Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Robert Sevensky, OHC
Proper 9A - July 3, 2011
Zechariah 9:9-12
Romans 7:15-25a
Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30
I returned earlier this week from a six-day silent directed retreat at the Jesuit Center in Wernersville, PA. I went there rather exhausted after our Order’s Triennial Chapter meetings seeking both rest and direction…rest for my body and my mind and my spirit and direction for the exercise of my ministry and work in the Order. I am happy to report that I got some of both, though I discovered that my needs were perhaps deeper than I had realized and my inner resources thinner than I had imagined.
As is the custom at such retreats, you meet with your director as a group on the first night and he or she then lays out the shape of the week, arranges times for daily private conferences, and offers words of welcome and encouragement. Normally the director also offers you some passages of Scripture to pray with and encourages you to articulate to yourself and to God what it is you desire, what it is you want or hope for or need from the Lord, or in the language of Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, to ask for the graces that you desire. I had already been thinking about what it was that I wanted or needed, so that part came easily. But what struck me were the Scripture passages that my director, Fr. Jack, offered us. In addition to the usual suspects such Psalm 139 and Isaiah 55, there was the passage from today’s Gospel reading:
“Come to me, all you that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
It is such a familiar passage. We hear it sung regularly at Compline. And when I came into the Anglican tradition some years ago, it was still being recited, at least in part, at every celebration of the Holy Communion. I knew it by heart. And I couldn’t keep my mind or my heart off of it. I kept repeating it:
“Come to me, all you that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
It became my mantra for the week.
I remembered how often I had told people visiting our guesthouses for a period of retreat: “Take time to rest. You probably don’t realize how tired you are.” And guests often reported how for their first or second day, all they seemed to do is sleep, taking naps, dozing on a bench, staring in the middle distance. Is it prayer, they might ask? I don’t know. But call it what you will, it is certainly “grace,” a gift from God for tired bodies and troubled hearts and restless minds.
Whatever else Jesus is doing in this busy chapter of St. Matthew’s Gospel, he is surely calling out to all who are just plain tired…those tired of working so hard trying to make ends meet or to put bread on the table, those tired of looking for health or happiness, those tired of attempting to live lives that are at least a little bit just or patient or loving, those tired of trying to be good or good enough, those trying to be holy, trying to be human. And he certainly calls out to those who are just tired of being tired, inviting them especially to lay it down for a while, and rest in him. He is, in other words, calling out to us, to each one of us here this morning.
He calls out and says, “Take my yoke.” We know that in the world of Jesus, taking the yoke was a technical term, referring to submitting oneself in obedience to a teacher or to a way of life. The Hebrew Bible speaks of the yoke of Torah and the yoke of the Kingdom, not to mention the political yoking or subjugation that was constant in the tumultuous and often violent world of the ancient Near East. Taking the yoke is a way of talking about becoming an obedient follower, a student, a disciple, under the direction and discipline and tutelage of a master.
“And learn from me” he adds, “for I am gentle and lowly in heart and you will find rest for your souls.” We learn that the rest we seek for our souls is to be found in the imitation of Christ. Do I want rest for my soul? Do you? Then do like Jesus, be like Jesus. Do we want soul rest? Then be gentle and lowly of heart like him. Not pushy or aggressive and proud, but meek and unpretentious and humble. Who knew? But now we know. Lord have mercy!
So he adds: “For my yoke is easy and burden is light.” This too surprises. Jesus is on record in Matthew’s Gospel as criticizing the religious teachers of his day for laying heavy burdens on others, that is, imposing religious or ritual or social obligations that seem impossible or worse, prove soul deadening. Not that we Christians have ever done anything like that in our history or experience, right? Yet note well: Jesus is not promising us a easy time of it, an easy way up and out, an easy life…just an easy yoke, one that makes the inevitable burden bearing that is part of every human life that much more tolerable and efficient.
