Reflections on the First of the Seven Last Words
Church of the Gesu
Ateneo de Manila University
31 March 2010

And when they came to the place which is called The Skull, there they crucified him, and the criminals, one on the right and one on the left.  And Jesus said, "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do."
                                                                       (Luke 23:33-34)


I don’t know about you, but I have a little problem with these first words of Jesus on the cross.  I have a couple of questions.  

First of all:  Who’s 'them'?  Who is He actually forgiving?  Our Lord could be referring to several groups of people who have wronged him before and during the crucifixion, people responsible for what happened in different ways and in varying degrees.  Who could these people be?

Second question:  What does he mean ‘they don’t know what they’re doing’?   What does that mean?

If we try to figure out who he’s referring to, several groups of people immediately come to mind.  I can think of five groups actually.   

First, there are the Roman soldiers, those immediately responsible for carrying out his crucifixion plus all the other things that went with it—like the scourging at the pillar, the crowning of thorns, etc.   To this group I also include Pontius Pilate, who ordered the execution.  These are the people who wronged Jesus because they thought they were just “doing their job.”

Then there are the Jewish leaders, the priests, the Pharisees, and the scribes.  Actually, they would have crucified Jesus themselves if Roman law had not prohibited them from doing so.  These are the ones who had schemed and plotted to get Jesus the death sentence.  Wasn’t it, after all, the high priest Annas who rationalized their plan by claiming that:  “It’s better for one man to die than for an entire nation to perish!”  So they plotted against our Lord in the name of their country.  They were just loving their country.  Of course despite their lip service to patriotism, we know that they were really jealous and resentful of Jesus and worried about their own self-interests.  In other words, they were really just “looking out for themselves.”

There is also the crowd—the crowd that used to follow Jesus around, even willing to go hungry for him—but now, with just a little prodding from their leaders, chose to free Barabbas, a hardened criminal, over Jesus.  Before, they cried “Hosannas” to our Lord; but then they changed their tune.  Now they shouted, “Crucify him!”  Their change of mind, their change of allegiance shows that they’re the type of people who were just “going for the highest bidder.”

Of course there is Judas, the traitor, one of Jesus’ closest and most trusted disciples.  The Gospel writers insinuate that he betrayed the Lord just for the money—those pieces of silver he received in return for the information he gave the Jewish leaders about Jesus’ whereabouts that Holy Thursday.  It’s hard for me to believe that that was all Judas betrayed Jesus for.  We don’t know for sure, but could it be the case that he did it because he actually thought by getting him arrested, Jesus would be forced to reveal himself as the true Messiah?  If that’s the case, then Judas wronged our Lord by presuming that he was just doing him a favor.

Finally, there are our Lord’s disciples, who have conveniently gone into hiding when things begin to go wrong for their Master.  Let’s not forget Peter, who, as the Lord predicted, had just denied knowing Jesus three times.  These are the Lord’s “fair-weathered friends”—and they wronged our Lord because they were understandably scared to do anything else.

Five groups of people with their reasons and excuses for doing the things they did.  When Jesus prayed, “Father, forgive them,” certainly he had all of them on his mind.  Our Lord had every right to condemn them, but instead he forgave them all.

What’s more intriguing for me is our Lord's claim that these people didn’t know what they were doing.  What does he mean “they don’t know what they’re doing”?  Did he mean that if they had known that he was the real Messiah, the actual Son of God, they wouldn’t have done what they done?   But ignorance is no excuse.  In fact, even if Jesus were not the Messiah, what they all did was still wrong.  

I don’t know but it sounds to me like Jesus is just making excuses for the people he’s trying to forgive.  This is actually so typical of God:  God has been known to do this quite often in Scripture.  He is quick to change his mind about destroying entire cities at the slightest excuse.  He is just so eager to forgive.  He is the same here on the cross.

There are a few things we can draw from this reflection:  First, we can recognize all these people in ourselves.  The types of people that Jesus forgave from the cross—they’re all inside us.   These different groups don’t represent types of sins, as much as roots of our sinfulness:  our temptations and rationalizations, our scripts about the wrong things we do.  As I go through the different groups, it might be helpful for us to do a little Examination of Conscience by asking ourselves which group or which groups we most identify with.

•    We’ve done wrong because like Pilate and the Roman soldiers, we say we’re just doing our job.   How many times have we rationalized doing something by saying that we’re just following orders?

•    We’ve done wrong because like the Jewish leaders, we’re just looking out for ourselves.  How many times have we ended up hurting other people because of our own self-interests?

•    We’ve done wrong because like the fickle crowd, we prefer go for the highest bidder.  How many times have we traded our principles and values for a better deal?

•    We’ve done wrong because like Judas, we presume to think we’re doing other people a favor.  How many times have we harmed other people because we did not respect them enough and wanted to run their lives and make their decisions for them?

•    We’ve done wrong because like Peter and the other fair-weathered followers of Jesus, we’re just plain too scared to do anything.  How many times have we looked the other way or pretended not to see because we were too afraid of getting involved?

When Jesus forgives on the cross, He forgives us too:  the Romans in us, the Pharisees in us, the Barabas-lovers in us, the Judas in us, and the Peter in us.

All this reveals a couple of important things about God.   The first words uttered by Jesus on the cross show us the kind of God we have.

First: He is a God who forgives even when it hurts.  As we know, it’s not easy to forgive especially those who are dearest to us because the wounds they inflict cut the deepest.  This Holy Week God wants us to do the same.  Are we being asked to forgive even if it hurts?

Secondly:  Our God is a God who makes excuses for us.  The excuse the Lord comes up with on the cross is pretty lame, but it doesn’t matter.  He wants to give us the benefit of the doubt because He is so eager to forgive us.  This Lenten season the Lord invites us to do the same.  The people who may have wronged us—can we also give them the benefit of the doubt?  Are we also willing to make excuses for them?  Could God be asking us to forgive even if we don’t understand?

At this point we can spend some time asking ourselves: Which one of the following do you want the Lord to forgive this Lenten season?

a)    the Pontius Pilate and Roman soldiers in me
b)    the Pharisees in me
c)    the Crowd in me
d)    the Judas in me
e)    the Peter in me

Hello!  (My apologies for being away.)

There will be an online Holy Week Recollection this coming Holy Thursday (April 1) to Black Saturday (April 3).   If you're unable to attend an actual retreat, or would like to supplement one that you're attending, here's one that you can do on your own, at your own time, at your own pace.

Spread the word to your friends.

If you would like to go through a pre-reco preparation, click here.

Let us pray for one another during this holy season of Lent.

Note: This homily was delivered during the Christmas Midnight Mass in Xavier School last 24 December 2009.

Over 500 years before the very first Christmas, between 620 to 560 BC, there lived in Ancient Greece a famous storyteller.   His name was Aesop, and he wrote children's stories that were called fables.  These fables always had a valuable lesson to teach not only children but even adults.  I’m sure you’ve heard of some of them—like “The Tortoise and the Hare,” “The North Wind and the Sun,” and “The Boy Who Cried Wolf.”

