Behold The Mercy Of God

[in lieu of a real post, the homily I gave on Sunday]

Well, here we are, at the first Sunday after Easter and, in a way, it’s kind of a let-down, isn’t it? I mean, we’ve just finished celebrating Jesus’ Resurrection! We’ve come through a difficult Passiontide and arrived at a place of pure joy and miracle. Finally, Lent is over! Finally, Easter has arrived! We’ve had all the family dinners, the chocolate Easter eggs, the sugar high and the inevitable cranky period after it. We’ve been exhausted and reborn, horrified and overjoyed. Finally, it’s Easter! The Lord is risen! Alleluia!

So, what do we do now? What’s left? It’s like coming home from a really great party: now that the excitement is over, we feel a bit empty, kind of disappointed. “Oh, it’s over.” Don’t get me wrong: it’s great to be home. But there’s still that feeling, you know? That feeling of emptiness. Even though it only lasts a little while, because life goes on, it’s still a pretty powerful experience. Maybe part of that feeling comes from being suspended between times. Jesus is risen! But we’re waiting for him to ascend into heaven, and we’re waiting for Pentecost. What are we supposed to do with this time in between?

On the second Sunday of the Easter season – which is today – a little-known celebration is observed: the feast of the Divine Mercy. A Polish nun named Sister Faustina (who is now considered a Saint) received visions from our Lord Jesus Christ throughout most of her life. These visions – these messages from Jesus – infused her life, leading her to join a convent and shaping her mission as an Apostle of Mercy. Jesus instructed her to record everything he told her in her diary, and ordered her to proclaim his message of mercy to all people.

One of the things Jesus told her to do was to paint an image of him. In the painting, Jesus stands with one hand over his Sacred Heart and the other reaching out in a blessing. He looks pretty welcoming, like he wants you to come to him. Two rays of light emerge from his Heart. The red ray represents the blood he shed on the Cross, as well as the life of the soul; the whitish-blue ray symbolizes the water flowing from his side, and the soul being made righteous. Jesus’ death both gives life to our souls and purifies them, making them whole again. Most Divine Mercy Icons have these words written on them: “Lord Jesus, I trust in you.” Jesus promised Saint Faustina that the souls genuinely devoted to his Divine Mercy would never die.

Celebrating the Divine Mercy actually takes nine days: it consists of a series of prayers extending from Good Friday until today. Each day, prayers are offered for a different group of people. We begin by praying that all sinners will be immersed in the ocean of God’s mercy. And on the last day, we end by praying for all the souls that have become lukewarm – the people who once cared about God and don’t anymore, the people who have lost the fire of faith. We pray that they will be enfolded in Jesus’ mercy and regain that fire and passion. In Jesus’ revelation to Saint Faustina, the lukewarm are described as the people who caused him the most pain during his Passion: the people standing by who didn’t care, one way or the other, about what was happening to him.

All of these prayers are offered in the name of Jesus’ body and blood, soul and divinity. They are offered for our own sins and for the sins of all people. We pray using these words: for the sake of his sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world.

I personally love this feast of the Divine Mercy. I know, I know, it seems really weird to be talking about this now. You’re thinking, ‘man, this is depressing! Why in the name of all things are we talking about Jesus’ Passion and death right after Easter? You remember Easter, right? It was just last week! Stop ruining my cheerful mood with all this crucifixion talk and get back to the Resurrection where you’re supposed to be.’

That’s a perfectly normal reaction: we are an Easter people and we want to live there. But we tend to forget the difficult reality of the Cross a little too quickly after the Resurrection – I know I do. But there’s no such thing as Easter without the Cross! If we allow ourselves to forget that the two are part of the same act we might as well toss Easter onto the pile of things that have become totally secular. Totally meaningless. We might as well spend Good Friday saying: ‘Now, you just be patient a few more days, honey, and Jesus is going to bring you a nice basket full of candy, just as soon as the Easter Bunny rolls that giant egg away from the tomb!’

The fact that we’re here today testifies that we believe in something more real. To really believe, to really be Christian, means that Easter has a real effect on our lives. It is transformative, and not just some ritual involving chocolates and draping the church in white. This means we can’t just receive the promise of Easter and squirrel it away like a precious secret. Like the light flowing from Jesus’ Heart, it has to shine out of us, because if we don’t let it flow through us and out into the world we haven’t really received it, either.