I think it true to say that we are all yoked. That is, every one of us is connected to each other, to the creation, and to God, sometimes in close and immediate ways, sometimes more distantly. We all bear burdens, and if we are truly human, we share each other’s burdens. But it is also true to say that one can only bear so much. I think of St. Augustine who once said: “Everyone loves. The question is, what is the object of your love? In Scripture we are not urged to stop loving, but instead to choose what we love.” In the same way, we might say: Each of us is yoked, each of us is burdened; that’s part of the human condition. But be careful what you are yoked to and burdened with. Many, it is true, have no little or no choice in this. But how many of us are exhausted because we are carrying the wrong burdens or unnecessary yokes of our own creation or ones that in fact belong to another…and in the process avoid the authentic and unique burdens that are ours alone to bear? How often do we bear what is not really ours to bear because we were taught to do so by parents or teachers or religious authorities and still seek, perhaps unconsciously, their approval…or perhaps we need to feel wanted or useful…or we remain fundamentally un-attuned to and out of touch with our own psyches with their rich and insistent and legitimate demands? How many of us are weary and heavy laden with stuff that is not rightfully ours, wasting energy and creativity and leading us to exhaustion and resentment?
I am reminded of Jesus telling us to take up our cross and follow him. How often have I attempted to carry someone else’s cross—whether they wanted me to or not—or invented whole new crosses not of God’s devising or approval, and refused the saving dynamic of taking up my own unique cross and bearing it with some degree of grace and endurance and even beauty?
There is an extraordinary literature of biblical scholarship on this passage, as there is on all the texts of our Holy Book. It is worth exploring…at least some of it is. But what I found most helpful and moving in my reading was the devotional treatment of this passage by the popular Scottish Biblical scholar of half a century ago, William Barclay. In his commentary on this passage, he tells a story about Jesus, precisely the kind of imaginative engagement that Ignatius of Loyola would encourage for anyone approaching Scripture as a platform to prayer. Barclay says:
“The word easy is in Greek chrestos, which can mean well-fitting. In Palestine, ox-yokes were made of wood; the ox was brought, and the measurements were taken. The yoke was then roughed out, and the ox was brought back to have the yoke tried on. The yoke was carefully adjusted, so that it would fit well, and not chafe the neck of the patient animal. The yoke was tailor made.
“There is a legend that Jesus made the best ox-yokes in all Galilee, and that from all over the country people came to him to buy the best yokes that skill could make. In those days, as now, shops had their signs above the door; and it has been suggested that the sign above the door of the carpenter’s shop in Nazareth may well have been: ‘My yokes fit well.’ It may well be that Jesus is here using a picture from the carpenter’s shop in Nazareth where he worked throughout the silent years.”
Imagine that: Tailor-made yokes. Bespoke. Custom designed and fitted. One crafted just for you, and one created just for me, and another designed specially for the person next to you. And all to be worn as lightly and as comfortably as possible until that day when they are finally removed from our necks and we are put out to pasture.
Well, I’m afraid I’m getting carried away with the metaphor. So why don’t I just end by reading again these “comfortable words” from the marvelous paraphrase of Eugene Peterson’s The Message, though I admit they sound a bit like a late night commercial:
“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”
May God grant it swiftly. And let us say, Amen.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Nativity of John the Baptist - Jun 24, 2011
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Adam McCoy, OHC
The Nativity of John the Baptist - Friday, June 24, 2011
Isaiah 40: 1-11
Acts 13: 14b-26
Luke 1: 57-80
“Truly I tell you, among those born of women no one has arisen greater than John the Baptist; yet the least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.” (Matt 11:11) So says our Lord of John the Baptist. John is the forerunner, who calls Israel out to the Jordan to wash themselves clean so that they may join God in making Israel new again. John points the people to a new Exodus, and to a new Moses, who is not John. John is the greatest of the prophets of Israel, for in him come together Samuel, Elijah, Isaiah and Jeremiah, if not all the rest as well. It is the calling of a prophet to point the way and let God bring it in. Every prophet did, and every prophet does. And so does John.
John’s birth is Samuel’s birth: a barren woman close to God; a husband who loves her so much that once his duty is done he recedes from the picture; an infant known to be holy from the moment of his conception; a child dedicated from his first breath to the service of God; a young man who supplants his elders as he proclaims God’s word to the people. And what is the word of this new Samuel? A new day is dawning, the old is passing away. From the shambles of the past God will raise up a new leader for his people, a new David.
John’s life is Elijah’s life: living in the desert, the camel hair garment and leather belt, the locusts and the wild honey. But not just the life-style: John has adopted Elijah’s mission as his own. Israel has gone off the track and must be called back to her Sinai purity. Brood of vipers, he calls them, unworthy of their descent from Abraham. Israel’s leaders are corrupt, beyond corrupt: they are wicked. Ahab’s wife Jezebel’s arrogant, haughty, self absorbed cruelty has only one match in Scripture, and it is Herodias, nursing her own shame at the scorn John the Baptist has for her. Jezebel could not kill Elijah, but the vicious Herodias gets the Baptist, his head served on a platter as a grisly after dinner spectacle. But does she really win?