Anyway, I think one of his lesser-known fables is actually quite relevant on Christmas eve.  The fable is called “The Dog in the Manger.”  And here is how it goes:

“Once a dog found a cowshed while looking for food.  The cows happened to be away for work, so the dog climbed on to a pile of hay in the manger hoping to find something to eat.  Being hungry, it began to chew on the hay, but as we know, dogs don’t eat hay, so he hated the taste and decided not to eat.   Instead he laid on the manger and fell asleep.

“In the evening the cows returned to their cowshed, tired and hungry from a whole day’s work.  But when they approached the manger, they found the dog lying on top of the hay.

“One of the cows politely said to the dog, “Would you please get off our manger?  We’re quite hungry and it’s time to eat our dinner.”

“But the dog snarled at them and refused to budge.

“The cows shook their heads.  ‘What a selfish dog!’ they mooed in chorus.  ‘Dogs don’t eat hay, so why don’t you let us cows enjoy our dinner?’

“But the dog just ignored their pleas and stayed atop the hay, guarding the manger jealously as if it was filled with meat and bones instead of hay. 

“At this point, the farmer walked in and saw what was happening.  He promptly picked up his rifle and drove the dog away.   The wisest of the cows shook its head sadly and uttered the moral lesson of the story.”

Okay, what do you think is the moral lesson of the fable? 

A.  Never leave your food lying around unattended, as someone else may grab it from you.

B.  We should be adventurous and be willing to try out new dishes.

C.  We should let other people enjoy the things that we cannot enjoy.

D.  None of the Above.  AND what does this story have to do with Christmas anyway?!!

If you chose A, B, or especially D, sorry, but your answer is wrong.  The correct answer is, of course, C:  We should let other people enjoy the things that we cannot ourselves enjoy.”   Unlike the dog!   Even if the dog couldn’t eat hay, he selfishly kept the cows from enjoying it.  So he kind of deserved the beating he got from the farmer!

The term “dog in the manger” has actually become a label for selfish people who would rather that no one enjoys something because he or she cannot enjoy it.  The comic strip Peanuts has a story about this:   Lucy gets a baseball card of Charlie Brown’s favorite player, and she refuses to give it to him. After he finally walks away from her depressed, Lucy decides she doesn’t really like the card that much and throws it away instead of giving it to Charlie.  Lucy is an example of someone who is being a “dog in the manger” because instead of giving away what she doesn't like so that Charlie Brown can have it, she prefers to discard it.

Now let’s turn to those who answered “D” and are wondering what this fable’s got to do with Christmas.

The Christmas story is about a different kind of manger.  When the angels appeared to the shepherds that first Christmas night and announced the good news of the Savior’s birth, the sign they gave the shepherds was “a babe wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.”    How different this Christmas manger is from Aesop’s manger!  And how exactly opposite is the meaning of the child in the manger to the dog in the manger!

Think about it:

The dog in the manger is about being proud even if we don’t have a right to do that the way the dog in the fable didn’t have any right over the hay.  The child in the manger, on the other hand, is about being humble.  God Who is Infinite Power decides to humble Himself and become a helpless baby in a manger found in some cold and smelly stable.

The dog in the manger is about being selfish and keeping things all to ourselves—even the things we don’t really need or want.  The child in the manger is about sharing what we have with others and giving of ourselves.  This is what Christmas is all about:  God becoming human so that He can share His life and happiness with us.   And as we know, He wants to give Himself to us, and in the Eucharist He offers Himself as our food—literally!  That’s why the Lord Jesus in the manger is so significant because He wants us to feed on Him as the Bread of Life!

Remember that Aesop's story was created 500 years before Christ was born.  So it's almost as if God decided to rewrite Aesop's fable about the dog in the manger with the life story of His Only Son.  This Christmas, maybe one way of preparing ourselves for our Lord’s birthday is to ask ourselves this question:  “What is in my manger?”

Do I have a watchdog in my manger jealously guarding and watching over what I have and own?  In other words, when I examine myself and my life, do I tend to be selfish and proud? Do I tend to be resentful when others are happy?  Is life for me a race, a battle, that only I should be able to win?

Or have I put myself in my manger just as the Lord did that very first Christmas?  In other words, do I offer myself to others and share all that I have with others instead of keeping others away from what I have?  Am I trying to imitate the God of Christmas, who had absolutely no qualms about humbling Himself and sharing Himself and giving himself away for the good of others? 

If we have not yet put ourselves in the manger, perhaps we can do just that tonight because I think that’s going to be the best gift that we can ever give to our Lord Jesus on His birthday.  After all, it is only when we humbly and selflessly offer ourselves to others, it is only when we put our selves and our lives in the manger and are willing to give ourselves away, will we ever find the Child Jesus Himself there.

May all of us have a blessed Christmas!

Note:  This homily was delivered last 23 December at the Simbang Gabi Mass in the Gesu,  Ateneo de Manila University. 

Just one more day to go before the day we celebrate the birth of our Lord!

But not so fast! The past couple of evenings, we have been invited first to think about another birth—the birth of our Lord’s cousin, John the Baptist. Amidst all the excitement and rejoicing in that household that day, one person was strangely silent: the father of the newborn baby, Zechariah. In the gospel story today, he more than makes up for it by breaking his silence and breaking into song, giving us one of the loveliest songs in the New Testament.

Lately I’ve been thinking about Zechariah. I have a suspicion that this silent character has something to say to us—a message that God wants us to hear loud and clear as we rush about in our last-minute preparations for Christmas.

Many of us already know his story. For many years Zechariah and his wife Elizabeth had prayed for a son—but to their growing dismay, their prayers were unanswered. In fact, when the angel Gabriel visited Mary at the Annunciation, he referred to Elizabeth as she “who is called barren,” hinting at the suffering that this old couple must have borne all those years. You see, for the Jews, being barren was a sure sign of God’s curse, and surely Zechariah and Elizabeth had to endure an endless series of embarrassing questions until people finally “got it” and stopped bringing it up in conversation.

Many of us know the feeling. We each have perhaps one area or aspect in our lives that doesn’t quite conform to people’s expectations—or our own: Maybe the pressure to perform or accomplish something in our studies, at work, or in sports; our own longing to belong; or our desire—or our parents’ desire or our spouse’s desire—for us to measure up in some way. Unfortunately, whatever it is, it’s not happening; and we just keep falling short. At first, well-meaning people express their concern by asking about it, unaware of the discomfort or pain their questions may cause. Then they begin to tiptoe around the topic, while others who are less kind cup their hand over their mouths and murmur behind our backs. The interrogations may have stopped, but the judgment remains there in people’s eyes—not to mention the pity.

I think this is how we ought to imagine Zechariah when the angel Gabriel appeared to him in the temple to announce the good news about Elizabeth’s long-awaited pregnancy. “Do not be afraid, Zechariah,“ the angel began, “for your prayer has been heard, and your wife will bear you a son.”