What does it mean to receive this promise? How do we allow it to live in us? The answer is in the blue and red rays: we receive it by allowing God to breathe life into our souls and to transform us in His image. First, we must ask for the mercy offered to us on the Cross. Then we must be merciful. Today’s readings are full of the truth that Jesus’ resurrected life is an offering of, and call to, mercy. Acts of Apostles tells us that “The God of our fathers raised Jesus whom you killed by hanging him on a tree. God exalted him at his right hand as Leader and Savior, to give repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins” (5:30-31). Revelation says “Jesus Christ [is] the faithful witness, the first-born of the dead […] who loves us and has freed us from our sins by his blood” (1:5).

In the Gospel reading, the Holy Spirit is given to the disciples along with the power to forgive sins. The idea that the Resurrection is about mercy is one of the oldest truths of our faith.

The final element in receiving the Easter promise comes with the command that we place all our trust in God. Blessed is he who does not see, and yet believes! The marks remaining in Jesus’ hands remind us that his sacrifice and mercy will never disappear. We can confidently rely on him as we strive to live the risen life. Accepting this truth is the source of our great joy, as in the light of Easter we see life.

And what life that is! The celebration of the Divine Mercy is meant to help us realize that Jesus’ forgiveness and compassion are total, that he forgives even the worst sin, and that it’s never too late to embrace his mercy. Our Resurrected Lord stands reaching out to us, calling us to him as beloved children. He bathes us in the light of his Crucified Heart. By taking his outstretched hand and standing in his life-giving mercy, we participate in the Passion that broke his Heart and make the heavy pain of it easier for him to bear. We must give ourselves over to Jesus in complete trust, believing firmly and absolutely that his mercy will indeed save us, covering over our sins and clothing us in righteousness.

I asked before what we should do with this time in between Easter and Pentecost. What we need to do is prepare to receive the Holy Spirit. We know there’s more to that than just running around proclaiming, “Jesus is risen! Jesus is risen! Alleluia!” To share in the risen life – to be faithful witnesses – we need to devote ourselves to God’s mercy. The crucial part of this devotion is committing ourselves to actually being merciful, to living the mercy for others that has been freely given to us.

To proclaim the Resurrection, we need to forgive other people. To anticipate Jesus’ ascension to his Kingdom, we need to evangelize the world by giving to those in need, whatever that need may be. To receive the Holy Spirit, we must be set on fire by love for others. And to await God’s coming in glory, we need to pray for the salvation of all the world.

We must always stand faithfully at the foot of the Cross, even now, especially now, as we celebrate Easter. It is by doing so that we, through believing, come to have life in Jesus’ name.




Readings: Acts 5:27-32; Ps 118:14-29 or 150; Rev 1:4-8; Jn 20:19-31
(11 April 2010, Second Sunday of Easter)

Will I Follow Him?

My parish priest lent me a book, "Desire: The Journey We Must Take to Find the Life God Offers," written by John Eldredge. In the first chapter, he quotes someone who says, "When the desire is too much to bear, we often bury it beneath frenzied thoughts and activities or escape it by dulling our immediate consciousness of living. It is possible to run away from the desire for years, even decades, at a time, but we cannot eradicate it entirely. It keeps touching us in little glimpses and hints in our dreams, our hopes, our unguarded moments."

He also quotes C.S. Lewis: "I knew only too well how easily the longing accepts false objects and through what dark ways the pursuit of them leads us."

False objects, false desires...sometimes I feel like I know what he's talking about only too well. I tell myself every day that what I really want to do with my life is teach. I get enthusiastic about things, which helps other people get enthusiastic, too. I love sharing things with people, which is part of the reason I never shut up. I like helping people. When I talk about teaching, people tell me I'll be good at it.

I went to graduate school on the premise that I could be a CEGEP teacher if I get this degree. When I think about teaching, I believe that it could make me reasonably happy because it's a meaningful job and I should be reasonably proficient at it.

The problem is, I don't want to be a teacher in any all-consuming way. I know that even if I settle into it, it won't make me happy in the sense of being contented. That's part of the reason I hate graduate school - because I don't feel right about it, I don't feel that this is really where I'm supposed to be in my life. I was uncomfortable last year, and now the feeling is one that at times I can't stand. Of course, being assaulted in second year and becoming dependant on powerful psychiatric medications probably didn't help matters, but still.