John’s proclamation is Isaiah’s proclamation: “"The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: 'Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.'" (Matt 3:3) Comfort, the prophet proclaims. The end of your imprisonment is coming to an end. All the things of the world die like the grass of the field, but the word of God is forever. God is coming, a fierce warrior who is also a tender shepherd. Fear not, Israel. Return to the Lord, for the time is now.
John’s vocation is Jeremiah’s vocation: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you.... today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant.” (Jer 1:5, 10) Jeremiah announces the end of Israel as they knew it, and so does John. Will they listen to Jeremiah? Some of them, but mostly not. Will they follow? Yes, but only a few. Will it make a difference? The prophet hopes so, but we know better. It is not God’s plan that Israel escape captivity and re-establish political sovereignty, but rather she is to be reshaped as a witness to the world of God’s mercy, justice, law and love, in ways unforeseen by Jeremiah. And so with John. Did they listen? Yes, quite a few. He was noticed. Did any follow? Yes, including some of Jesus’ disciples, and perhaps even Jesus himself. Did it make a difference? In a way, yes: John certainly upset the ruling classes. The historian Josephus wrote about him, which is more secular, outside notice than Jesus got. But was what happened what the prophet John thought would happen? Did he think Israel would be reshaped as a witness to the world of God’s mercy, justice, law and love in ways unforeseen by him?
I think he did. I think he knew the teachings and the history of the prophets of Israel. And this is what made him the greatest of the prophets: He led the people out to the Jordan, to the new Red Sea, to prepare them for the new Exodus, and then watched as a new Moses led them forth. As a new Samuel John prepared a new king for them, as the new Elijah John called them from apostasy, as the new Jeremiah John prepared them for their coming exile from the world they knew, as the new Isaiah John promised them God’s renewed creation.
The whole movement of the prophets, from the earliest times before Israel even knew Yahweh to Herod’s temple in John’s own time, the third to be built atop Mount Zion, the greatest religious building of the ancient world, and so ambivalent a symbol, built by such a crafty collaborator, calling out for renewed prophecy from the Lord.... the whole prophetic history, the whole prophetic identity, is summed up in John the Baptist.
An angel announces him. A miracle conceives him. His father’s voice goes silent while his mother’s voice proclaims her cousin Mary as she bears the greater one: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb,” which countless millions say daily with Elizabeth to Mary in praise. The child John’s birth is six months to the day before the Nativity of Jesus, the forerunner in his birth as in his ministry, as in his death.
This child: conceived of the will of God, dedicated to God in the womb, so finely tuned to the Word of God that when still in his mother he leaps for joy when the Word comes near. The prophetic life of Israel, which will reshape the world toward God’s justice and mercy for hundreds, for thousands of years to come, the prophetic life of Israel is now incarnate in this child, whose life will prepare the way of the Lord, preparing Israel, preparing us, to open their eyes, our eyes, so that they, so that we, may see the dawn from on high which is breaking upon us, so that we who have sat in darkness and the shadow of death will see light, and so that at long last our feet may be guided into the way of peace.
Br. Adam McCoy, OHC
The Nativity of John the Baptist - Friday, June 24, 2011
Isaiah 40: 1-11
Acts 13: 14b-26
Luke 1: 57-80
“Truly I tell you, among those born of women no one has arisen greater than John the Baptist; yet the least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.” (Matt 11:11) So says our Lord of John the Baptist. John is the forerunner, who calls Israel out to the Jordan to wash themselves clean so that they may join God in making Israel new again. John points the people to a new Exodus, and to a new Moses, who is not John. John is the greatest of the prophets of Israel, for in him come together Samuel, Elijah, Isaiah and Jeremiah, if not all the rest as well. It is the calling of a prophet to point the way and let God bring it in. Every prophet did, and every prophet does. And so does John.
John’s birth is Samuel’s birth: a barren woman close to God; a husband who loves her so much that once his duty is done he recedes from the picture; an infant known to be holy from the moment of his conception; a child dedicated from his first breath to the service of God; a young man who supplants his elders as he proclaims God’s word to the people. And what is the word of this new Samuel? A new day is dawning, the old is passing away. From the shambles of the past God will raise up a new leader for his people, a new David.