How many years Zechariah had longed to hear these words! So can we blame him if after the angel finishes his speech, Zechariah asks, “How will I know this?” If we read between the lines, I guess what he was thinking was: “Yeah, right! Now, how can I be sure?”

Well, the angel Gabriel must have read his mind. It’s too bad, I think, that the angel decided to strike him mute. Maybe he was having a particularly bad hair day, having a long list of chores and errands he had to run in preparation for this first Christmas.

I don’t know about you, but don’t you think Zechariah had a perfectly valid question? I mean, can we honestly blame the old man for asking the angel for some kind of proof? After all, I think Zechariah exemplifies the classic case of someone who has experienced the hazards of prolonged waiting. I mean, the guy is practically a victim of Advent!

Think about it: All his life, he and his wife waited—and were kept waiting—for years!

Unfortunately, something happens to us when we wait too long. Our hopes can be dashed only so much. Our hearts can be broken only so often. Our breath can be held only for so long. After a while, we get blue in the face. Worst of all, our hearts too can turn blue: We grow weary with waiting. We tire of hoping. And we eventually give up on praying for that one thing we’ve so long longed for.

Again we know the feeling, don’t we? We know what it feels like to be let down by life too often. We can only take so much! After a while, after getting beaten down too much, after watching our dreams not take flight too often, we end up getting disillusioned. We grow skeptical. We become jaded. We give up, we stop believing, and we stop hoping. We lose the capacity to imagine that what’s impossible can actually happen. But isn’t that what Christmas is all about when we think about it? The impossible happening. The unexpected unfolding. The unimaginable exploding in the very manger of our jaded, dream-weary world.

What was it again that the angel said to Mary? “Nothing is impossible with God.” We have to be willing to believe in the impossible. We have to be capable of stretching our imagination. And we have to be willing to hold our breath for as long as we can in anticipation of the surprises God has in store for us.

We can't blame him, but the problem with Zechariah was that after waiting too long and being let down too often, he simply stopped believing in the impossible. He got sick of trying to stretch his imagination and eventually just refused to be surprised. I think Zechariah was the original guy who stopped believing in Santa Claus—so that when Santa finally slipped down their old chimney in the guise of an angel, all Zechariah could manage was raise a question and an eyebrow.

Whoever said we shouldn’t replace Christ with Santa Claus is of course right in criticizing the commercialization of Christmas. Santa Claus should never take the place of our Lord at the center of Christmas. But tonight I’d like to propose that we still need to believe in Santa. I’d like to suggest that this jolly character deserves his place right there in the belen along with the Holy Family and the angels, huddled with the shepherds and the wise men, and surrounded by the ox and donkey.

Over a hundred years ago, in 1897, an 8-year old girl named Virginia wrote the editor of the New York Sun a letter that led to an editorial that became the most reprinted editorial to run in any newspaper in the English language.

The letter said:

“Dear editor, I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, ‘If you see it in The Sun, it is so’. Please tell me the truth: Is there a Santa Claus?” Signed, Virginia, O’Hanlon.

Here’s a portion of the editor’s response—as timely today as it was over a hundred years ago:

“Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except what they see.

“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.”

And so, here’s what I think is God’s message to us through the story and character of Zechariah, addressed especially to the Zechariah's in us: “Yes, there is a Santa Claus!” Not the literal old jolly bearded man in a red suit, of course, but all the good things that he stands for: Joy, generosity, goodness, even magic…

If we can’t bring ourselves to believe in what Santa stands for, how can we even begin to believe in this wonderful mystery of the Infinite God Himself climbing down our chimneys to become a baby in a manger, to be one of us and one like us?

For me, our old friend Zechariah is the unsung hero of Advent. He is the poster boy of waiting because in the end God made sure that despite all those years of disappointments, he could once again hold his breath for the impossible.

This evening, just a night away from Christmas day, the day we’ve all been waiting for, the Lord invites us to gather our faded dreams, to resuscitate our tired imagination, and hold all the hopes and dreams of this world in our jaded hearts—and retrieve our faith in miracles: Let us remember what it means to dream. Let us believe once again in the impossible. And let us wait and hold our breath for Him Who, after all those centuries, will no longer keep us waiting.

Tonight we tell ourselves as in a prayer: “Yes, Virginia, and yes, Zechariah, there is a Santa Claus!” If we can’t believe in Santa, how can we believe in that surprise of surprises and that miracle of miracles we call Christmas?

Lord, tonight we thank you for the gift of Christmas.

If you haven't done our online Advent Recollection called "THE ANNUNCIATIONS OF ADVENT," try it and go to:  www.pinsoflight.org.

Click here for the last week of our online Advent Recollection.

It's up!  Check it out...

Go to pinsoflight.org/advent/18.html, or click here.

Part 2 of our online Advent Recollection is up!

Go to www.pinsoflight.org.

Happy Feast of Our Lady's Immaculate Conception!

"The Annunciations of Advent" is a four-part online recollection that will be posted online from December 01 to 24.

Carve out a little time this month to prepare for Christmas Day.

Hope you check it out.  :)

Click here to begin.

Hello!  Due to various reasons, "Pins of Light" will be closed temporary and will resume in Advent (end fo November 2009).  :)

Today's Readings

Dear Lord,

In the more secular world of the Internet, everyone seems to be talking about what happened at last Sunday's MTV Video Music Awards. 

Country singer Taylor Swift had just won Best Female Video, and the nineteen-year old singer was really overjoyed because it was her first time to win the award.  In the middle of her speech, hip hop singer, Kanye West, stormed the stage, grabbed her mike, interrupting her speech, and announced something like: "I'm happy for you, Taylor, but I think Beyonce's video is the best!"  Kanye was booed and got off the stage, while poor Taylor, unable to complete her speech, was led away, still looking stunned.

Your disciples arguing about who among them is the greatest reminds me of this competitive world we live in and our obsession with being the best.  Kanye West is but an extreme example.  I'm not sure if it's something about our society today, or maybe something more fundamental--like being human and needing approval, if not, admiration--life sometimes lapses into a race for bragging rights.  It's a phenomenon evident in different areas of our lives--certainly in our work, but also in our social lives! 

But as the Gospel story shows today, we're not exempt from it in our spiritual lives either.  It seems that even those committed to following you can end up in the same trap.  Even in the realm of discipleship, we at times want to outdo one another and be considered the "greatest."  Some of us try our best at distinguishing ourselves in our devotions; others work hard at outshining others in terms of service.  These are all good in themselves, but once we grow more concerned with ourselves and how we fare, that's the moment we lose sight of you.

Today you remind us that if we want to be first, we have to be last.

Cute.  But what does it mean exactly?

Reading the question in your disciple's mind, you called for a child and wrapped your arms around it, then you tell your disciples:  “Whoever receives one child such as this in my name, receives me; and whoever receives me, receives not me but the One who sent me."

For us to understand what you mean, I think we can go back to the VMAs.  Late that evening, many awards later, Beyonce was called on stage to receive the final and most coveted award, Video of the Year, for her "Single Ladies."  But instead of keeping that moment all to herself and hugging the limelight, she called Taylor Swift back on stage to allow the younger singer to finish her interrupted acceptance speech.