The point is that even though I feel this way I'm still trapped, because there really isn't any other option available to me. Why drag yourself out of the rut you've settled for if there's nowhere else to go, right?

At another place in this same chapter, Eldredge talks about how important those moments in life are where things seem to fall into place. The most powerful of those moments for me was when I was a girl in the parking lot at church. I felt like, for one perfect moment, everything was as it should be, was perfectly clear and made perfect sense. The whole space was filled with bright, warm yellow light, and I felt so completely happy. It's a feeling that nothing else can compare to. (shall I compare thee to a summer's day?)

That was the day I believed I was going to be a priest. It was many, many years ago and the light often seems very far away. But I also understand Eldredge's point about the recurrence of a deep desire, because it has continued to torment me throughout my life. I say 'tormenting' because, like any impossible dream, it is a thing which cannot be grasped. Like any impossible dream, I both must learn to put it aside and don't want to let go of it.

My parish priest lent me the book because I was saying I felt arrogant I mean, what the hell, who do I think I am volunteering to preach and stuff? Why did I think I can do that? After the moment of inspiration is over, it feels like a pretty arrogant thing.

He told me that it wasn't, and that this kind of inexplicable desire needs to be trusted as coming from God, and I should just go for it.

On Sunday, he told the congregation that I'd be speaking this coming week, that I was 'sitting quietly over there,' and I started feeling really nervous and insecure, and I realized that, maybe, desire can sometimes feel like anything but.

An Upper Room

Tonight we’ll celebrate the washing of the feet and the institution of the Eucharist as we observe the Last Supper. It’s a pretty well-known and well-rehearsed event. The Twelve are hanging out with Jesus for dinner, and then Judas betrays him while he’s in the garden praying.

“Behold, this child is set for the fall and rising of many in Israel.”

I’ve celebrated this moment over and over again, pledging to keep vigil with Jesus by adoring the Blessed Sacrament. Not to mention the traditional hot-crossed buns served in the hall after the service.

Knowing what’s coming, Jesus gives us a Sacrament that can save us and bring us closer to him. About to become a curse himself, being hung on a tree, he gives us a memorial that will become one of the most contested foci of God’s power in all of Christian history.

“and for a sign that is spoken against.”

But today I find myself wondering about all the other disciples who aren’t recorded in the story. There were many more followers than just these twelve; the women who stood at the foot of the Cross come to mind. But only these twelve are in the story when we remember it. Maybe they were the only ones in the room, or maybe there were others there who were simply not part of the inner circle. Either way, what would it have felt like to be on the outside?

I imagine it would have felt pretty painful, this belonging-yet-not-belonging. There’s the jealousy: why them and not me? It’s not like I didn’t want to…why did Jesus choose to leave me out of the loop? There’s the hurt: why doesn’t he love me the way I love him? Why doesn’t he accept me the way I long to be accepted? Will I never really be a part of this group, this family?

“And a sword shall pierce through your own soul also.”

I know exactly what it feels like to be on the outside wanting to be on the inside. I know that sometimes it makes me cry: I cried over it last night, and it woke me up early this morning, actually. I know how longing for something that simply isn’t can be painful. And I wonder if any of Jesus’ followers felt the same way that night, when he was with his friends in an upper room.

Would that have made them weak? Does it make me weak? Or is it just part of what it means to be human?

Obviously, these few people, whether they existed or not, are not the point of the story. They’re not the point by any stretch of the imagination. Jesus chose only a few to be with him in that inner circle, and it had to do with the will of God. God chooses, and in the places we find ourselves we must be content to serve, even if those places leave us on the fringes, on the outside. It simply isn’t possible for everyone to fully belong.

I don’t think being content to serve from the edges where we find ourselves means purging our emotions and disappointment about it and pretending to be a happy-rainbow-butterfly all the time. I think what it means is that we must be willing to risk the hurt of wanting or loving something that isn’t right for us. It means feeling those difficult feelings for what they are, and crying our tears, and wishing that things were different…but still, while holding within us all those things, going to stand at the foot of the Cross anyway.

“that thoughts out of many hearts may be revealed.”