John’s life is Elijah’s life: living in the desert, the camel hair garment and leather belt, the locusts and the wild honey. But not just the life-style: John has adopted Elijah’s mission as his own. Israel has gone off the track and must be called back to her Sinai purity. Brood of vipers, he calls them, unworthy of their descent from Abraham. Israel’s leaders are corrupt, beyond corrupt: they are wicked. Ahab’s wife Jezebel’s arrogant, haughty, self absorbed cruelty has only one match in Scripture, and it is Herodias, nursing her own shame at the scorn John the Baptist has for her. Jezebel could not kill Elijah, but the vicious Herodias gets the Baptist, his head served on a platter as a grisly after dinner spectacle. But does she really win?
John’s proclamation is Isaiah’s proclamation: “"The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: 'Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.'" (Matt 3:3) Comfort, the prophet proclaims. The end of your imprisonment is coming to an end. All the things of the world die like the grass of the field, but the word of God is forever. God is coming, a fierce warrior who is also a tender shepherd. Fear not, Israel. Return to the Lord, for the time is now.
John’s vocation is Jeremiah’s vocation: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you.... today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant.” (Jer 1:5, 10) Jeremiah announces the end of Israel as they knew it, and so does John. Will they listen to Jeremiah? Some of them, but mostly not. Will they follow? Yes, but only a few. Will it make a difference? The prophet hopes so, but we know better. It is not God’s plan that Israel escape captivity and re-establish political sovereignty, but rather she is to be reshaped as a witness to the world of God’s mercy, justice, law and love, in ways unforeseen by Jeremiah. And so with John. Did they listen? Yes, quite a few. He was noticed. Did any follow? Yes, including some of Jesus’ disciples, and perhaps even Jesus himself. Did it make a difference? In a way, yes: John certainly upset the ruling classes. The historian Josephus wrote about him, which is more secular, outside notice than Jesus got. But was what happened what the prophet John thought would happen? Did he think Israel would be reshaped as a witness to the world of God’s mercy, justice, law and love in ways unforeseen by him?
I think he did. I think he knew the teachings and the history of the prophets of Israel. And this is what made him the greatest of the prophets: He led the people out to the Jordan, to the new Red Sea, to prepare them for the new Exodus, and then watched as a new Moses led them forth. As a new Samuel John prepared a new king for them, as the new Elijah John called them from apostasy, as the new Jeremiah John prepared them for their coming exile from the world they knew, as the new Isaiah John promised them God’s renewed creation.
The whole movement of the prophets, from the earliest times before Israel even knew Yahweh to Herod’s temple in John’s own time, the third to be built atop Mount Zion, the greatest religious building of the ancient world, and so ambivalent a symbol, built by such a crafty collaborator, calling out for renewed prophecy from the Lord.... the whole prophetic history, the whole prophetic identity, is summed up in John the Baptist.
An angel announces him. A miracle conceives him. His father’s voice goes silent while his mother’s voice proclaims her cousin Mary as she bears the greater one: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb,” which countless millions say daily with Elizabeth to Mary in praise. The child John’s birth is six months to the day before the Nativity of Jesus, the forerunner in his birth as in his ministry, as in his death.
This child: conceived of the will of God, dedicated to God in the womb, so finely tuned to the Word of God that when still in his mother he leaps for joy when the Word comes near. The prophetic life of Israel, which will reshape the world toward God’s justice and mercy for hundreds, for thousands of years to come, the prophetic life of Israel is now incarnate in this child, whose life will prepare the way of the Lord, preparing Israel, preparing us, to open their eyes, our eyes, so that they, so that we, may see the dawn from on high which is breaking upon us, so that we who have sat in darkness and the shadow of death will see light, and so that at long last our feet may be guided into the way of peace.
Corpus Christi - Jun 23, 2011
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Brother James Michael Dowd, OHC
Corpus Christi - Thursday, June 23, 2011
Deuteronomy 8:2-3
1 Corinthians 11:23-29
John 6:47-58
Revolution in a Loaf of Bread
Several years ago, I was blessed to have spent a bit of time in central Italy and found myself, very early in the morning, on a beautiful spring day, in the town of Orvieto. Now Orvieto was originally a medieval walled town at the top of a not very high mountain and in the center of that town is found the Cathedral of Orvieto which was begun in the fourteenth century.