It was one helluva classy act.  By graciously stepping out of the limelight in order to share it with another, she showed who the real winner was that night.

Lord, help us to un-condition ourselves from our obsession with honor and approval. Amen.

Note:  Watch a news report on the VMA incident.

Today's Readings

Dear Lord,

Today's Gospel story reminds me of what happened to me last May, when I was in Rome for a meeting.  Thanks to a Filipino Jesuit friend, Fr. Joe Quilongquilong, I got to join the Scavi Tour, touted as one of the hottest tickets in Rome. 

"It's extraordinary," promised Father Joe, who, having lived in Rome for years, has become our resident expert in Church history there. 

At the time I had no idea what the Scavi Tour was, but soon enough I learned that "scavi" meant "excavations," and that the tour, with only 120 visitors allowed per day, would take me to the necropolis (or "city of the dead") beneath the St. Peter's Basilica and eventually to the tomb of St. Peter--a graffiti wall with the Greek inscription "Peter is here" and a small hole with two boxes containing human bones believed to belong to St. Peter.

I still don't understand exactly what I experienced at the end of the tour as I prayed before St. Peter's sepulchral chamber at the basilica crypt.  It was some kind of unexpected religious experience, when I felt mysteriously connected to St. Peter.   There, on my knees, I was suddenly overwhelmed with memories of St. Peter's words.  Wave after wave, they rushed to me--those unforgettable lines that have been attributed to him in the gospels:

When you saw your other followers leave and you asked them if they too would leave you behind, Peter gave voice to every disciple's deepest desires:  "Lord, to whom shall we go?  Only you have the words of eternal life."

When the miraculous catch made him feel he might have too much in his hands, he fell on his knees and told you:  "Depart from me, for I am a sinful man."

When he thoughtlessly jumped overboard to try to walk on the water towards you and began to sink, he cried out:  "Save me, Lord!"

When you scolded him for refusing to let you wash his feet, he changed his mind:  "Lord, wash not only my feet, but also my hands and my head!"

When you kept asking him whether or not he loved you, his pained response was:  "Lord, you know that I love you!"

And of course, when you asked your disciples who people said you were, his famous confession today was:  "You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God!"

It was as if St. Peter himself was speaking to me.  Each line I remembered I resonated with; each word I heard I recognized as also my own.  The circumstances in his life in which those words had been spoken made me realize what I had always felt:  Simon Peter is my brother. 

Always the first to speak among the disciples, always the quickest to rush in--sometimes without adequate thought, he found himself often having too much in his hands or simply out of his depths.   Among your disciples, St. Peter was always first to recognize you, but was also the one who denied you at the time you most needed him.

Lord, you know I am the same.  How often I've rushed in only to find that I have too much in my hands.  How often I've jumped into a situation only to find myself out of my depths.  Like Peter, I love you passionately and recognize you immediately, but I've also often forgotten you, denied you, and turned away!

Lately, I've been feeling that I'm out of my depths and out of sorts.  Perhaps like Peter, I have rushed in too soon again.  Maybe I've ended up with too much in my hands again.  And maybe I've dived in too deep again.  Save me, Lord!  Save me from every sinking feeling!  I should learn from St. Peter, my brother, who, unlike Judas, was saved only because he kept his eyes fixed on you.

Lord, I think there's a little bit of Peter in each of us.  The question really is: "Which Peter?"  The Peter who is first to recognize you--as he does in the gospel story today, or the Peter who denies you?   Grant us the grace to be the Peter who sees you first even if the best he can do in following you is to fumble after you.

St. Peter, pray for us.  Amen. 

Today's Readings

Dearest Lord,

I've been thinking about Cristy these days.  I don't think I will ever forget what I saw when I visited her the other day in the hospital.  I've been warned about her, but I was shocked anyway.  She wasn't at all the Cristy I knew.  Her cancer had ravaged her body:  All skin and bones, she stared at me with one eye, the other forced shut by the growing tumor in her brain. 

When I reached for her hand, she clutched mine with what remaining strength she had, and because she could no longer speak, she could only plead with her eyes and her groans.  It was the saddest, most painful sound.

I didn't know what to say.  How do you offer consolation to someone who is experiencing a suffering you don't understand?  Words failed me.  The only thing I could do was assure her of my prayers.   But as I did this, I also heard another voice inside asking:  "Why, Lord?  Why have our prayers gone unanswered?"  That morning I left Cristy's hospital room helpless and heartbroken.

Forgive me, Lord, but since then I've been thinking:  I think I understand why your critics sometimes complain that you're deaf and mute.  Times like this, you don't seem to hear our prayers.  And the times we most need to hear you speak are the times you seem to fall most silent.  I don't know why you do it.  It's easy to explain this away if it's treated as a theological subject, but when one sees pain up close...

And of course, just to complicate my life, as you sometimes do, today's Gospel story has to be about the healing of a deaf and mute--just when I've been wondering about the very same things about you!

The strange part is, you don't do a quick cure here as you usually do in other healing stories.  You know that you could have simply said, "Your sins are forgiven"--which, much to the chagrin of your heresy-obsessed enemies, is your usual formula when you heal paralytics and the like.  Not this time though.  You take the man away from the crowd and then heal him in a most human way:  by touching him--his ears and tongue.
 
While all this goes on, I can't help but wonder:  Are you trying to tell me something?  Are you trying to open my ears as well?  Who's being deaf and mute here?  I couldn't hear you as I stood before Cristy, and I certainly felt like I had a speech impediment.

There's a term in psychology for all this:  Projection.  "Projection" refers to the unconscious act of denying something about ourselves by ascribing it to something or someone else.    Maybe I've been projecting all along.  Maybe I've been turning the table on you.  As it turns out, now I suspect that I'm the one who can't hear you, and I'm the one with the speech impediment.

Lord, what you do with the man in the story is instructive.  You take him away from the noise of the crowd.  And there alone with him, you insert your fingers into his ears and command them to open up.  No wonder I have been unable to hear you, much less offer any word of consolation to Cristy.  I haven't allowed you to take me away with you, far from the madness of my world.

Let me steal away with you, Lord.  Let me hear you--not the easy platitudes that explain your mysteries away, but the sometimes painful and bewildering truths that deepen your mysteries.  Touch my tongue, and take away my every speech impediment--whatever keeps me from true prayer, from opening my heart to you, and giving voice to its innermost hopes and dreams, deepest fears and anxieties, so that I may bring your consolation to those who most need it.  Amen.

How about a Quick Prayer here?   

Today's Readings

Dear Lord,

Today you quote the prophet Isaiah as you complain about the Pharisees:

This people honors me with their lips,
but their hearts are far from me;
in vain do they worship me,
teaching as doctrines human precepts.

But for all we know, you could be complaining about us.  For all I know, you could be complaining about me.  You say you dislike mere lip service because you want nothing less than our hearts.  When I hear your words, I can't help but recall my faraway heart.

Where is my heart?  What keeps it away from you?

