Luke 14:1, 7-14
My wife and I just finished taking
grandchildren on trips. We took three boys to Franconia Notch, a boy
and a girl to Buffalo and Niagara Falls, and three smaller boys to
Cape Cod. We know what it is like to be old and tired.
The grandaughter mentioned is
delightful. She is full of energy and there is a spark of mischief
in her eyes. One day she was telling us about her exploits in
sports. She was a really good soccer player, she said, and went on
to describe a few triumphs. But, she said, I am a really really good
basketball player. She related how after the season her dad, who was
their coach, gave each girl on the team a compliment in the form of a
title. But another girl got the title of best player. Later he told
her that since he was her dad he couldn't give her that title, but he
told her that she was the most aggressive player. She treasured
that.
It's interesting to watch kids. I
mentioned that we took three older boys and three younger boys on
short trips. The dynamic was the same. One boy has the charism; a
second becomes that boy's best friend. But if you are the best
friend, that means the third person in the group is on the outside,
grudgingly accepted, but usually on the sidelines in conversation or
in fun activities.
We are all like this. It's human
nature. We gravitate towards the people who are like us, or more
accurately, like we would like to be – popular, witty, energetic,
good looking – and we sort of turn our backs on people who are not
like who we would like to be – loners, those slow of speech, the
chronically ill, the disabled, the ones who seem to be afterthoughts
to humanity. And it is the work of a lifetime to begin to see the
presence of God in every human being.
Teilard de Chardin said that what we
like are bouquets, bouquets of beautiful flowers, each selected
because it is perfect. But the bouquet is artificial, and the
flowers in it soon wither and die. But reality is more like an old
gnarled rose bush, where you can indeed find a few beautiful flowers,
but also places where branches have broken, where there are scars on
the bark, where buds are forming and flowers are dying. The bush is
a reflection of how everything comes together to make something real,
where we can see what a struggle it is to bring forth beauty. As
human beings we begin by looking at the beautiful flowers in a
bouquet, the beautiful people. But we need to expand our vision to
see reality – to see how without this person who is angry all the
time, this person who forgets to bathe or eats too much or seems
incapable of avoiding stupid mistakes in his life; or this person who
has alzheimer's disease or cerebral palsy or some other very visible
mark that sets them apart – how they are all part of an organic
whole, how the universe of humanity would be diminished without them.
And probably we need to look at
ourselves and see that, yes, in the eyes of someone else, I may be
the odd one, the one who people would rather not look at or speak to
or associate with.
So once again Jesus defines a major
human weakness, a source of sin – something that we even see in
little children – the desire to be special, the desire to be seen
as special – and he gives us the remedy – turn around and
associate yourself with those who are on the margins, the ones
society doesn't seem to know what to do with. Those are the ones,
the ones who can give nothing back, who will show you the face of God
because you will not be distracted by the superficial, the beauty or
the good manners or intelligence or witty conversation.
When I became a deacon in 1997, I
thought I had something to offer the people of God. I was blessed
with a good mind and good health and a loving family. I've never had
much to worry about, really. And so I thought I'd be spending time
helping people with their problems, counseling young couples about to
get married, teaching people about the faith – and I do a little of
those things. But I never dreamed that I would be spending so much
time with people in nursing homes, people who can't take care of
themselves because of severe physical or mental problems, or just
extreme old age. Sometimes it's difficult to sit with a person who
can't even talk and whose reaction to my presence is to burst into
tears or draw back from my touch. It's hard to see how I can serve
them, how I can minister to their spiritual needs.
But sometimes I see that it isn't me
doing the ministering, or for that matter, the other person. As I
sit with someone whose personality has disappeared or who spends most
of her energy trying to feed herself or get to the bathroom before
she has another accident (and could care less about anything I have
to say) I sometimes see that common humanity that unites us, the bond
that makes us brothers and sisters, the part of us that God loves
even when there is nothing to love him back.
And there is always the great mystery
– why? Why are we all not beautiful flowers? Why are a few of us
given so much and many of us seem to bear most of the world's pain?
And what do I say to a person who has every reason to think God has
cursed them, who has prayed with all his heart to be relieved of his
burden, and no longer believes in a loving, caring God, because he
has no evidence that God has answered his prayers?
Today Jesus is saying, stop looking
up; look down and be a brother or a sister to those people you see
out of the corner of your eye, those people in nursing homes and
units for the cognitively impaired, those people for whom visiting
them seems to be a waste of time for them and for you. Because, you
see, they are on the cross and Jesus is there as well. And you can
choose to be at the foot of the cross with the the Beloved Disciple
and the faithful women, or off in hiding with the other disciples.
And in the presence of the crucifixion, seen in those who are the
least among us, you are very close to the Resurrection.