Orvieto's Cathedral plays a prominent role in the Roman Catholic observance of Corpus Christi which is one of the Cathedral's most important festivals of the year. In fact, within the Cathedral is the Chapel of the Corporal which contains the Corporal of Bolsena which was at the centerpiece of a miracle which is reported to have occurred in 1263. The story surrounding the miracle involved a traveling priest who had stopped in Bolsena – a village near Orvieto, and celebrated the Mass. The priest, however, is reputed to have doubted the truth of the Roman Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation, and while consecrating the host, it began to bleed on the corporal – creating an image of the face of Christ.
At the time I was visiting Italy, I was in the process of being received into the Episcopal Church, having been raised Roman Catholic. Well, you can imagine the ire and fervor that rose up within me as only a new convert can summon. There we were, being led around by a tour guide, being taught what was nothing more than medieval mythology. We were filled with tales of great Corpus Christ processions to commemorate this so-called miracle and throughout the tour, it seemed that all I could think of was, which – and how many of the Thirty-Nine Articles did this particular story violate.
So imagine my surprise when, just a little later that spring, back home in New York and listening to the Sunday announcements of the upcoming events, I heard it stated that my new Episcopal parish was celebrating a High Mass followed by Benediction on none other than the feast of Corpus Christi the following Thursday.
You see, I am what the sisters liked to call a Vatican II baby. I was literally born during the height of the Second Vatican Council and remember the “changes” as they were so often called not as “changes” but as the norm. So, in fact, as a Roman Catholic, I had never been to Benediction, the Feast of Corpus Christi had been de-emphasized, and all the carrying-on with processions and the like was a distant memory I heard about only from older Catholics or read about in books.
I was taught that the Eucharsit was a shared meal and that the only context it had any real meaning in was that meal. Yes, Catholics still reserved the Sacrament, as most Episcopalians do today. And yes, appropriate “respect” was to be paid to the Reserved Sacrament by genuflecting as you pass by the Tabernacle. But that was it. No Benediction, no processions, no Holy Hours. Nothing so “pre-Vatican II.”
But I also believed something in the secret of my heart that all those post Vatican II teachers and priests did not seem to believe anymore – or at least would not admit to. That secret involved my prayer while receiving the Eucharist or venerating it in the Tabernacle. That secret involves mystery and myth and leads to revolution, all of which is contained in the Eucharist.
When folks start throwing around “facts” about the Eucharist my skin begins to crawl and I desperately want to get out of that conversation mode, and get into a praying mode. Whether it is someone saying that they know for certain that the Eucharist has been transubstantiated, or transignified, or contains the Real Presence, or is just bread and wine symbolizing Christ's Body and Blood, I find myself thinking, 'please, can't we just pray into the Eucharist.”
Praying ourselves into the Eucharist, whether that is during the Mass or in front of the Blessed Sacrament, is an invitation to the central myth of our faith.
Now I've used the word myth several times already and at this point I probably need to explain what I mean by that. The word tends to frighten people in the context of the modern world because it can contain, in common usage, a sense of falsity or untruths, if not outright lies. We have come to believe that myths are stories, legends, often geared to children or more “simple” people than we like to think of ourselves as.
But I am using the terms myth in a more classic sense of the word as updated by the late Joseph Campbell. Campbell, the great twentieth century thinker and educator, has had an enormous influence in helping contemporary humanity, especially in the developed world, to regain an understanding of the role of myth and mystery in our lives. From the Enlightenment forward, our great thinkers, including our theologians, have insisted, rightly so, on using historical, scientific, linguistic, and archeological evidence to search for the meaning of life. This approach has helped us tremendously.
But we humans so often throw out the baby with the bath water. And in this case, the baby was the important role that myth plays in our lives. But Campbell says that what we should be seeking is not the meaning of life, but that what we should be seeking is “an experience of being alive.” That's what a myth is. Not fact, but Truth. A Truth that gives us an “experience of being alive.”
And having an experience of “being alive” sounds a lot like the Gospel passage that we have read this morning. In those short eleven verses, just listen again to the invitation that Jesus offers each of us for the “experience of being alive.”
“I am the living bread which comes down from heaven.”
“Anyone who eats this bread will live forever...”
“...the bread that I shall give is my flesh, for the life of the world.”
“I tell you most solemnly, if you do not eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you will not have life within you.”
“Anyone who does eat my flesh and drink my blood has eternal life...”