I can think of many things:  Of course, the first that comes to mind would be my sins.  Nothing beats my sins in terms of keeping my heart far from you.  But it's not that you pack up your bags and leave whenever I fail.  It's just that in doing the bad things that I do, when I hurt others or myself, I diminish myself, and the distance between us grows.

But there are also the "good things," things that attract me and keep me away from you.  There is so much in the world that can preoccupy me, and though they are good in themselves--good times, good work, good relationships--these can blind me and keep my eyes on them and not on you.

Lord, today I find myself in the midst of things, swamped with work and concerns, facing all sorts of deadlines.  When I say my prayers, I catch myself rushing through them--yes, paying you nothing more than lip service.  I can't seem to slow down, but no matter how much I have to run around, Lord, help me keep my eyes always fixed on you.  More importantly, never let my heart wander far from you.  Amen.

Today's Readings

Dearest Lord Jesus,

It was a heartbreaking scene--that moment when you turned to your disciples after watching all the others go.  "Do you also want to leave?" you asked them, perhaps not without some fear.

I've heard you ask me that same question before.  But so often before, unlike your disciples, I didn't choose to stay.  I chose to stray.  Looking back at my life, I can't help but see all the detours taken and all the dead ends met.  But the miracle of all miracles is that each time I ran out of roads, I somehow came back to my senses.  Each time, I eventually managed to find my way back--spent and scarred, but also grateful and surprised over the supply of second chances you offered me.  Each time I returned, you forgave this restless rebel.  Each time I showed up at your doorstep, you took in this regular stray.

In each of those times, I could have been Simon Peter when he responded to your question with another:  "Master, to whom shall we go?"   Unfortunately, it never took me too long to pack up my bags and to leave again.   Unlike Simon Peter, only after the detours and dead ends have I realized that I really have no one else or nowhere else to go but you.  Unlike him, only after losing my way all those times have I come to see for myself that you alone have the words of eternal life and that you truly are the Holy One of God.

"To whom shall we go?" 

Centuries later, Simon Peter's haunting response continues to question us who alternately fall away from you and fumble after you.  How many more times will I go to someone else or for something else?   Please, Lord Jesus, grant me--this time--the grace to stay.  I've had my fill of detours.  I've long exceeded my quota of dead ends.  I'm tired of being a stray.  Amen.

How about a Quick Prayer for today?

Today's Readings

Dearest Lord,

Last night someone who had gone to an anticipated Sunday Mass bumped into me and surprised me with his reaction.  He said:  "The Bread of Life?!  Again?!" 

He's right.  This is the third Sunday that the Gospel reading has been about the Bread of Life--and what he doesn't know yet is that it won't be the last.  Next Sunday will still be about the Bread of Life!  I told him, "If you think listening to it for the nth time is hard, try writing a homily about it for the nth time!"

But later I got to thinking:  If you read between the lines of his question, what I think he was trying to tell me is: "What's the point?  Why rub it in?  After the second time, we get it already!"

But do we?  I thought about that, and suddenly I wasn't sure I "got it."  I scoured the Gospel readings of the past weeks just to check, and came to the following disturbing conclusion:  I just think I understand.  But maybe I don't--at least not completely!

We've always associated the "Bread of Life" with your Eucharist--and rightly so.  This sacrament is one of the most beautiful that you offer to us because it is through the Eucharist that we can become one with you in a more-than-spiritual way.  We who believe in your real presence in the Eucharist know that in a way we don't understand, we receive your actual body and as a result, you become near to us beyond our imagining.  But if this is all you want to tell us, do you need several Sundays to convince us?

Actually, what bewilders me about today's Gospel reading is not that you're asking us to eat your body and drink your blood.  We know that already. We've done that--and do that each time we attend Mass!  What puzzles me is that you don't tell your disciples how they're supposed to go about doing this strange thing you're asking them to do.  In other words, you don't explain!

Putting myself in your disciples' shoes--which is one way of praying over the Gospels--I can't help but wonder:  How do you expect your disciples to believe such an outrageous--and not to mention, scandalous--claim?  Swallow it hook, line, and sinker?  I mean, a little catechesis wouldn't hurt.

But maybe that's your point.  Maybe you're telling us that there are times in our lives when you simply want us to take your word for it.  Sometimes we don't understand why things happen the way they do--or why certain things happen at all.  In those occasions when we find ourselves incapable of controlling our world and unable to understand, you want us to trust you. 

When you were asking your disciples to accept this difficult teaching on the Bread of Life, you had just performed one of your most awesome miracles by feeding five thousand hungry men.   Could it be that on such difficult occasions, you're asking us to believe not by understanding but by remembering, by recalling the wonders you've worked in our lives? 

Come to think of it, understanding doesn't always lead to faith.  But remembering can!  It's our memory of your generosity and blessings in the past that will strengthen our faith in you and when necessary, help us to swallow even your most difficult of messages and the most painful of experiences hook, line, and sinker.   Amen.

Want to share a Quick Prayer?

Today's Readings

Dear Lord,

I think you know what I mean when I say that today's Gospel reminds me of Stephen Sondheim's musical, "Sweeney Todd:  The Devil Barber of Fleet Street."  All this talk about eating your blood and drinking your blood made me think of Mrs. Nellie Lovett's meat pies, whose secret ingredients are--of all things--the body parts of rich people murdered by Sweeney Todd.

Usually, when we hear you talk about us eating your body and drinking your blood, as you do in today's Gospel, it is--at the very least--an acceptable, if not, lovely and pious, thought that we have grown accustomed to.  But for some reason today, it all strikes me differently.  And maybe to those who heard you the first time, those were pretty scandalous symbols you used too. 

According to biblical scholars, "eating your body and drinking your blood" aren't exactly a faithful translation of what you said.  "Gnawing on your body and guzzling your blood"--that's more like it.  Now, even for us moderns, the thought of munching on the Messiah is one bloody symbolism.  So I'm sure that for your audience then, especially the Jews who religiously observed the dietary laws, your little sermon on the Bread of Life must have left a pretty bad taste in the mouth.

I wonder:  If all you want to tell us is that faith in you gives us eternal life, why not say just that?  Why insist on the distasteful metaphors?  Is it possible that it was precisely your intention to shake up your audience?  Maybe by slapping this scandalous symbolism on their collective faces--and ours!--you wanted to convey some shocking truth.   Surely, it can't just be about the eternal life that results from believing in you.  There must be something more...

Here's my guess:  When we eat (or drink), what we take nourishes us, but it does so only by seeping into our system.  So when I think about it, there's something uncomfortably intimate about ourselves and what we eat.  Could it be that this is exactly what you want to tell us through this reference to cannibalism--that you want to be uncomfortably intimate with us?

Also, eating and drinking are pretty messy processes:  All that mastication is really just the beginning; thanks to biology, we know so much more about the digestive process today--all that enzyme and acid, etc.--it's really too much visual, if you ask me.  Could it be that you're telling us that this process of believing in you, which as we know, also involves the following of you, like eating, like digesting, can be quite messy too?

