day of our baptism, we spend the rest of our lives coming to believe in these truths, and unless we are given some extraordinary gift of knowledge, we are constantly coming to believe until the day we see God face to face.
The story of Lazarus is given to us in order that catechumens might learn, and that all of us might come to believe that Jesus is waiting for us, that he has a place prepared for us when this earthly life is complete, that we will not know the fullness of life, love, joy and peace until the day we see him in heaven, but until that day, we should all strive to live as people who believe that these truths are not figments of our imagination; they are part of the heritage Jesus entrusted us with, part of the inheritance that awaits us when we finally reach our intended destination, in the homeland of heaven.
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