“He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood lives in me and I live in him.”
“As I who am sent by the living Father myself draw life from my Father...”
“...so whoever eats me will draw life from me.”
“...Anyone who eats this bread will live forever.”
We want, it seems to me, to be desperately able to define the meaning of the Eucharist and we have done that from so many different points of view. But when we are factually trying to understand the meaning of the Eucharist, all we can seem to come up with is a loaf of bread and a cup of wine, to which we then ascribe a particular theological point of view. But when we attempt to have an experience of the Eucharist, then we find ourselves plunged into the great mystery that is Christ's gift of himself to each one of us.
For what we are called into is mystery. We are, as a people, famished, desperately starving and dangerously parched and we long for an experience of life. An experience of the life that dwells within us. And the life that dwells within us is the life of Christ. Jesus invites us to draw life from him, just as he has drawn life from the Father. And the mystery that he has given us for the source of that life, are bread and wine, his body and blood.
The invitation into that mystery is available to us here in the monastery in the daily celebration and reception of the Eucharist, in the veneration of the Blessed Sacrament in the Tabernacle, or in the occasional rite of Benediction. That invitation is not an invitation to discover the meaning of life. It is an invitation to actually experience being alive.
When we enter into the mystery of the Eucharist, however we do that, we enter into an experience of God from whom we draw life. But being alive has consequences. Entering into the mystery of the Eucharist is to begin a revolution. A revolution of conversion, a revolution of loving our enemy, a revolution of feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the prisoner. When we enter into the mystery of the Eucharist, that revolution allows us to have an experience of life that comes from the very source of life itself. I am not talking here about the “mystery” of a bleeding host. I am talking about the deepest, most profound mystery of our lives - and that is God.
God's invitation to us is an invitation to allow God to live within us. Feeding our starving souls with himself, God invites us into God's life, a life that is filled with mercy, love, peace, hope, and mystery. A great deal of mystery. AMEN.
Brother James Michael Dowd, OHC
Corpus Christi - Thursday, June 23, 2011
Deuteronomy 8:2-3
1 Corinthians 11:23-29
John 6:47-58
Revolution in a Loaf of Bread
Several years ago, I was blessed to have spent a bit of time in central Italy and found myself, very early in the morning, on a beautiful spring day, in the town of Orvieto. Now Orvieto was originally a medieval walled town at the top of a not very high mountain and in the center of that town is found the Cathedral of Orvieto which was begun in the fourteenth century.
Orvieto's Cathedral plays a prominent role in the Roman Catholic observance of Corpus Christi which is one of the Cathedral's most important festivals of the year. In fact, within the Cathedral is the Chapel of the Corporal which contains the Corporal of Bolsena which was at the centerpiece of a miracle which is reported to have occurred in 1263. The story surrounding the miracle involved a traveling priest who had stopped in Bolsena – a village near Orvieto, and celebrated the Mass. The priest, however, is reputed to have doubted the truth of the Roman Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation, and while consecrating the host, it began to bleed on the corporal – creating an image of the face of Christ.
At the time I was visiting Italy, I was in the process of being received into the Episcopal Church, having been raised Roman Catholic. Well, you can imagine the ire and fervor that rose up within me as only a new convert can summon. There we were, being led around by a tour guide, being taught what was nothing more than medieval mythology. We were filled with tales of great Corpus Christ processions to commemorate this so-called miracle and throughout the tour, it seemed that all I could think of was, which – and how many of the Thirty-Nine Articles did this particular story violate.
So imagine my surprise when, just a little later that spring, back home in New York and listening to the Sunday announcements of the upcoming events, I heard it stated that my new Episcopal parish was celebrating a High Mass followed by Benediction on none other than the feast of Corpus Christi the following Thursday.
You see, I am what the sisters liked to call a Vatican II baby. I was literally born during the height of the Second Vatican Council and remember the “changes” as they were so often called not as “changes” but as the norm. So, in fact, as a Roman Catholic, I had never been to Benediction, the Feast of Corpus Christi had been de-emphasized, and all the carrying-on with processions and the like was a distant memory I heard about only from older Catholics or read about in books.
I was taught that the Eucharsit was a shared meal and that the only context it had any real meaning in was that meal. Yes, Catholics still reserved the Sacrament, as most Episcopalians do today. And yes, appropriate “respect” was to be paid to the Reserved Sacrament by genuflecting as you pass by the Tabernacle. But that was it. No Benediction, no processions, no Holy Hours. Nothing so “pre-Vatican II.”