Lord, how do I feel about what you're telling me today?  First, you want to be uncomfortably close to me?  Do I have the same desire?  Or do I secretly prefer to keep you at arms' length because I don't exactly want you penetrating--and changing!--every aspect of my life right now?

Secondly, you're also telling me that it's not easy and neat to believe in you, much less to follow you and become like you.  You're warning us that it can be a pretty complicated, messy--and bloody--process.  Am I willing to go through this process with full cooperation?  Do I even have the taste for it?

These are disturbing questions to pray about, Lord.  Thank you, and help me find my answers to them.  Amen.

How about a Quick Prayer that you may want to share here? 

Today's Readings

Today's Gospel Reading is about Jesus the Bread of Life, who promises that "whoever comes to me will never hunger and whoever believes in me will never thirst."  These days we are grieving our loss of President Corazon Aquino, as though we have lost a family member.  No one can give a more powerful reflection on the Scripture today than her, who "never hungered, never thirsted" even in the worst of famines and droughts because of her strong faith in the Lord.  

Eternal rest grant unto her, o Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her.

Prayer Power (Reflection by Cory Aquino)

Delivered at the UNIV Conference, Rome, Italy
April 5, 1993

I was asked in a small gathering of university students recently what of my life as president I would like to see continued. Without hesitation, I answered the habit of prayer.

By prayer, one acknowledges the weakness of the human person, no matter how high the office he or she may hold and how great the authority they wield. The higher the office, the greater the power, the more one should pray.

I can see the smiles on some faces. Yet, without going into the question of whether there is anyone up there listening to our prayers, a person who prays shows wisdom. By praying he admits his weakness and fallibility; and thereby shows his fitness for command in an important respect. If anyone, it is Europeans who should appreciate the value of humility in high places. For they have suffered more that any people from the sense of self-importance of those whose limitations were only too evident. A European has only to remember the pride and vaunted knowledge of those who lost so many men in Gallipoli, the Somme and Caporetto.

An English king boasted to his men before battle that the fewer of them there were, the greater share of glory would go to each. Yet when he learned he had won against overwhelming odds, he fell on his knees and said: “Praised be God and not our strength, for it.” The effect of prayer is to add wisdom to daring.

The great of the world should pray, if only for the sake of those who must endure their greater capacity for tragic errors. What more the small who must suffer them?

Prayer upheld me in power. It was prayer that sustained my husband in prison. There he was reduced to nothing. Like Thomas More, his books were taken from him. He was denied even pen and paper on which to write. He was denied the company of friends; and the love and solace of his family, who were also barred from seeing him.

Indeed he was stripped down to his underpants and thrown into a windowless cell. He feared that one night he would be taken from his cell to dig his own grave in the dark – as so many critics of the government before him.

Yet, it was when he had lost everything that he found it all, through a door that opened to a wider world than he had been shut from.

Prayer was that door, a tiny one. In his youth, he would have overlooked it. For he was riding then on the crest of an enormous popularity as the youngest and most accomplished politician of the age and the most likely successor to the man who would throw him in prison, cast him into exile, and cut him down in the prime of his life, the president and dictator.

In the loneliness of his prison cell, it was natural that he should come to see the extreme vulnerability of man. In the solitariness of his protest against the dictatorship, it was inevitable that he should realize the brittleness of popular support and the fleetingness of glory.

It would have been something if prayer rather than adversity had opened his eyes, while he was yet riding high in the politics of his country. But he realized the weakness and loneliness of man, only when his followers had deserted him; and the fickleness of fortune, when the wheel had already turned.

Prayer might have revealed these truths to him about the futility of building a fortress out of sand or erecting a perdurable power from achievements of the moment. But these truths were not revealed to him until he had lost everything, and the four blank walls of his cell were all he had left to look at.

So when prayer came, it was not to teach him humility. Adversity had already imparted that. It came to lift his spirits and fill him with a holy pride. It did not come to prove yet again the insufficiency of human power, but to reveal a greater power yet to be found in the most extreme condition of weakness.

Just when he had lost everything, he told me, he found it all. Prayer gave it to him.

And I think, the proof of this new-found power was that, while he thought of giving up in the first year of prison, he fought on for seven years after finding strength through prayer. He never complained about the sacrifices he was making. For just when he thought that he must be the sorriest of men, prayer showed him that he was imitating the greatest of them.

He who follows me can never walk in darkness, says Christ. Indeed, said Thomas a Kempis, “if we want to see our way truly, with never a trace of blindness left in our hearts, it is his life, his character that we must take for our model.” So when he went on a hunger strike to protest his trial by a military tribunal, he stopped only on the 40th day because his friends implored him not to outdo our Savior’s fast in the desert. Prayer had given him such strength.

After seven years in prison, he went into exile. But returned three years later, when the danger to him was greatest. As many of you know, he was assassinated at the airport – a bullet in the back of the head delivered by his military escort, as part of a military operation that involved 2,000 men.

On the plane, he told journalists of his premonition of death. He advised them to be especially attentive, for when it came, it would go fast.

When the military escort entered the plane cabin, he stood up to identify himself and went with them. One of them was the gunman.

Prayer gave him the equanimity to describe the manner of his own death, and the courage to rise and meet it.

Prayer gave me the strength to hold myself together when the news reached me. I had to, for his sake, for the sake of our children. Most of all for the sake of what he believed in, which my behavior would reflect upon.

From that moment, I depended more than ever on prayer. I had relied on it to see me through his unjust imprisonment. I used it to fill the hours, days and weeks between the occasional visits the military would permit me. I prayed not be embittered by the mockery of his trial. I prayed not to be too deeply affected by the humiliation I endured – the body searches, the TV camera in the room, and having to plead for things we take for granted as our right.

But I needed prayer more than ever to live through the brazenness of the assassination, and the shamelessness of the government’s attempt to blame it on a man who was already dead before my husband arrived. I needed prayer to be able to contemplate the final victory of evil without losing hope. I needed prayer not to fall into the last temptation of despair.

At times, I was not sure what I was praying for. I could not pray for my husband’s safety, for he was beyond harm. I could not pray to show my love, for he was cradled in a greater love. So, I suppose, I prayed because that was all that was left to me. I was beyond human power to help.

On reflection, I think I finally prayed for just the strength to accept God’s will, which was moving in ways very hard to take.

I received that strength, and something more besides. I would not admit it, even to myself, but the human side of me craved for some tangible expression of support, some evidence that my husband had not died in vain. God heard that spoken prayer, too.

Two million people, all told, attended the funeral of Ninoy Aquino – the greatest funeral since Gandhi’s. It was the first and greatest outpouring of sympathy and support that any person or cause had ever gotten in any nation’s history at a single moment.

It was not the end of the dictatorship; but it might be the beginning of the end. What was clear was that it was the start of something new. It would be called People Power.

It would redefine the standards and practices of politics as we had always known them. It would set the pattern of freedom movements throughout Eastern Europe. It would culminate in the people power demonstration that stopped the coup in Moscow and shamed the government in China. It would define the new and higher aim of politics: the empowerment of the people for the attainment of their goals.

