Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Click here for an audio of the sermon
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be
acceptable to you, O God, my Creator and my Sustainer. Amen.
In these waning days of Lent, it’s been good for me to sit
with this morning’s readings. For me, each one reflects in a special way an
important perspective on the transforming potential of penance that, taken
together, paint a remarkably meaningful picture of God’s promise of hope for us
– a promise I know we are all yearning for.
Lent, like life, is meant to be a journey out of brokenness
and into wholeness, with reflection, prayer, and acts of service as our guides.
The fruits of this journey, of course, are greater knowledge of self and of
God, and closer communion with creation and one another – including those we
know, as well as those we do not.
And, so, with only seven days to go until Holy Week, our
readings seem to be urging us to remain focused in this final stretch. For my
part, I detect three key reminders. The first is tomaintain a firm and faithful
hope in the future God has already prepared for us. “Do not remember the former
things, or consider the things of old,” God declares through the prophet
Isaiah. “I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not
perceive it?”
The second is to re-frame the view of my past self –
especially my ‘worldlier’ achievements and ambitions, as well as my old
self-doubts, criticisms, and disappointments – in light of the Cross; that is
to say, as being worth ‘letting-go-of’ for the sake of drawing closer to God.
And finally, despite my anxiousness to skip the perils and
pain of the Passion, Cross, and Tomb by flying directly to Easter morning, to
instead slow down, and heed the example of Mary, sister of Martha and Lazarus,
by embracing the profound holiness of the present moment.
In the second reading, we hear from Saint Paul, who, writing
to the church at Philippi, urges them to join him in imitating Jesus’ complete
self-emptying. He begins by reflecting on his own past, telling them how he now
views all of it – from his respectable Hebrew lineage to his righteous
observance of the Law – as nothing but loss because of Christ. “[T]his one thing
I do,” Paul says, “forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what
lies ahead, I press on towards the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of
God in Christ Jesus.” Despite what many in our culture would have us believe,
Paul’s words are a reminder that there’s no future in the past.
With Paul’s plea for us to let go of our fleshy pasts in
favor of attaining the heavenly future assured in Isaiah, we’re left with one
remaining ‘tense’ to consider; it’s the one that, more often than not, tends to
get overlooked. And that’s the present tense. Or, in our case today, the
Present-Lent tense.
Far from being merely a stopover between the past and
future, the present matters very much. The future, although it’s our goal, is
nevertheless a mystery. Despite its blessed assurance, what we will be has not
yet been revealed. And the past is no less an enigma.
While it’s true that we’ve all spent most of our lives in
the past, the vision of our former selves tends to grow ever dimmer and
distorted with the passage of time. Lately, I have become increasingly aware
that, for all points and purposes, I hardly recognize the person Iused to think
of as myself; in many ways, he’s as much a stranger to me today as the person I’ve
yet to grow into, although, there remains something familiar about him. So, the
present is the only place we can truly live; it’s the bridge between who we’ve
been and who we’re bound to become; it’s where we encounter God, process our
past experiences, and become ready for what lies ahead. It’s no coincidence
that, five times a day here at the monastery, the bell calls us back from our
distractions and into the presence of God and each other in this chapel.
Today’s gospel reading shows us the sacredness of ‘Right
Now’, the in-between space, and why being present to it is what gives meaning
to both the past and the future. I’m incredibly moved by Saint John’s account
of Jesus’ time at the home of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus because, in so many
ways, it’s an extraordinarily gentle and humane transition from his ministry of
proclamation and healing to his time of suffering and sacrifice. In the
preceding passages, John tells us that, ever since he raised Lazarus from the
dead, the Pharisees have been openly calling for Jesus’ arrest and death, and
he knows it. He’s been lying low with the disciples in Ephraim, a town
described as being “in the region of the wilderness,” but with the Passover
approaching, Jesus now has to begin his journey back toward Jerusalem. His time
is very near – but, for the moment at least – it’s not here yet. Jesus can
still be in the present with his friends for a bit longer, and he has no
intention of denying them – or himself – that gift.
John tells us, “[T]hey gave a dinner for him. Martha served,
and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him.” This is neither a scene of
hiding out in the wilderness, nor one of making a self-sacrificing entrance
into Jerusalem. This is an immensely relational scene of friends spending an
evening together, living in the moment, giving and receiving hospitality,
sharing a meal, and enjoying one another’s company. In my imagination of this
story, the mood must have been like that of any farewell dinner; that is to
say, a bittersweet time of joy tinged with grief at the impending departure of someone
who is dearly loved, who is here with us now, but who we know won’t be for much
longer. And, even as we try to focus on being present, we’re far too aware that
the hours, minutes, and even seconds are ticking down till we know we won’t
have them with us anymore; and while we aren’t ready to let them go, we know we
can’t keep them.
I suppose that, among those in the house, there must’ve been
varying degrees of comprehension about exactly how final this gathering was.
But Mary, at least, grasps the gravity of the situation. Knowing that Jesus is
soon to be taken from her, she uses this precious opportunity to express her
love for him in the most meaningful way she can. After all, Jesus has done so
much for Mary, including giving her own brother, who was dead, back to her. Her
act of anointing Jesus’ feet is profoundly intimate. It is both an act of
service, and a burial ritual. By taking his foot into her hand Mary is
literally holding onto Jesus in this moment while it lasts. By using costly
oil, she is expressing how deeply she treasures her friend beyond any amount of
money; he is literally priceless to her, worth more than anything the world
values or esteems. When we consider how much any of us would give to keep a
loved one with us for just a little while longer, it’s no wonder Mary does
this. But as the twentieth-century essayist and diarist Anaïs Nin writes, “You
can’t save people. You can only love them.” And that’s exactly what Mary does.
Of course, if Mary is among those who recognize the sanctity
of this moment, Judas undoubtedly represents what it means not to appreciate
the value of the present. Naturally, we resent Judas for dishonoring Mary’s
grief-laden act of love. Inextricably and unrepentantly wedded to the world’s
flesh, Judas is unable to appreciate – or probably even to recognize – the
profound spiritual and physical communion taking place in his presence. Using
charity as a pretense, he protests what he perceives to be a waste of a large
sum of money that could be going to the poor, if by ‘poor’ we mean ‘Judas’ bank
account’. (Incidentally, a pound of nard, or spikenard, costs more than $1,200
today; and its price in first-century Judea would likely have been far
greater.)
But even if we’re not as overtly driven by greed as Judas,
it’s still important for each of us to be on guard against becoming so wrapped
up in our own self-interests, or even just in the practical concerns of life,
that we deprive ourselves and those we care about of our full attention,
thoughtfulness, and acts of love. Jesus’ response to Judas, of course, puts it
best: “Leave her alone,” he says. “She bought it so that she might keep it for
the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always
have me.”
“You do not always have me.” And, we do not always have
Lent. While we are called always to live in the spirit of Lent (Saint Benedict
is very clear on this point), this season is only one of several on the
Church’s calendar. Along with Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Easter, and
Pentecost, Lent is with us only for a little while each year, so that we may
feel the urgency of reaping its particular graces. So, before things heat up
next week, may we use what remains of this holy time to dwell with Jesus in Bethany,
recognizing and cherishing his presence in those we care for and love –
embracing their brokenness, appreciating their gifts, and being grateful for
having them with us on our journeys into wholeness. And may the peace of God,
which surpasses all understanding, be with us and remain with us always. Amen.