But I also believed something in the secret of my heart that all those post Vatican II teachers and priests did not seem to believe anymore – or at least would not admit to. That secret involved my prayer while receiving the Eucharist or venerating it in the Tabernacle. That secret involves mystery and myth and leads to revolution, all of which is contained in the Eucharist.
When folks start throwing around “facts” about the Eucharist my skin begins to crawl and I desperately want to get out of that conversation mode, and get into a praying mode. Whether it is someone saying that they know for certain that the Eucharist has been transubstantiated, or transignified, or contains the Real Presence, or is just bread and wine symbolizing Christ's Body and Blood, I find myself thinking, 'please, can't we just pray into the Eucharist.”
Praying ourselves into the Eucharist, whether that is during the Mass or in front of the Blessed Sacrament, is an invitation to the central myth of our faith.
Now I've used the word myth several times already and at this point I probably need to explain what I mean by that. The word tends to frighten people in the context of the modern world because it can contain, in common usage, a sense of falsity or untruths, if not outright lies. We have come to believe that myths are stories, legends, often geared to children or more “simple” people than we like to think of ourselves as.
But I am using the terms myth in a more classic sense of the word as updated by the late Joseph Campbell. Campbell, the great twentieth century thinker and educator, has had an enormous influence in helping contemporary humanity, especially in the developed world, to regain an understanding of the role of myth and mystery in our lives. From the Enlightenment forward, our great thinkers, including our theologians, have insisted, rightly so, on using historical, scientific, linguistic, and archeological evidence to search for the meaning of life. This approach has helped us tremendously.
But we humans so often throw out the baby with the bath water. And in this case, the baby was the important role that myth plays in our lives. But Campbell says that what we should be seeking is not the meaning of life, but that what we should be seeking is “an experience of being alive.” That's what a myth is. Not fact, but Truth. A Truth that gives us an “experience of being alive.”
And having an experience of “being alive” sounds a lot like the Gospel passage that we have read this morning. In those short eleven verses, just listen again to the invitation that Jesus offers each of us for the “experience of being alive.”
“I am the living bread which comes down from heaven.”
“Anyone who eats this bread will live forever...”
“...the bread that I shall give is my flesh, for the life of the world.”
“I tell you most solemnly, if you do not eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you will not have life within you.”
“Anyone who does eat my flesh and drink my blood has eternal life...”
“He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood lives in me and I live in him.”
“As I who am sent by the living Father myself draw life from my Father...”
“...so whoever eats me will draw life from me.”
“...Anyone who eats this bread will live forever.”
We want, it seems to me, to be desperately able to define the meaning of the Eucharist and we have done that from so many different points of view. But when we are factually trying to understand the meaning of the Eucharist, all we can seem to come up with is a loaf of bread and a cup of wine, to which we then ascribe a particular theological point of view. But when we attempt to have an experience of the Eucharist, then we find ourselves plunged into the great mystery that is Christ's gift of himself to each one of us.
For what we are called into is mystery. We are, as a people, famished, desperately starving and dangerously parched and we long for an experience of life. An experience of the life that dwells within us. And the life that dwells within us is the life of Christ. Jesus invites us to draw life from him, just as he has drawn life from the Father. And the mystery that he has given us for the source of that life, are bread and wine, his body and blood.
The invitation into that mystery is available to us here in the monastery in the daily celebration and reception of the Eucharist, in the veneration of the Blessed Sacrament in the Tabernacle, or in the occasional rite of Benediction. That invitation is not an invitation to discover the meaning of life. It is an invitation to actually experience being alive.
When we enter into the mystery of the Eucharist, however we do that, we enter into an experience of God from whom we draw life. But being alive has consequences. Entering into the mystery of the Eucharist is to begin a revolution. A revolution of conversion, a revolution of loving our enemy, a revolution of feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the prisoner. When we enter into the mystery of the Eucharist, that revolution allows us to have an experience of life that comes from the very source of life itself. I am not talking here about the “mystery” of a bleeding host. I am talking about the deepest, most profound mystery of our lives - and that is God.
God's invitation to us is an invitation to allow God to live within us. Feeding our starving souls with himself, God invites us into God's life, a life that is filled with mercy, love, peace, hope, and mystery. A great deal of mystery. AMEN.
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