It was certainly the agency that restored freedom to my country, and faith in the power of prayer to my people.

Prayer and the leadership of the Catholic Church emboldened millions to stand up to the dictatorship, to vote in overwhelming numbers against it, and to denounce its fraud.

If one cannot suspend one’s disbelief in miracles, can one deny the testimonies of millions throughout the world who saw on television a people praying and the tanks that stopped right in front of them. Before the famous newsphoto of the Chinese man with a briefcase holding up a column of tanks going to Tienanmen Square, there were the images of Filipinos kneeling directly in their path.

So I had lost my husband; I led an uphill fight against an entrenched dictatorship; and I ran in an election riddled with massive fraud; yet in the end I won.

I assumed the powers of the dictatorship, but only long enough to abolish it. I dissolved the dictator’s puppet parliament, I banished the judges of his corrupt courts, I abolished the dictatorial constitution whereby they were able to commit abuses under the color of legality, and installed a democratic government in its place.

I had absolute power, yet ruled with restraint. I created independent courts to question my absolute power, and finally a legislature to take it from me.

I implemented painful and unpopular reforms, while having to beat down repeated attempts by rightist officers to overthrow the government. When the presidential palace came under air attack, I refused to leave it, firmly convinced that the issue rested entirely with God. In the last election in my country, I defeated a restoration attempt by elements of the former dictatorship.

I survived and did more than the experts thought was possible. All these things I owe to the power of prayer and the special protection of Our Lady.

It wasn’t all prayers of course. Grace needs good works to work redemption. But if I were to list what else I want continued from my presidency, they would sort of things that flow naturally from prayer: such as sincerity, integrity, the solidarity reflected in communal character of worship, and the necessary universality of prayer. For we should not pray for things we don’t want others to have as well – such as power we will not share, rights only for ourselves, and advantages that would be meaningless if everyone enjoyed them.

Being sincere is to be simple. It is the same with sincerity in power: be yourself completely.

It is to be truthful, not least about one’s own limitations, so that you know how far to trust yourself with the fate of others. It is, of course, to be truthful about others.

I have always found it difficult to relate with people who trifle with the truth, even in the smallest particular. The habit of lying is like a snowball. It grows as it rolls.

While in the opposition, I tore into the lies of the dictatorship. In government, I demanded openness in official acts, full disclosure of government transactions, and transparency, especially in anything and everything to do with money.

I distanced myself from those with a hidden agenda, however winning were their ways. I defended those whose first priority and greatest concern was for the public interest, however unpopular the duties they must carry out. From everyone in government, I asked, if not consistently successful performance, a total commitment and a genuine effort to give the best of oneself.

Principles impart coherence to a man’s life, they give it structure. Without them, one is just a bundle of desires and dislikes. Compromise on principle, and there is no halting the slide to unbridled opportunism.

So it is with the body politic. Principles give coherence to a government; they are the reference point for all the people’s relations with their government. The lack of them aptly defines a government or an official as unprincipled, a word that says it all.

Without principles, the ethical framework for decision-making disintegrates; actions spill out, and seek, like water, the lowest level.

A government without principles ends up pursuing peace without justice, merely to maintain stability while it commits abuses. Merely for political addition, it will seek a reconciliation between the people and those who had hurt the country when they were in power, without asking for restitution. More than the commission of wrongs, it is the deliberate refusal to punish them that tears most at a nation’s moral fabric.

No one, of course, should be self-righteous. Who can say she is beyond reproach? God knows, we have all made mistakes. The morals of a saint should be, but in the nature of things, cannot serve as a qualification for public service. Yet we should not lose the sense of right and wrong, or push and pull the moral code to squeeze in a useful political alliance. Convenience must finally yield to the right, whereon a person or a government must stand and be willing to fall.

Government is not just about getting things done, whatever they are. They are about getting the right things done, for the right reasons and with the right people. The first virtue of political institutions is justice, not convenience.

When I was campaigning, the dictator accused me of something I had never thought was a crime. He said I was just a housewife and unfit to govern a country. Yet I must say that I never ran up a twenty-six billion dollar bill in all the years I shopped for the household, nor did I pocket money intended for something else, nor, I might add, did I shoot the bill collector.

Yet, to humor him, I said I should have no problem finding 50 competent and dedicated people to help me run the government when he stepped down.

I found the 50. Indeed, there were more volunteers than I could count after I became a president. But I found that competence and dedication were not enough. Team work too was important. As no single individual could carry the whole burden of government by himself, it was important that the great number required to do it must be able to work harmoniously together.

The ability to work well with others, to listen to different points of view, to credit such views with a sincerity equal to one’s own, and to have the flexibility to accommodate the valid concerns of others: this is an important quality for anyone who wishes to serve the people. It is an expression of the spirit of service. Indeed, how can anyone claim to have a genuine spirit of solidarity with the people in general, if he is incapable of an operational solidarity with those he must work closely with?

The seven years of my husband’s incarceration had been difficult, made more so by the feeling that we were so few carrying on so great a struggle. After my husband’s assassination, it became clear that we were far from alone: there were multitudes who held the same ideals just as passionately. There were legions who grieved as deeply over the condition of our country. More importantly, they were prepared to do something about it, at whatever cost. The funeral of Ninoy Aquino established the national character of the struggle. The outpouring of sympathy in the last stages of the struggle against the dictatorship, from peoples and governments all over the world, established its universality. Courage, said Malraux, is a second fatherland, where all the brave feel they belong.

For four days in February, when the Filipino people faced the tanks with nothing in their hands, all the brave throughout the world were Filipinos. Ich bin ein Berliner, Kennedy said at the Wall. We are all diminished by the suppression of anyone, all exalted by the courage of someone, somewhere, making a stand for freedom.

We are all Filipinos, said the friends of democracy everywhere – as the drama of the people-powered revolution unfolded.

And when the pattern was repeated all over Eastern Europe, we joined the free and brave everywhere who cried: We are Berliners, we are Czechs, we are Poles and Hungarians, we are Russians on the steps of the Russian White House, we are Chinese students at Tienanmen Square. We are of the family of freedom, and the fraternity of the brave. We belong to a single world, and share the responsibility to make it better – as much for others, be they Africans or the people of Myanmar, as for ourselves.

The sense of universality enters also into this: they will govern well who ask no more for themselves than they will give to others. The universal maxim, the golden rule. It is an infallible guide for official decisions – to impose no hardship one is not prepared to bear; to exact no sacrifice one is not prepared to make. In brief, to lead by example – first into the fray, and last out of it. It is the best way to achieve results and gain respect.

The spirit of universality has redefined politics, and lifted it from the machinations of a few for their own advantage, to the struggle of the people for their own empowerment and the general welfare. And that requires a qualitative improvement in the character and skills of the people. The multiplication of hands does not result in the improvement of production. It is the enhancement of skills that achieves that. The counting of heads does not enhance the quality of political decisions, it is the illumination of the popular mind that will produce that.

