Jesus rejoices with us – Acts 2:22-33, Luke 24:13-35

3rd Sunday of Easter, Year A; Holy Infant

Have you ever wondered when we sing or hear a psalm, whose voice it is we’re hearing? I don’t mean, “Who’s the cantor?,” as important of a question as that might be. I don’t even mean, historically who wrote each psalm, though as a scholar of scripture, that’s the kind of question that exercises me in my day job. No, I mean to ask it on a level and in a way that respects and values and cherishes through whom the psalm came to us – the Ancient Israelite composers, the scribes who copied them out, the modern composers who wrote our settings, the musicians here who lead us in song – but asks a question that’s a level deeper than that. Whose voice is it really that we’re hearing?

Jesus refuses goodbye – John 20:1-9

Easter Sunday; Holy Infant parish.

I don’t really like goodbyes.  I’m generally one of those people who tends to quietly slip away from a party, rather than going round bidding farewell to everyone I know.  And with casual acquaintances, or good friends we’ll only briefly be separated from, that’s OK (even if it verges on unconscionable for some of my more extroverted friends).  But the dearer the friend and the more remote the absence or uncertain the possibility of renewed contact, the more important the goodbye is.  And the harder it is.  So, I really don’t like those goodbyes, as much as I still cling to them as precious.

Jesus restores us to life – John 17:1-18:42

Good Friday; Holy Infant.

John’s Passion is full of people making exchanges, swapping something heart-breakingly brilliant, fragile in its tenderness for something dull, insubstantial and ridiculous. Friends, sin is dull, insubstantial and ridiculous. And Jesus dreams more daring dreams than that for us.

Holy Thursday reflections

My first time presiding at the Holy Thursday Mass tonight. My pastor preached, so no homily to share, but two reactions to walking through this sacred night as presider.

First the footwashing: It's ridiculously simple. Scandalously simple. It's also tender, earthy, loving, but what struck me most was how simple it is. I just concentrated on one pair of feet at a time. Yet its simplicity can in no way belittle it; it's what God calls us to, and it's what God did for us. We're all called to this kind of service, but these feet were the ones the Church entrusted to me, not through my merit, but through the anointing of my hands which expressed itself by placing in them towel and pitcher, and simple old feet. Why do I make this all so complicated, when Love is scandalously simple?

Next, the procession to the altar of repose. It's hard to hold two ciboria while wearing a cope and humeral veil. To do that without dropping anything required me to clutch them close to my chest. God asks me to hold Him! The intimacy and frailty of Eucharist struck me anew.

God shakes us out of death – Matt 26:14-27:66

Palm Sunday of the Lord's Passion, Year A; Holy Infant parish.

The death of Jesus shakes everything up. And he knew it would. He even warned his disciples, telling them, “all of you will have your faith shaken.” But more is shaken than just their faith. The whole earth shakes, in an earthquake that shows that earth itself seismically gets what’s going on here, gets that what is happening in earth-shattering, creation-shattering: the God of all creation suffers and dies at the hands of creatures, out of love for them.

Jesus commands life – Jn 11:1-45

Fifth Sunday of Lent, Year A; Holy Infant parish.

What’s behind your stone?  What’s in your cave, shut up behind a stone?  What are you afraid to smell?  What can you think of… something you wouldn’t want to tell everyone here, or maybe anyone here?  What is there that you don’t want to carry, because you know how terribly it would weigh you down?  Dead weight… weigh that leads the death.  Roll the stone over it, try to forget.  Because most of us have something that threatens to weigh us down.  A memory, a fear, an injustice suffered or inflicted, an incompetence or a deception.  Something which threatens to reek of the absence of God.  But to try to live our lives with part of us siloed off and shut up behind a rock is not to live, it’s to tacitly consent to a slow-fade to death.  And Jesus commands Life.