One year
at Notre Dame’s baccalaureate Mass, I was the person tasked with purifying the
vessels after communion. As I was purifying the main, celebrants’ chalice, I
noticed whose it was. It was Fr. Sorin’s
chalice, the chalice of the priest who my community’s founder had sent on the
arduous trip across the ocean from France to the mission territory of Indiana
to found a school. It wasn’t the chalice
he’d received at his ordination, but one he’d been given on one of his
ordination anniversaries by a benefactor.
The precious metal alone must have been worth a pretty penny, the
craftsmanship and artistry more, and the history behind it probably made it the
most expensive thing I’d ever held, and certainly the most expensive thing I’d
ever swilled water around in and drunk out of.
The most expensive thing I’d ever held, but not the most valuable: for a
little while before I’d embraced fellow Christians in the sign of peace, and a
shortly after that I’d held the body of my Lord briefly in my hand, before I
consumed it. “What could we give in
exchange for our life, or the life of anyone?”
Jesus asked. Nothing, we could
give nothing so valuable as a life. What
would he give for our life?
Everything. He would give his
clothing, his blood, his body, his very life, to lead us into eternal life.
But…
back to that chalice: I was moved by the
moment of connection with my long deceased brother in community as I purified
it, but I was also pleased with my university that this chalice got used, at
least once a year, I guess, and didn’t just sit in a display cabinet somewhere. I remember being saddened once when I visited
a museum of historically important musical instruments and discovered that none
of them ever got played. And I
understand the motivation, I understand the logic behind wanting to protect
them, but love demands more; instruments were meant to be played, chalices to
prayed with, and humans… we were made to love and serve and worship our God
above all things, and love and serve our neighbor for His sake. And love is
risky.
And
Peter doesn’t want that. Peter wants to
keep Christ in his display case. He
doesn’t want to risk him getting chipped.
Right before this in the gospel was the moment we heard last week, when
he confessed Jesus as Son of God and Messiah and was called blessed and called
rock. He wants to preserve the moment of loving approval he’s just experienced.
But, ironically, that means he wants Christ to love us less, less
whole-heartedly. He wants Christ to love what’s good about him, and about each
of us, to praise what we’re right about, what we do well. But he can’t accept that Christ loves us
totally, utterly, loves the parts of us we’d rather hide, loves the parts that
stand in the most need of healing, our fears, our insecurities, our pride, our
wounds, our sin-sick soul. He loves our
sinners’ hands enough to let those hands drive nails through his holy sinless
hands. He loves us enough to die at our
hands and then return from the dead to show that his love is more powerful than
sin, more powerful than death. And then
he’ll lead us, to follow him, not evading the sin and suffering that infects
our world, but to pass through it, to transcend it, to follow him on the only
path to eternal life.
And we
shouldn’t go too had on Peter. Something that I hope has been of comfort to us
this week as we’ve seen disaster after disaster in Texas is how many people,
paid and unpaid, have undertaken real risk to rescue people, to reach out and
offer a hand in help. But, I sometimes wonder which is harder: to run towards
disaster, or to be a child watching your parent do the same. I know we can’t
really compare, but that’s what Jesus is asking Peter to do. It’s a scary
invitation. And he doesn’t give it in a nice cozy comfortable why: he gives it
in an insult! He calls him Satan and we can’t take the sting out of that
insult, because what Peter suggests is demonic: he suggests that Jesus should
love us less, Jesus should let sin have its sway and shirk suffering, shirk the
cross, let Satan have his kingdom. So,
Jesus calls Peter Satan. But he doesn’t
say, “get away from me, Satan.” He says “get behind me.” Come, follow me.
And he doesn’t lead him straight to the cross, he knows Peter needs a little
strengthening before that. The next place he leads him in the gospel is the
Transfiguration, where he sees Christ’s glory And even that’s not enough for
him, for he runs from Jesus’ cross. But the resurrection, that’s enough. That’s
what lets Peter preach and suffer and die for Jesus’ name. And that’s what lets
us.
We know
the path he will lead us on will not be easy, because we disciples should
expect to fare no different than our master.
And we know we’ll stray from it, because demonic thinking has infected
us, we do let the logic of protection drive out the law of love, we do
sometimes hear the sting of rebuke from Jesus, if we listen carefully. But in that rebuke is invitation. It’s what St. Paul calls the renewing of our
minds, that our whole lives might be worship, might be self-gift, might be
sacrifice. At Mass, all the baptized
offer ourselves on the altar, not just the bread and wine, that we might be
transformed and be broken for the life of the world. And we dare to do that because the love of Christ
is what urges us on.
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