The universality principle requires improving the people’s capacity – in the spiritual and intellectual sense – to govern themselves, for themselves. Without the right values in the people, a democracy is only a confederacy of fools.

If I were to be asked what of my presidency I would want to continue: it is these intangibles more than any policy I think, at the moment, is correct for the country. Circumstances change and international trends can shift direction; new approaches may serve the country’s interests better than those I laid down.

But what doesn’t change are the elements that go to make up good decisions and right policies: sincerity, integrity, solidarity, universality, and of course – in recognition of the historic verity that man proposes and God disposes – prayer.

Prayer, whereby the great make themselves humble and fitter to govern men. Prayer, which gives strength to the weak and pride to the humble. There are languages that are said to be better suited than others for certain things. English for law and banking, French for diplomacy, Italian for poetry, Spanish for piety, German for technology, Japanese for trade, and Chinese – it is said – for everything in the future. Yet there is only one language for accessing the greater reality behind this one. It is prayer, for speaking to God. It comes in any of the languages I have mentioned, because it has less to do with the sound of the voice than with a habit of the heart and a posture of the spirit. It is the thing that prepares you for any eventuality, and enables you to cope with whatever might take you unpleasantly by surprise. It is the first thing you learn after you’ve come into the world, and the last you will say when you leave it. It may seem like a trifle, at this moment when you find support in being over a thousand strong in this hall. But each of you will find himself alone at critical moments, as I did. Yet, with nothing in your hands, you will find it full with prayer.

Corazon Cojuangco Aquino (1933 - 2009)

Today's Readings

Dearest Lord,

What a nightmare scenario:  Five loaves, two fish--and five thousand hungry people!  But trust you to turn every event organizer's worst nightmare into an unforgettable affair!  

What struck me most this time around, however, was not what happens during the miracle, but after it:  As the people sit on the grass after feasting on your miraculous banquet, you tell your disciples, "Gather the fragments."  They probably could once again only shake their heads in bewilderment, but as usual they do it anyway.  And to their astonishment, the leftover food fills twelve wicker of baskets.

Now I have no idea exactly how much that is, but it sounds like a lot.  Once again you outdo yourself!  Not content with feeding the five thousand, you had to send them home carrying doggy bags too. 

But Lord, isn't that typical of you?  Haven't you always been pretty extravagant?  The only problem is, you're quite quiet about it.  Every single day of our lives you perform both great and tiny miracles.  But often your miracles are far too subtle for us to sit up and notice.  At times we do take notice--a prayer finally granted, healing from pain, rescue from some trouble, or just a happy turn of events.  But what do we do?  We say, "Thank you!" but like a guest rushing to go to another appointment, we "eat and run." 

Every moment of our lives, you feed us with bread, with breath!  But what do we do?  We eat and run. 

Today you say to us:  Don't eat and run.  Gather the fragments.  Linger after the miracles.  Don't rush away.  Savor the memory of blessings past.  There are still far too many leftover graces that we can keep in storage--crumbs from past miracles can still fill us for days!

Today, Lord, I will recount and re-count my blessings.  Thank you. Amen.

Would you like to share a Quick Prayer of thanks?  Your prayer may summon others from our readers.

Today's Readings

Dear Jesus,

You knew about deserted places, didn't you?  Small wonder you frequented them in your life.  In today's gospel, you invite your disciples to "come away" to such a place.  To rest, you say, but you know better, don't you?  And by now, your disciples probably know better, too.

There's something about deserted places that opens us up.  There's something about great, open spaces that stretches the heart:  a sky full of stars, the open sea, a vast football field, even an empty room.  I remember the first time I saw the ocean:  The waves frothing around my feet, I stood stunned at the edge of that beach, speechless, awed by the sight of your sea and sky and drawn immediately to spontaneous prayer and praise.

Yesterday afternoon I drove into an empty university campus for my two-week study program.  I've "been here, done this" before. Yet the familiar, but haunting scene of the deserted campus had an instant effect on me.  The empty spaces opened up my own space inside--a space where I haven't lingered in days given the frenzy of recent activity.  The silence summoned a similar silence within, and the solitude about the campus drew me to my own door of solitude--and it was ajar.

Silence and solitude can be a very scary thing.  They can be pretty threatening, but those of us who have experienced them before know that these lead us out of the ever-thickening woods of our lives into that clearing where we can see your light.  Those of us who've seen the clearing also understand that if we wish to catch a glimpse of you, that is where we should go.  Even now, it's these deserted places in our hearts that you frequent still.  That's still where you love to linger.

Lord, help us to seek those open spaces and deserted places in our lives.   Grant that we make time for the silence and solitude we need to see you.

How about a Quick Prayer here?

(image:  theinspirationroom.com)

Today's Readings

Dear Lord,

This morning I remember my new pair of Jesus sandals.   You know that just the other day, my friend flew in from Hong Kong and came by to say hello.  She had just returned from a trip to the Holy Land, and she said she got me a pair of authentic "Jesus sandals."

"Jesus sandals--what's that?!" I asked her, thinking it was some kind of a joke.

To answer my question, she handed me a pair of very leather-smelling--but odd-looking--sandals.  Odd-looking because each sandal had a relatively more complicated set of straps--plus a toe loop!  Apparently, "Jesus sandals" is the official name for this particular style of sandals.  

"Except this pair," she was quick to add, "I got from the Holy Land, where the Lord actually walked."

She also warned me that it would take a while before the sandals would feel comfortable.  "But when they do," she promised, "they become really comfortable!"

These days, whenever I can, I've been walking around the house in your sandals, Lord,  I have to confess that they feel as odd as they look.  I'm not used to so many straps, for one.  And I've never had my big toes inserted into loops like those.  I guess I have yet to grow accustomed to this type of footwear, not to mention that I still need to break this pair in. 

But maybe it feels odd also because they're Jesus sandals.  Believe it or not, I can't help but feel biblical once in a while.  Once in a while I would suddenly remember what John the Baptist had said about not being worthy to undo the straps of your sandals.  And of course the obvious and disconcerting symbolism of walking in your shoes/sandals is not at all lost on me--and is quite hard to shake off during the day.

In today's Gospel reading, you give untypically specific instructions to your disciples about "taking nothing for their journey"--except for a walking stick and a pair of sandals!  I wonder how long it took the disciples to get used to their journey of following you.  And I wonder if they ever got used to walking in your shoes/sandals.

As for me, Lord, I can't help but wonder:  Am I uncomfortable wearing my pair of Jesus sandals primarily because of the oddity of their name and their appearance?  Maybe I've grown too accustomed to looking too common  and--yes, maybe even worldly.  Aside from when I'm saying Mass, except for the occasional cross I wear around my neck, maybe my clothes are no longer odd enough or worse, Jesus enough because let's face it, sometimes you just have to be a little odd to be like you.  Am I myself no longer odd enough or Jesus enough?

Lord, today let me end with an odd prayer:  May my Jesus sandals touch not only my soles, but also, more importantly, my soul!  Amen!

How about Quick Prayer?